relations with the Martin household. For instance, nothing short of a miracle could have stopped Robinson from arresting him on a charge of murder.” “You, then, are a miracle?” put in Hart, pointing the pipe at the little man. “To the person of ordinary intelligence—yes.” “After that,” said Winter, “there is nothing more to be said. Let’s see who secures the pocket marvel as a partner at auction.” As a fitting end to the strange story of wayward love and maniacal frenzy which found an unusual habitat in a secluded hamlet like Steynholme, a small vignette of its normal life may be etched in. The trope is germane to the scene. On a wet afternoon in October Hobbs and Elkin had adjourned to the Hare and Hounds. Tomlin was reading a newspaper spread on the bar counter. He was alone. The day was Friday, and the last “commercial” of the week had departed by the mid-day train. “Wot’s yer tonic?” demanded the butcher. “A glass of beer,” threw Elkin over his shoulder. He had walked to the window, and was gazing moodily at the sign of the “plumber and decorator” who had taken Siddle’s shop. The village could not really support an out-and-out chemist, so a local grocer had elected to stock patent medicines as a side line. Tomlin made play with a beer-pump. “Where’s yer own?” inquired Hobbs hospitably. Elkin came and drank. After an interlude, Tomlin ran a finger down a column of the newspaper. “By the way, Fred, didn’t you tell me about that funny little chap, Furno, the ’tec, buyin’ some pictures of yours?” he said. “I did. Had him there, anyhow,” chuckled Elkin. “How much did you stick ’im for?” “Three guineas.” “They can’t ha’ bin this lot, then, though I’ve a notion it wur the same name, ‘Aylesbury Steeplechase.’” “What are you talking about?” “This.” Tomlin turned the paper, and Elkin read: At their monthly art sale on Wednesday Messrs. Brown, Jenkins and Brown disposed of an almost unique set of colored prints, by F. Smyth, dated 1841. The series of six represented various phases of the long defunct Aylesbury Steeplechase, “The Start,” “The Brook,” “The In-and-Out,” and so on to “The Finish.” It is understood that this notable series, produced during the best period of the art, and at the very zenith of Smyth’s fame, were acquired recently by a Sussex amateur at a low price. Bidding began at fifty guineas, and rose quickly to one hundred and twenty, at which figure Messrs. Carnioli and Bruschi became the owners. Elkin read the paragraph twice, until the words burnt into his brain. “No,” he said thickly. “They’re not mine. No such luck!” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Postmaster's Daughter, by Louis Tracy