He had been waiting half an hour when he thought he saw a movement at the mouth of the burrow, and slowly focussed his glasses. It was the tip of a black nose he saw, and he took the switch of the starter in his hand, ready to set the camera revolving. Minutes followed minutes; five—ten—fifteen—but there was no further movement in the burrow, and in a dull way John Bennett was glad, because the warmth of the day, combined with his own weariness and his relaxed position, brought to him a rare sensation of bodily comfort and well-being. Deeper and deeper grew the languorous haze of comfort that fell on him like a fog, until it obscured all that was visible and audible. John Bennett slept, and, sleeping, dreamed of success and of peace and of freedom from all that had broken his heart, and had dried up the sweet waters of life within him. In his dream he heard voices and a sharp sound, like a shot. But he knew it was not a shot, and shivered. He knew that “crack,” and in his sleep clenched his hands convulsively. The electric starter was still in his hand. * * * * * * At nine o’clock that morning there had come into Laverstock two limping tramps, though one limped more than the other. The bigger of the two stopped at the door of the _Red Lion_, and an unfriendly landlord surveyed the men over the top of the curtain which gave the habitués of the bar a semi-privacy. “Come in,” growled Lew Brady. Ray was glad to follow. The landlord’s bulk blocked the entrance to the bar. “What do you want?” he asked. “I want a drink.” “There’s no free drinks going in this parish,” said the landlord, looking at the unpromising customer. “Where did you get that ‘free drink’ stuff from?” snarled Lew. “My money’s as good as anybody else’s, isn’t it?” “If it’s honestly come by,” said the landlord. “Let us have a look at it.” Lew pulled out a handful of silver, and the master of the _Red Lion_ stood back. “Come in,” he said, “but don’t make a home of my bar. You can have your drink and go.” Lew growled the order, and the landlord poured out the two portions of whisky. “Here’s yours, Carter,” said Lew, and Ray swallowed the fiery dram and choked. “I’ll be glad to get back,” said Lew in a low voice. “It’s all right for you single men, but this tramping is pretty tough on us fellows who’ve got wives—even though the wives aren’t all they might be.” “I didn’t know you were married,” said Ray, faintly interested. “There’s a lot you don’t know,” sneered the other. “Of course I’m married. You were told once, and you hadn’t the brains to believe it.” Ray looked at the man open-mouthed. “Do you mean—what Gordon said?” The other nodded. “You mean that Lola is your wife?” “Why, certainly she’s my wife,” said Lew coolly. “I don’t know how many husbands she’s had, but I’m her present one.” “Oh, my God!” Ray whispered the words.