It was as I asked the question out loud that I came to a road and sat down beside it. It was little more than a track, but it seemed to speak of other human beings, and I wanted human companionship at the moment—wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life. At any other time I would have resented sharing with strangers the glorious beauty of the moors as they stretched back to a rugged tor a mile or two away, with their wonderful colouring of violet and black, and the scent of the wet earth rising all around. But now... With a shudder I rose, conscious for the first time that I was feeling chilled. I must get somewhere—talk to someone; and, as if in answer to my thoughts, a car came suddenly in sight, bumping over the track. There was an elderly man inside, and two girls, and he pulled up at once on seeing me. "By Jove!" he cried, cheerily, "you’re very wet. Can I give you a lift anywhere?" "It is very good of you," I said. "I want to get to the police as quickly as possible." "The police?" He stared at me surprised. "What’s wrong?" "There’s been a most ghastly tragedy," I said. "A man has been murdered and the murderer has jumped over that headland, with his wife in his arms. The murderer’s name was Rupert Carlingham." I was prepared for my announcement startling them; I was not prepared for the extraordinary effect it produced. With a shriek of terror the two girls clung together, and the man’s ruddy face went white. "What name did you say?" he said at length, in a shaking voice. "Rupert Carlingham," I answered, curtly. "And the boy he murdered was called John Trelawnay. Incidentally I want to get a doctor to look at the youngster. It’s possible the knife might have just missed his heart." "Oh, daddy, drive on, drive on quick!" implored the girls, and I glanced at them in slight surprise. After all a murder is a very terrible thing, but it struck me they were becoming hysterical over it. "It was just such an evening," said the man, slowly: "just such a storm as we’ve had this afternoon, that it happened." "That what happened?" I cried, a trifle irritably; but he made no answer, and only stared at me curiously. "Do you know these parts, sir?" he said at length. "It’s the first time I’ve ever been here," I answered. "I’m on a walking tour." "Ah! A walking tour. Well. I’m a doctor myself, and unless you get your clothes changed pretty quickly, I predict that your walking tour will come to an abrupt conclusion—even if it’s only a temporary one. Now, put on this coat, and we’ll get off to a good inn." But, anxious as I was to fall in with his suggestion myself, I felt that that was more than I could do.