LITMIR.BIZ

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whatever it is, it's coming," said the bloodhound's master. "Get ready for it."

      He spoke a word to the hound, which immediately settled down trustfully at the foot of the stake. He and the brothers, each armed with a shot-gun, took up a position behind a row of shrubs on the edge of the garden, and waited.

      Some minutes passed; then the bloodhound stirred and whined.

      "Coming," said the visitor.

      The bloodhound began to growl ominously – in the moonlight they saw him bristle.

      "Close by," said his master.

      In the coppice in front of them they heard the faintest rustling sound as of a body being trailed over dried leaves. Then —

      "The eyes!" whispered Simpson. "Look – there!"

      Out of the blackness of the coppice the two gleaming eyes which the brothers had seen before shone like malignant stars. They were stationary for a moment; then, as the bloodhound's growls grew fiercer and louder they moved forward, growing larger. And presently into the light of the moon emerged a great, grey, gaunt shape, pushing itself forward on its belly, until at last it lay fully exposed, its head between its paws, its baleful eyes fixed on the hound.

      "Steady!" whispered the visitor. "It'll get up – it's wondering which side to go at him from. Wait till I give the word."

      The grey thing's tail began to lash from side to side; its body began to quiver. Little by little it lifted itself from the ground and began to creep circle-wise towards the bloodhound, now tearing madly at his chain. The fierce eyes were turned slantwise; there was an ugly gleam of bared white fangs; the tread was that of a panther. Suddenly its back arched, its limbs seemed to gather themselves together.

      "Now!"

      The three guns rang out simultaneously, and the grey shape, already springing, jerked convulsively and fell in a heap close to the tethered hound. There it lay – still. Simpson Greaves fetched a lanthorn which he had kept in readiness within the house, and the three men went up to the dead animal and examined it. Till that moment they had felt uncertain as to what it really was that they had destroyed – they now found themselves looking at a great dog of uncertain breed, massive in size, more wolf than dog in appearance, with a wicked jaw and cruel fangs which snarled even in death. And one of them at least began to have some dim comprehension of the mystery.

      The noise of the shooting had roused the other inmates of the house; they came running into the paddock to hear what had happened. There, too, came hurrying the woman from the neighbouring cottage who had cooked and tidied for Josiah Maidment in the old days. And gazing at the dead beast in the light of the lanthorn she lifted up her hands with a sharp exclamation.

      "Lord ha' mussy, if that there isn't Mr. Maidment's gre't dog!" she said. "It went away wi' him that very mornin' he disappeared."

      "Why didn't you tell us Maidment had a dog?" growled Isaac. "I never heard of it."

      "Why, mister, I'm sure I never thought of it," said the woman. "But he had, and that's it, as sure as I'm a Christian. It were the savagest beast ever you see – wouldn't let anybody go near the old gentleman. Where can it ha' been all this time?"

      "That," said the bloodhound's master, "is just what we are going to find out."

      He released the hound from its chain, and putting it in a leash, bade the brothers follow him. Then he set the hound on the dead animal's track – hound and men broke into the deep woods. There was no break in their course, no turning aside, no loss of scent. The baying of the usurper had been instantly answered by the former guardian of High Elms Farm. Through thick undergrowth, by scarcely passable paths, beneath thickets and bushes, the three men, led by the straining hound, pushed on until they came to a deep valley in the woods, where a limestone crag jutted out from beneath overhanging trees. Here, behind a bramble-brake, which concealed it from any one in the valley, the hound stopped at a hole just large enough to admit a fully-grown man. By the light of the lanthorn which Simpson had brought with him they saw the footprints of a dog on the loose soil.

      "There's a cave in there," said the bloodhound's master. "Give me the light – I'm going in."

      "So shall I, then," said Isaac, stoutly.

      "And I," said Simpson.

      The tunnel leading into the cave was not more than a few feet in length; they were quickly able to stand upright and to throw the light around them. And with a mutual fear they gripped each other's arms, for there huddled on the floor lay the body of an old, grey-headed man, who had evidently been stricken with death as he was counting over the secret hoard of which he had made this lonely place the receptacle.

      "We will give that poor brute a fitting burial," said the bloodhound's master, as they went back to the farmstead. "He was a primitive savage in his ways, but a rare upholder of what he felt to be his rights. Bury him under the big elm-tree."

      CHAPTER II

      A STRANGER IN ARCADY

      Where the animal which subsequently became so famous in the village to whose sober quietude it brought an unexpected breath of romance first came from no one ever knew. Its coming was as mysterious as the falling of rain or growing of corn in the night; it must, indeed, have arrived in the night, for it was certainly a part and parcel of Little St. Peter's when Little St. Peter's awoke one morning. Those early birds who were out and about before the gossamers on the hedgerows had felt the first kiss of the autumn sun were aware of the presence of a remarkably lean pig, who was exploring the one street of the village with inquisitive nose, questioning eyes, and flapping ears. It went from one side of the street to another, and it was obviously on the look-out for whatever might come in its way in the shape of food. There was an oak near the entrance to the churchyard; the stranger paused beneath it as long as there was an acorn to be found amongst the fallen leaves. Farther along, there was a crab-apple-tree in the parson's hedge, the fruit of which was too bitter for even the most hardened boy of the village; it stopped there to devour the fallen sournesses which lay in the shining grass. But always it was going on, searching and inquiring, and its eyes grew hungrier as its swinging gait increased in speed. And coming at last to a gap in the fence of Widow Grooby's garden, it made its way through and set to work on the lone woman's potatoes.

      It was an hour later that the marauder was driven out of this harbour of refuge, bearing upon its lean body the marks of the switch with which Widow Grooby had chased it forth, but within its ribs the comfortable consciousness of a hearty meal. When it had uttered its final protest against the switch, it went along the street again, furtive and friendless, but this time with the more leisurely pace of the thing that has breakfasted. Widow Grooby gazed after it with an irate countenance.

      "I could like to know whose gre't hungry beast that there is!" she remarked to a neighbour who had been attracted to her cottage door by the pig's lamentations as he quitted the scene of his misdeeds. "It's been all over my garden and etten half-a-row o' my best potatoes, drat it. And it couldn't have done that, Julia Green, if your Johnny hadn't made that gap in my fence when I ran him out t'other night for being at my winter apples, no it couldn't! I think your William might ha' mended that gap before now – that's what I think."

      "Our William's summat else to do than mend gaps," said Mrs. Green sullenly. "And the gap were there before our Johnny came through it. And it's none our pig anyway, for ours is in its sty at this here present moment, a-eating its breakfast, so there!"

      The styless and proper-breakfastless pig, unconscious of this discussion and of its possibilities of development into a good, old-fashioned, neighbourly quarrel, went farther along the village street, still prospecting. There were people about now, men and women, and the door of the Fox-and-Fiddle had been thrown open, and one or two habitués stood within the sanded hall, taking their accustomed morning glass. The pig passed by, and as he passed turned an inquisitive nose towards the scent of stale ale and tobacco. He went forward, and as he went, one man put his head out of the door after him.

      "Whose pig's that there?" he said, scratching his ear. "I don't rek'lect seein' that pig before, nowhere."

      Another man, standing at the bar, strode to the door and looked forth at the stranger. He was a

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