ho did it--he
has yellowish hands--I saw them--I saw big yellowish hands. Gyuri's
hands are big, but they are brown."

"Janci, you are right. I was only trying to test you. Gyuri did not do
it; that is, he did not do it with his own hands. The man who held the
knife that struck down the pastor was Varna, the crazy mechanician."

Janci beat his forehead. "Oh, I am a foolish and useless dreamer!" he
exclaimed; "of course it was Varna's hands that I saw. I have seen them
a hundred times when he came down into the village, and yet when I saw
them in the vision I did not recognise them."

"We're all dreamers, Janci--and our dreams are very useless generally."

"Yours are not useless, sir," said the shepherd. "If I had as much
brains as you have, my dreams might be of some good."

Muller smiled. "And if I had your visions, Janci, it would be a powerful
aid to me in my profession."

"I don't think you need them, sir. You can find out the hidden things
without them. You are going to leave us?"

"Yes, Janci, I must go back to Budapest, and from there to Vienna. They
need me on another case."

"It's a sad work, this bringing people to the gallows, isn't it?"

"Yes, Janci, it is sometimes. But it's a good thing to be able to avenge
crime and bring justice to the injured. Good-bye, Janci."

"Good-bye, sir, and God speed you."

The shepherd stood looking after the small, slight figure of the man
who walked on rapidly through the heather. "He's the right one for the
work," murmured Janci as he turned slowly back towards the village.

An hour later Muller stood in the little waiting-room of the railway
station writing a telegram. It was addressed to Count ----.

"Do you know the shepherd Janci? It would be a good thing to
make him the official detective for the village. He has high
qualifications for the profession. If I had his gifts combined
with my own, not one could escape me. I have found this one
however. The guards are already taking him to you. My work
here is done. If I should be needed again I can be found at
Police Headquarters, Vienna.
"Respectfully,
"JOSEPH MULLER."

While the detective was writing his message--it was one of the rare
moments of humour that Muller allowed himself, and he wondered mildly
what the stately Hungarian nobleman would think of it--a heavy farm
wagon jolted over