Then, to his astonishment, Davis saw the stranger pause at a gate on the left of the road, unchain it and walk through, carefully putting the chain up again. Instantly Davis recognized the gate, and the fact that it was the gate that gave entrance to the field beyond which, hidden by a dip of the fells, lay the cottage of the murder. He was passing the gate, when the stranger, who was only twenty paces or so away in the field, turned, saw Davis and beckoned to him to follow him. The moonlight was full on the stranger’s face, and, horrified, Davis recognized that the man before him in the field was Sir Anthony Gyde. As he stood spellbound, gazing at the murderer, a cloud passed over the moon, and the shadow of the cloud, like a black handkerchief, swept over the field and seemed to sweep Sir Anthony Gyde away. For when the moon returned he was gone. Then Davis ran, and he did not stop running until he reached the door of his relative. The accounts he gave of the occurrence were so confused as to cast discredit on his narrative, and he was put down as a liar for the strange reason that he was not gifted with the power of story-telling. Had he seen, or pretended to have seen, the ghost of Klein, every one would have believed him, for every one knew that Klein was dead. But Sir Anthony Gyde was alive, and the countryside were waiting to see him caught and hanged, and no one wished to believe in his ghost for that very reason. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXVI IT was May 9, the day after that on which Mr Davis, away up in Cumberland, had seen what he had seen upon the road to Blencarn. It had been a glorious day, but the beauty of the weather did not appeal to Freyberger. The Gyde case had hit him badly; after all his researches and calculations, after all the energy he had spent upon it, it had slipped away and left him. He had proved so much, yet he had done so little. That is perhaps the most exasperating thing about detective work. You have your case complete; the whole thing is reasoned out, plotted and planned; you have built round your man a complete structure, a prison that will hold him, you only want one little brick of evidence to complete it; you find your brick, put it in its place, and then open the door of your structure expecting to find your man inside and to lead him out to justice. He is gone. The warrant for his arrest is in your pocket; he has been shadowed for days past by your subordinates; he lodged last night at such and such a place and was shaved this morning by such and such a barber; he was having luncheon an hour ago at such and such a café; your subordinate tells you he is still there. You go to find him, and he is gone. He has scented arrest. Again, you may have your structure of evidence complete only for the one little brick.