At the sight of Miss Gascoyne the whole assemblage had risen. She was looked upon by the cottagers around with not a little awe. “Will some of you oblige me by helping to look for him?” The landlord, who had had more than one passage of arms with the justices of the peace as to the way in which his house was conducted, became officiousness itself. Anything to prove to the gentry what an estimable and respectable character he was. “It ain’t like Mr. Gascoyne to get into trouble on horseback,” he said, with a laudatory shake of his head, as if to conciliate Miss Gascoyne by conveying to her what a very high sense he had of her brother’s horsemanship. He evidently had an idea of offering her some refreshment, for he looked from her to the bottles of spirit and coloured cordials on the shelf, and from them back again to her, but apparently without being able to make up his mind to so hazardous a proceeding. As we were all standing outside the inn debating how to conduct the search, a dog-cart drove up. “Let me see, I am right for the Grange, am I not?” asked a voice. “Yes,” I answered, “but whom do you want at the Grange?” “Miss Gascoyne.” “I am Miss Gascoyne.” There was a silence. The man in the dog-cart was evidently somewhat taken aback. He was saved from further awkwardness by the character of the woman he had to deal with. “I am afraid something has happened. What is it?” “Your brother has had an accident.” “Is he hurt?” “I am afraid so.” The answer was inconclusive, and it was obviously intended that it should be. “Seriously?” “I am afraid so.” The answer was still lacking in finality, and Miss Gascoyne guessed the worst. We all stood round, the men looking stupid but concerned. “Will you take me to him, please?” “I came to fetch you.” “Will you come too, Mr. Rank?” “Of course.” I turned to the landlord’s wife, who had now joined us. “Can you find a shawl for Miss Gascoyne? She has no hat.” The landlady disappeared, and returned with a white woollen shawl, which she was taking out of tissue paper. “When was he found?” asked Miss Gascoyne, as we drove rapidly away, leaving the little group outside the public-house to discuss the matter. “About two hours and a half ago.” “Where?” The doctor explained, throwing into his account as much insinuation as he could of the worst. I don’t know at what particular moment Miss Gascoyne grasped that her brother was dead, but it was apparent before we reached our destination that she had realised the truth. He had been carried to a farmhouse, from whence they had sent for the doctor. “I am afraid he was kicked by his horse. I cannot for the life of me imagine how it could have happened to so fine a horseman.” The doctor ended a little lamely. Young Gascoyne’s propensities were too well known for miles round his home for anyone to be ignorant of them.