“My son Jack is murdered! The son of the man who turned me off my farm, the Philip Fuller that robbed my lad of his sweetheart, and that threatened him before witnesses, is the man that did the deed!” Shocked, stunned, paralysed at the awful imputation, and at the damning circumstantial evidence forthcoming, at that moment Philip looked guilty, and Piggy Morris’s suspicions were confirmed. “I’m not going to lose sight of you, young man,” said Morris, and despite the solemn denial of the distressed and confounded youth, Piggy Morris insisted on accompanying his “prisoner,” as he called him, to Waverdale Hall. There the young man told his story to his father. With a heart oppressed by forbodings of calamity, the squire and a posse of servants accompanied them to Thurston Wood. While Philip had been telling his story, Morris had noted the mire on his shooting jacket and the blood upon his cuffs, and pointed them out to the squire with more exultation than was befitting a bereaved father. Piggy Morris, however, had not any great amount of affection for his son. They found the cap, which Morris identified at once, and one of the servants, picking up a gun, exclaimed, “Why, this is Master Philip’s gun!” A hush as of death fell upon the party, broken first by a groan from the agonised squire, then Piggy Morris seized Philip by the arm, and dragging him to his father’s presence, cried, “Behold the murderer of my son!” “Hands off!” shouted Philip, stung beyond endurance, “It’s a hideous lie!” “Peace! my son,” said the squire, in accents which thrilled every listener, by their concentrated grief and resolute dignity. “Mr. Morris, you know where to find my son when he is wanted, and now, good-night!”