“I’m going, however. ’Tis my duty. An’ so soon as may be I’ll get down to Plymouth to see him,” declared the girl. A cab, that was to have driven Daniel and Minnie, still waited. Now she walked to it and opened the door. “Drive me up to Warren Inn ’pon Dartymoor, my boy,” she said. “From there I can walk.” Then she turned and approached Mrs Sweetland. “My place is in his home, mother. Don’t you fear nothing. I’ll be a good wife to your son, an’ a good daughter to you. Our Dan be in the hands of God. Good-bye, all--good-bye.” She drove away, and the men who had hissed at her husband cheered her. “Dammy--a good pucked un!” cried a thin, gnarled figure with a green shade over his eye. “Lucky’s the he that gets that she, whether it be yon chap or another after he swings!” The man was called Rix Parkinson, and he held the proud dual position of leading drunkard and leading poacher in Moreton. He was drunk now, but people nearly always found themselves in agreement with him when he was sober and cared to talk. A buzz and babel turned round Mrs Maine and the Sweetlands. Then the gamekeeper and Titus Sim talked apart. “There’s a train to Newton Abbot half after six,” said Matthew. “I’ll go by it an’ have a tell with Lawyer Jacobs.” “And what I can do with Mr Henry I will do,” said Sim. His eyes were upon Minnie Sweetland’s carriage as it drove away with the little blue figure sitting bravely in it--alone. Johnny Beer’s wife had been forgotten, and she wept in a small circle of children who had gathered about her. “What a wedding night for a dinky maiden!” sobbed Jane Beer; “but me an’ my man will go over to hearten her up, if ’tis in mortal power to do it.” Anon the people scattered, and the day was done. A grey gloaming settled upon the Moor, and their eternal cloud-caps rolled over the tors and stifled the light of evening. A dog-cart with a fine trotting horse in it swept along over the long, straight stretch to the Warren Inn, and some miles in the rear of it Daniel Sweetland’s wife followed behind. She sat in an open fly and was drawn by an old grey mare who had assisted at a hundred weddings. But her driver had taken the ribbons off his whip and flung away the flowers from his buttonhole. He numbered only twelve years; yet he had sense to see that the moment was not one for show of joy. “They’ll never hang such a rare fine chap,” he said; “I’m sure they never would do such a terrible rash thing, miss.” CHAPTER V A GHOST OF A CHANCE His first experience of life crushed down with all the weight of the world on Daniel Sweetland and kept him dumb. He stared straight before him and only answered with nod or shake of head the remarks addressed to him by Luke Bartley and the inspector. “Better leave the lad in peace,” said the kindly giant, who drove. “He wants to think, an’ no doubt he’s got a deal to think about.”