“I will go and see Mrs. Braxfield at once,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “Whether I have sufficient influence with the good lady to move her to accede to your proposition, my dear, I do not know, but I will do my utmost. But you,” he continued, as all three went out into the hall, where he took down his overcoat and cap, “you, my dear, cannot go back across the park alone! Harborough?” “All right, sir,” said Harborough quietly. “I’m going with her.” “Thank you—both,” murmured Valencia. “Not that I’m afraid of crossing the park by myself, though.” Mr. Fransemmery opened his front door, went along a path in his garden, and whistled. The two people behind him heard a rustle; then the rattling of a chain. “My dog!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I never go out at night without him. Down, Tinker!—I call him Tinker,” he continued, “because I bought him, as a pup, from a disreputable fellow who came round here mending pots and pans.” “What is he?” asked Valencia. “A mongrel? of sorts?” “No,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “He’s a pure-bred Airedale—the finest breed in the world for—shall we say?—police purposes. That’s what I bought him for. This is a lonely situation—and we have queer folk round here sometimes.” At the gate of Mr. Fransemmery’s garden the three separated; the two younger people went away across the hill-side and the park in the direction of Markenmore Court; Mr. Fransemmery took the nearest route to Woodland Cottage, his dog running a little in front of him. The dusk had come long since; the skies were dark; Mr. Fransemmery, who had gained much knowledge of weather since taking up his residence in the country, fancied that there would be rain before morning. And it was dark on the surface of the land, and in Deep Lane, into which he presently descended, it was black as a winter midnight. Down there, in the few yards which he had to traverse before climbing the opposite bank, Mr. Fransemmery’s Airedale terrier left him; presently he heard him whimper amongst the thick bushes. “Rabbits!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “Come away for this time, Tinker!” The terrier came back, still whining, and obviously restless and unwilling. He behaved as if he wished to return to the spot he had just left, but his master called him to heel, and went forward. Just then Mr. Fransemmery’s thoughts were not of rabbit-warrens and eager dogs—they were of the unexpected revelation which Valencia Markenmore had made to him, and of his coming interview with that capable and masterful woman, Mrs. Braxfield. CHAPTER XVII TOO LATE Mrs. Braxfield herself opened the door of Woodland Cottage to Mr. Fransemmery, and making out his identity by the light of the lamp in her hall, bade him enter in tones of warm welcome. “Never rains but it pours!” she exclaimed, as she ushered the visitor towards her parlour. “I’ve got one caller already, and now here’s another; glad to see you, Mr. Fransemmery!”