Marjorie had reason to be grateful now for the sudden fame into which Blackthorn Farm had sprung owing to the discovery of pitch-blende in the tin mine, with the supposition contained in the expert’s report that radium would undoubtedly be found. For the county was far too excited—even though still sceptical—over this discovery to have more than a fleeting interest in the escape of two convicts. No. 303, the man who had been hit and cleverly deceived the warders into believing they had killed him, was, of course, eventually caught, though not until he had enjoyed thirty hours of freedom. Nearly a fortnight passed and No. 381 was reported to be still at large. The police and warders scoured the county. Plain-clothes detectives were at every seaport town and village on the coast. Nearly every tramp steamer leaving Plymouth was searched. Hotels and common lodging houses were kept under constant surveillance. Occasionally an arrest was reported—but 381 was not found. The police confessed themselves baffled at last. The authorities at Princetown were at their wits end. That a convict should escape at all was bad enough, but that fourteen days should pass without his being captured was almost without precedent. At first the moorland dwellers and village folk all strenuously aided in the search, but soon they grew tired, and presently they began to laugh at the futile efforts of the warders and police to capture 381. Public opinion on Dartmoor veered round, and soon a wish was openly expressed that the convict would really make good his escape and never be caught. "He must be a durned smart chap, and deserves to get off. Dang me! if I came across him now I’m not sure I’d give him up." The police decided that he had safely got out of the county, probably out of England. Up at Princetown, however, the officials insisted that the man was still hiding somewhere on Dartmoor. And they had good reason for thinking this. The news soon leaked out that 381 was none other than Rupert Dale, of Blackthorn Farm. A moorman, one who knew every inch of the country, born and bred on Dartmoor. Such a one, provided he could get food and drink, might easily play hide and seek with his would-be captors for many weeks. When the best part of three weeks had passed, when every scrap of country had been searched and no stone left unturned—indeed, there was not a cairn nor a pile of boulders that had escaped examination—then the officials began to look rather ridiculous, and were inclined to confess that Rupert Dale, though he had not left the country, had at least got out of Devonshire. The moorlands resumed their normal aspect and were no longer dotted about with detectives, constables and armed warders. But the police increased their vigilance in all the neighbouring towns.