"What have you been doing?" he asked. "They do not bring bloodhounds out for nothing."

"I have hurt a man down in the village," was the terrified answer. "I didn't mean to--no! I swear that I did not mean to. I went to his house and I asked him for money. I had a right to it! And I asked him to tell me where--but oh! you would not understand. Listen! I swear to you that I did not mean to hurt him. Why should I? He was old, and I think he fainted. G.o.d! do you hear that?"

He clung to Macheson in a frenzy. The deep baying of the dogs was coming nearer and nearer.

"Listen," Macheson said, "the dogs will not be allowed to hurt you, but if you are loose I promise that I will protect you from them. You had better wait here with me."

The man fell upon his knees.

"Sir," he begged, "I am innocent of everything except a blow struck in anger. Help me to escape, I implore you. There are others who will suffer--if anything happens to me."

"The law is just," Macheson answered. "You will suffer nothing except justice."

"I want mercy, not justice," the man sobbed. "For the love of G.o.d, help me!"

Macheson hesitated. Again the early morning stillness was broken by that hoa.r.s.e, terrifying sound. His sporting instincts were aroused. He had small sympathy with the use of such means against human beings.

"I will give you a chance," he said. "Remember it is nothing more.

Follow me!"

He led the way to the slate pit.

"Can you swim?" he asked.

"Yes!" the man answered.

"This is where I take my morning bath," Macheson said. "You will see that though you can scramble down and dive in, it is too precipitous to get out. Therefore, I have fixed up a rope on the other side--it goes through those bushes, and is attached to the trunk of a tree beneath the bracken. If you swim across, you can pull yourself out of the water and hide just above the water in the bushes. There is just a chance that you may escape observation."

Already he was on his way down, but Macheson stopped him.

"I shall leave a suit of dry clothes in the shelter," he said. "If they should give up the chase you are welcome to them. Now you had better dive. They are in the spinney."

The man went in, after the fashion of a practised diver. Macheson turned round and retraced his steps towards his temporary dwelling-house.

CHAPTER XII

RETREAT

Out in the lane a motley little group of men were standing. Stephen Hurd was in the act of springing off his brown cob. The dogs were already in the shelter.

"What the devil are you doing here?" Hurd asked, as Macheson strode through the undergrowth.

Macheson pointed to the shelter.

"I could find no other lodging," he answered, "thanks to circ.u.mstances of which you are aware."

Stephen Hurd kicked the gate open. He was pale and there were deep lines under his eyes. He was still in his evening clothes, except for a rough tweed coat, but his white tie was hanging loose, and his patent-leather shoes were splashed with mud.

"We are chasing a man," he said. "Have you seen him?"

"I have," Macheson answered. "What has he done?"

There was a momentary silence. Hurd spoke with a sob.

"Murdered--my father!"

Macheson was shocked.

"You mean--that Mr. Hurd is dead?" he asked, in an awe-stricken tone.

"Dead!" the young man answered with a sob. "Killed in his chair!"

The dogs came out of the shelter. They turned towards the interior of the spinney. The little crowd came streaming through the gate.

"I gave shelter to a man who admitted that he was in trouble," he said gravely. "He heard the dogs and he was terrified. He has jumped into the slate quarry."

The dogs were on the trail now. They followed them to the edge of the quarry. Here the bushes were trodden down, a man's cap was hanging on one close to the bottom. They all peered over into the still water, unnaturally black. Amies, the head keeper, raised his head.

"It's twenty-five feet deep--some say forty, and a sheer drop," he declared impressively. "We'll have to drag it for the body."

"Best take the dogs round the other side, and make sure he ain't got out again," one of the crowd suggested.

Amies pointed scornfully to the precipitous side. Such a feat was clearly impossible. Nevertheless the dogs were taken round. For a few minutes they were uneasy, but eventually they returned to the spot from which their intended victim had dived. Every one was peering down into the dark water as though fascinated.

"I thought as they come up once or twice before they were drownded,"

somebody remarked.

"Not unless they want to," another answered. "This chap wasn't too anxious. He knew his goose was cooked."

The dogs were muzzled and led away. One by one the labourers and servants dispersed. Two of them started off to telegraph for a drag.

Stephen Hurd was one of the last to depart.

"I hope you will allow me to say how sorry I am for you," Macheson declared earnestly. "Such a tragedy in a village like Thorpe seems almost incredible. I suppose it was a case of attempted robbery?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," Hurd answered. "There was plenty of money left untouched, and I can't find that there is any short. The man arrived after the maids had gone to bed, but they heard him knock at the door, and heard my father let him in."

"They didn't hear any struggle then?" Macheson asked.

Hurd shook his head.

"There was only one blow upon his head," he answered. "Graikson says that death was probably through shock."

Macheson felt curiously relieved.

"The man did not go there as a murderer then," he remarked. "Perhaps not even as a thief. There may have been a quarrel."