I felt somewhat uncomfortable as we turned down the lane where I had left Harry Gascoyne. The doctor made no remark as we passed the spot where I knew he had been found. I was full of curiosity as to how his sister would behave. As we descended from the dog-cart, the doctor turned to her. “I hope I have made myself clear.” Miss Gascoyne stood silent for a few seconds, struggling for self-control. Then she answered quietly: “Quite. You mean that my brother is dead?” The doctor nodded his head gravely. It was curious evidence of the apartness of Miss Gascoyne’s character that the woman of the house, a buxom, garrulous body, made no attempt at comfort. She at once realised that it would have been an intrusion. Miss Gascoyne went upstairs with the doctor. She was not away long, and when she returned I saw that she must give way soon, or a mental catastrophe would ensue. Her features were rigid. I went upstairs at her request. All signs of violence had already been removed, and he lay as if asleep. Any indications of vice and intemperance had disappeared, and he looked very boyish and beautiful. The doctor was in the room. “I don’t quite see,” he said, in a low voice, “how a mere kick or two could have inflicted such injuries. I don’t mean, of course, that kicks could not have caused his death, but the blows seem as if they had been struck by a blunt instrument, directed with less velocity than would have been the case with a horse’s hoof. I am waiting for a colleague, and then we must make a serious examination.” I murmured that I was no authority. I could not help reflecting how much Harry Gascoyne had been the gainer by dying when he did. Instead of growing into a debauched, worn-out old man, his physical casket lay before us in all the freshness of its youth and beauty. He would leave beautiful instead of ugly memories. Yes, it was well he had died. His sister might continue to worship him and to preserve her illusions. She returned to the Grange, and I, having left her to the care of the old housekeeper, went to the inn, though it struck me as being somewhat ridiculous to observe the conventions at such a time. I did not believe for one moment that the blows which had struck young Gascoyne were from the horse’s hoofs. Before leaving the house, however, I went round to the stables. There was no one about, and the mare was by this time as quiet as a lamb. I examined her hoofs carefully. There was not the least trace of blood—at any rate, not observable to myself. If there were any traces, they must be microscopic. I sat down on an upturned pail and reflected. I should like to save Nat Holway—that is to say, if he had not already given himself up, which with a nature such as his was quite possible. Would it help him to smear the horse’s hind hoofs with blood? It was worth trying. Where was I to get the blood from? There was only one source, and that was myself.