"Mr. Rogers," I broke in, "I know this man. His name is Goodfellow;
he lives at Falmouth; and you are wrong, quite wrong, in suspecting
him. But what is more, Mr. Rogers, you are wasting time.
There's blood on the stile down the lane. Whoever broke into the
garden must have escaped that way--by the path through the
plantation--"

"Eh?" Mr. Rogers jumped at me and caught me by the arm. "Why the
devil--you'll excuse me, Miss Plinlimmon--but why on earth, child, if
you have news, couldn't you have told it at once? Blood on the
stile, you say? What stile?"

"The stile down the lane, sir," I answered, pointing. "And I
couldn't tell you before because you didn't give me time."

"Show us the way, quick! And you, Hosken, catch hold of the mare and
lead her round to Miss Belcher's stables. Or, stay--she's dead beat.
You can help me slip her out of the shafts and tether her by the gate
yonder. That's right, man; but don't tie her up too tight. Give her
room to bite a bit of grass, and she'll wait here quiet as a lamb."

"What about the prisoner, sir?" asked the stolid Hosken.

"D--n the prisoner!" answered Mr. Rogers, testily, in the act of
unharnessing. "Slip the handcuffs on him. And you, Miss Plinlimmon,
will return to the cottage, if you please."

"I'd like to come, too, if I may," put in Mr. Goodfellow.