"Charley Wright first and now John Clive," he said to himself. "But
the end is not yet."

Again he would not let his thoughts go on but checked them abruptly.

In this dark and troubled mood he went out to busy himself with the
garden, and all the time he worked he watched with a sort of vertigo
of horror where Ella sat in the sunshine by her mother's side, her
white hands moving nimbly to and fro upon her needlework.

It was not long, however, before the tragedy of the wood was
discovered, for Clive had been seen to go in that direction, and
when he did not return a search was made that was soon successful.

The news was brought to Bittermeads towards evening by a tradesman's
boy, who came up from the village to bring something that had been
ordered from there.

"Have you heard?" he said to Dunn excitedly. "Mr. Clive's been shot
dead by poachers."

"Oh--by poachers?" repeated Dunn.

"Yes, poachers," the boy answered, and went on excitedly to tell
his tale with many, and generally very inaccurate, details.

But that the crime had been discovered and instantly set down to
poachers was at least certain, and Dunn realized at once that the
adoption of this simple and apparently plausible theory would put