The most celebrated cracksman of his day, Ned Gregson, alias the Bristol Badger, was certainly the least fortunate of the three ruffians who contrived to effect an entrance into Oakfield House. He was run to earth. After he had been carried on the hurdle into the farmhouse the village surgeon made a superficial examination of his wound, which was of a fearful nature; the whole of the charge from the gun fired by Jane Ryan had entered the burglar’s chest, and the loss of blood was enormous. The only wonder was, that Gregson had not been killed outright; but he was not the sort of man to be so easily disposed of. As far as physical strength was concerned he was a perfect giant; this he had proved on many occasions. He was more than double the age of Peace, with three times his strength. Nevertheless, as far as the guilty and lawless lives of the two men were concerned, there was not much difference between them; they were both criminals of the worst type, their whole career being one of profligacy and crime. Gregson was taken away to the lock-up in charge of the constabulary, who procured an ambulance from the hospital. The divisional surgeon was sent for; every care was taken of the prisoner; and all that skill and attention could do to preserve so valuable a life as the burglar’s was, as is usual in such cases, not wanting. When sufficiently recovered Gregson was examined before the stipendiary magistrates. The facts deposed to were plain enough, and the prisoner was committed for trial upon two distinct charges――namely, murder and burglary. Mr. John Ashbrook had by this time sufficiently regained his strength to leave his room and look after his farming stock, but he was not as yet up to his usual form. “This extraordinary charge of murder,” said the farmer to Jane, one afternoon, as he reclined upon the sofa in the front parlour, “it seems just like a romance. Strange that you should have recognised the ruffian by the pistol’s flash on that eventful night.” “I should have known him out of ten thousand. His face was as familiar to me as if I had seen him but yesterday.” “Tell us all about it, Jane.” “Well, master, it’s a sad and sorrowful tale, which I have kept locked up in my own breast for ever so long, but it is but right you should know all about it.” “Right lass, right you are; go on. What made you imagine that the house was likely to be attacked? You asked me to load the two other guns.” “I did, because I felt assured that danger was at hand.” “Why so?” “I had a dream――twice I dreamt the same thing――and then I went over to Mother Crowther and consulted her. She can read the future――being――being a wise woman.” “She is a wise woman indeed if she can do that,” remarked the farmer, with a smile; “what did she say?” “She consulted a book, cast my nativity, and told me that in less than three days I should see here or hereabouts the murderer of James Hopgood.” “And who might he be?”