He had distinctly told the stranger that he knew nobody in England, and that he had come down to Sonning moved by impulse and for no especial purpose save the search after the picturesque. In his surprise at the old man’s likeness to the man he was in search of he had quite forgotten the butterfly net—a serious mistake, as he was about to find out. Another man might have entered into explanations or attempted to do so. Freyberger laughed in a brutal and cynical manner. His whole being seemed to change in one swift moment. He turned his back on the girl and, without vouchsafing an answer, said to the stranger, “Come.” It was almost as if he had said, “I arrest you.” They passed out together into the garden. The day was clouding over, and the last rays of sunshine fled as if from their presence as they followed the rose-bordered path to the little gate opening upon the road. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXIX “WHERE do you live?” asked Freyberger when they were on the road. “We shall pass the place, and I will show you,” replied the other. They turned to the left towards the village and walked for a moment in silence. The stranger, despite his age and apparent infirmity, walked with a brisk step. Freyberger did not lag behind. Then this conversation began between them, Freyberger speaking first: “So you have had a murder here?” “Is that so?” “It is so, and I have come down here to arrest the murderer.” “You are——” “I am Gustave Freyberger.” “Indeed!” “When I was talking to you in the bar, I fancied that some one was listening to me, and so I told you of my aunt—in Bremen was it? and of my sister in Düsseldorf.” Freyberger, as they walked, took side glances at the terrible profile of his companion rigid as the profile of the Sphinx; at a sign or movement indicative of guilt he was prepared to act. He was waiting for the psychological moment. But the stranger made neither sign nor movement, and they passed through the little village, past the post office, past the cottage, which serves as a police station. Then they turned a corner, and a lonely country road lay before them. Lonely-looking would, perhaps, be a better term, for the roads about here are by no means destitute of travellers on a summer’s day. “You do not live in the village, then?” said Freyberger. “No,” replied the other, “I live a little way down this road.” “That is convenient,” said Freyberger, “for if I am not mistaken we are going to have a storm.” “So it would seem.” “We can shelter at your cottage, for you live in a cottage, at least I fancy you told me so.” “I live in a cottage, but I am unaware that I mentioned the fact.” “Ah, it must have been my imagination. It plays one tricks. I am full of imaginations and fancies to-day. For instance, in the bar a moment ago I fancied I knew your face.” “Indeed!”