Pasco looked sullenly before him at the girl walking in the moonlight, speaking to the horse. The chance of doing her an injury was past. He could with difficulty move his arm. If he drew his knife on her and attacked her there on the moor, she could run from him, and he would be unable to pursue her, owing to his sprained ankle. There was no help for it, he must make the best of the circumstances, threaten her if she showed an inclination to speak and compromise him. Perhaps, taken all in all, it was as well that his purpose had been frustrated. There was no telling; he might have got into difficulties had he killed her. In escaping from one danger, he might have precipitated himself into another. He saw now what he had not seen before. It had been his intention to attribute the fire to Jason Quarm. Had Kitty disappeared according to his purpose, then he would have said she had returned to Coombe with her father. It was known that she had left the place in his own company in the trap. She had been seen by the publican and by the miller. But it was possible, it was probable, that Jason had been seen as he drove through Coombe to the Cellars. If so, then it would have been observed that he was alone; accordingly his—Pasco’s—story of her return with her father would have been refuted. Then, what explanation could he have given of her disappearance? Pepperill drew a long breath. He had been preserved from making a fatal mistake. He was glad now that his attempt on Kate had been frustrated. Then, again, a new idea entered his brain. Could he not have attributed her death to accident on the moor, had the horse trampled on her? He might have done so, but then, would not folks have thought there was something more than coincidence in the death, the same night, of father and daughter? “I believe I’d ha’ been a stoopid if I’d ha’ done it,” said Pasco, and resigned himself to circumstances. “Be us in the road? I reckon us be.” “Yes, uncle; here is where we turned off from the highway. Which turn shall I take—on to Brimpts or back to Ashburton?” “On ahead, Brimpts way. There’s a little public-house at Pound Gate, and I be that dry, and the cob, I reckon, be that lazy—we’d best turn in there and rest the night. The shaking of the cart hurts me, moreover.” Kate got up into the vehicle and drove. Her uncle gladly resigned the reins to her. He could have held them, indeed, but not have used the whip, and Diamond would not go with him unless he used the whip. Before long the little tavern was reached—a low building of moorstones, whitewashed, with a thatched roof, and a sign over the door. To the surprise of Pepperill, he saw a chaise without horses outside. At the inn he drew up. The landlord came to the door and helped him to descend. “What! hurt yourself, Mr. Pepperill?” “Yes; had a spill.” “On your way to Brimpts, I suppose? I hear you are selling the timber.” “Yes, to Government. Have you visitors?” “Ay! Some one come after you.”