Robert Redmayne can tell us by the look of it."

The detective nodded. Then he sought No. 3, Station Cottages.

The little row of attached houses ran off at right angles to the
high street of Princetown. They faced northwest, and immediately in
front of them rose the great, tree-clad shoulder of North Hessory
Tor. The woods ascended steeply and a stone wall ran between them
and the dwellings beneath.

Brendon knocked at No. 3 and was admitted by a thin, grey-haired
woman who had evidently been shedding tears. He found himself in a
little hall decorated with many trophies of fox hunting. There were
masks and brushes and several specimens of large Dartmoor foxes, who
had run their last and now stood stuffed in cases hung upon the
walls.

"Do I speak to Mrs. Pendean?" asked Brendon; but the old woman shook
her head.

"No, sir. I'm Mrs. Edward Gerry, widow of the famous Ned Gerry, for
twenty years Huntsman of the Dartmoor Foxhounds. Mr. and Mrs.
Pendean were--are--I mean she is my lodger."

"Is she ready to see me?"

"She's cruel hard hit, poor lady. What name, sir?"

"Mr. Mark Brendon."