Even the occasional airs that strayed on the hills did not touch Horwick Town, which lay sweltering. Orders had gone forth from the constables that water was to be used with economy, and garbage cooked in the unswilled kennels. Dogs were kept on the chain for fear of rabies; roof-chambers became stoves, bull’s-eye windows burning-glasses; dust rose heavily when it was stirred, and fell again in the same place; duckponds were basins of cracked earth; the very blue of the sky had paled before the devouring sun. The blinds of John Emmason’s dining-room were drawn, and the magistrate had knotted the four corners of a handkerchief over his head; it gave a tipsy appearance to his solemn horse-face. Again Moon and Eastwood had called on him, and Eastwood had removed his neckband, while from the merchant’s nose the skin had peeled like a flowering grass. The magistrate’s hand held an official document, and his manner was unusually humble. “And you don’t know what it consists of?” Moon said, breaking a long and brooding silence. “No,” the magistrate replied; “he only says, ‘New evidence, calling for a fresh trial.’ Here’s his letter: ‘William Chamberlayne, Solicitor to His Majesty’s Mint, and also the Solicitor for the Crown’--hum, hum--‘make oath and declare that a fresh discovery is likely soon to be made which will furnish the Crown with sure and certain evidence’--hum, hum, and so forth. No, I don’t know what it is.” “What d’ye think it is?” Moon demanded. “Ah, Matthew, it is not always expedient to tell all you think----” “The devil take your slippery answers! D’ye think they’re as good as hanged?” The magistrate was silent. “And when will this new trial be?” “Any day,” said Emmason, battling with his wounded dignity; and Moon turned to Eastwood. “Who can we send?” he asked abruptly. “Best send John Raikes. Fit him up wi’ pigeons and let him get off to-day. I’ll see the clogger.” “And for the other tomfoolery, pretending to search premises: Cope has a warrant?” “Hm! Ay, he has a warrant,” Eastwood said, with a shrug. “So ye’re wakening up, are ye?” Moon grunted; and the tipsy tassels of the magistrate’s handkerchief shook as he nodded, as if he himself had been addressed. “As for seeing Parker again,” he said, in a subdued voice, “I might as well sit where I am. I am bound to say it looks as if I was discredited, and I have thought of handing in my commission. Parker knows more than I. Even this”--he tapped the document--“even this I only received in common with every other magistrate in the Riding.” “God be thanked for a plain word from ye at last!” Moon said bitterly. “Can ye talk any more in that fashion?” “There’s little else to say,” the humiliated magistrate replied. “If it would serve any end now to add my testimony against Northrop and Haigh--for they’re both dead as clay, I fear----” Moon bent his narrow brows on him.