“If I’m mistaken, we shall have to try back,” answered Jarvis. “Of course, it is just possible we are on a false scent. Ah! what is this?” The speaker pointed significantly to some drops of blood upon the straw in front of the barn. “What say you to that?” “Blood, without a doubt,” observed the constable. “That’s where they laid him down when they opened the barn door.” “Ah!――dare say――most likely.” The villagers were open-mouthed with wonder. They, one and all, voted the soldier a necromancer. The doors were flung wide open, and they sprang over the rack into the body of the barn. There had been some threshing done the day before, and there was a vast heap of chaff just outside. While they were gazing around, a low moan, as of one in pain, fell upon their ears. “Keep quiet, lads,” exclaimed Jarvis; “leave this matter to me and the constable. Keep where you are. We can none of us tell what next will happen.” “Here’s footmarks on the chaff, and blood on it also,” said the constable, who took a few steps further inside, whereupon his eyes lighted on the prostrate figure of a man lying in the corner on a heap of straw. He flashed his bull’s-eye on the face of the wounded burglar, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. The Bristol Badger lay helpless, and bathed in blood. Jane Ryan, who had followed the constable and Jarvis, gave a slight scream. “Don’t take on so, woman,” said the constable. “He’s only got his deserts.” Heedless of this observation, Jane went close to the wounded burglar and peered into his face. “Dost know who this here is? I’ll tell ye!” she exclaimed, in a voice of concentrated rage; “he’s the murderer of my sweetheart. I should ha’ known him out o’ ten thousand.” There was a murmur of unmixed surprise at this observation. “What beest thee saying, Jane?” said the farmer, scratching his head. “Hast ever seen ’im afore?” “Aye, sure enough I have, master. It was not for nothing that I sat up this night. I knew summut was about to happen, but never guessed it would turn out like this.” Gregson endeavoured to rise to his feet, but the attempt was a futile one; he was too weak from loss of blood. “What has that false, wicked woman been saying?” he inquired of the policeman. “She accuses you of murder,” was the brief rejoinder. “She’s mad. I never saw her before.” “What’s to be done wi’ this man?” inquired the farmer of the constable. “He’s my prisoner, anyway,” answered the latter. “Best see and have his wounds attended to, and then we will take him to the lock-up. You charge him, I suppose?” “Yes, with burglary.” “Attempted burglary,” chimed in the cracksman. “And I charge him with wilful murder!” exclaimed Jane Ryan. Having said this, she folded her arms upon her breast and relapsed into gloomy silence. There she stood, colossal as an Amazon, in her sublime strength, beautiful as a Judith in her just and fearful vengeance.