We pulled him over a stile in a tangle; and dragged and pushed him through a small hedge-gap all in a heap. Here we were but a short distance from the cart, and into that we flung him without wasting time or tenderness, to the intense consternation of the driver, who, I believe, very nearly set up a cry for help on his own account. Once in the cart, however, I seized the reins and the whip myself and, leaving Hewitt to take care of the prisoner, put the turn-out along toward Ratherby at as near ten miles an hour as it could go. We made first for Mr. Hardwick's, but he, we found, was with my uncle, so we followed him. The arrest of the Fosters had been effected, we learned, not very long after we had left the wood, as they returned by another route to Ranworth. We brought our prisoner into the Colonel's library, where he and Mr. Hardwick were sitting. "I'm not quite sure what we can charge him with unless it's anatomical robbery," Hewitt remarked, "but here's the criminal." The man only looked down, with a sulkily impenetrable countenance. Hewitt spoke to him once or twice, and at last he said, in a strange accent, something that sounded like "_kekin jin-navvy._" "_Keck jin?_"[9] asked Hewitt, in the loud, clear tone one instinctively adopts in talking to a foreigner, "_Keckeno jinny?_" [9] "Not understand?" The man understood and shook his head, but not another word would he say or another question answer. "He's a foreign gipsy," Hewitt explained, "just as I thought--a Wallachian, in fact. Theirs is an older and purer dialect than that of the English gipsies, and only some of the root-words are alike. But I think we can make him explain to-morrow that the Fosters at least had nothing to do with, at any rate, cutting off Sneathy's hand. Here it is, I think." And he gingerly lifted the folds of sacking from the ghastly object as it lay on the table, and then covered it up again. "But what--what does it all mean?" Mr. Hardwick said in bewildered astonishment. "Do you mean this man was an accomplice?" "Not at all--the case was one of suicide, as I think you'll agree, when I've explained. This man simply found the body hanging and stole the hand." "But what in the world for?" "For the HAND OF GLORY. Eh?" He turned to the gipsy and pointed to the hand on the table: "_Yag-varst_,[10] eh?" [10] Fire-hand. There was a quick gleam of intelligence in the man's eye, but he said nothing. As for myself I was more than astounded. Could it be possible that the old superstition of the Hand of Glory remained alive in a practical shape at this day?