"Nine o'clock," said Parson Christian, turning his face toward home.
"Sharp work, while it lasted, my lads!"

Then there was the sound of wheels, and Natt drove his trap to the gate
of the mill-yard.

"You've just missed it, Natt," said John Proudfoot; "where have you
been?"

"Driving the master to the train."

Hugh Ritson was standing by. Every one glanced from him to Natt.

"The train?--master? What do you mean? Who?"

"Who? Why, Master Paul," said Natt, with a curl of the lip. "I reckon it
could scarce be Master Hugh."

"When? What train?" said Parson Christian.

"The eight o'clock to London."

"Eight o'clock? London?"

"Don't I speak plain?"

"And has he gone?"

"I's warrant he's gone."

Consternation sat on every face but Natt's.

CHAPTER VI.

Next day was Sunday, and after morning service a group of men gathered
about the church porch to discuss the events of the night before. In the
evening the parlor of the Flying Horse was full of dalespeople, and many
a sapient theory was then and there put forth to account for the
extraordinary coincidence of the presence of Paul Ritson at the fire and
his alleged departure by the London train.

Hugh Ritson was not seen abroad that day. But early on Monday morning he
hastened to the stable, called on Natt to saddle a horse, sprung on its
back and galloped away toward the town.

The morning was bitterly cold, and the rider was buttoned up to the
throat. The air was damp; a dense veil of vapor lay on the valley and
hid half the fells; the wintery dawn, with its sunless sky, had not the
strength to rend it asunder; the wind had veered to the north, and was
now dank and icy. A snow-storm was coming.

The face of Hugh Ritson was wan and jaded. He leaned heavily forward in
the saddle; the biting wind was in his eyes; he had a fixed look, and
seemed not to see the people whom he passed on the road.

Dick o' the Syke was grubbing among the fallen wreck of the charred and
dismantled mill. When Hugh rode past him he lifted his eyes and muttered
an oath beneath his breath. Old Laird Fisher was trundling a wheelbarrow
on the bank of the smelting-house. The headgear of the pit-shaft was
working. As Hugh passed the smithy, John Proudfoot was standing, hammer
in hand, by the side of a wheelless wagon upheld by poles. John was
saying, "Wonder what sec a place Mister Paul slept a' Saturday neet--I
reckon that wad settle all;" and a voice from inside the smith