The house was in complete darkness. He threw down the reins and stood up, his whip clasped against his breast, his eyes lifted to the white moon sailing in silence over sulky chimney-pots. Singing ran in his family; it was from him that Grace inherited her talent. What his voice lacked in sweetness it made up in volume. He startled the stillness lustily: “Oh, Mister Widow, though A murderer you be, You're Sure, a very nice man-- A good enough pal for me.” If Mr. Widow had been a sportsman, he would have felt flattered that the winning Oxford crew should take the trouble to greet him thus musically at two o'clock in the morning. He wasn't. A night-capped head appeared at a window. The singing grew more hearty. The head vanished. The street door opened. A gentleman, very hastily attired, carrying a pair of white spats in his hand, shot out on to the pavement. A voice from the darkened shop pursued him, “'Ad enough of you. A man is known by 'is friends.” The door closed as suddenly as it had opened. Mr. Grace hailed the new arrival, “'Ulloa, duckie! Been lookin' for you h'everywhere.” “I wish you hadn't,” growled Ocky. Cat's Meat shivered in his harness. Mr. Grace, aware that he was somehow in error, picked up the reins. “Well, good night, young gen'lemen. Me and Mr. Waffles is goin' 'ome ter bed. Kum up, Cat's Meat.” But Cat's Meat didn't come up; he lolled between the shafts, listless and dejected. Mr. Grace climbed down from the box to examine him. “Wot's matter, old pal? Got a 'eadache?” He stretched out his hand to pat him. Cat's Meat shivered again, lolled over a little farther and crashed to the ground. He flickered his eye-lid just once, wearily and reproachfully, saying as plainly as was possible for so dumb an animal, “Old man, we've been and gone and done it.” A hat was passed round. When its contents were presented to Mr. Grace he pushed it away from him. He was sobbing. “H'it's not that; it ain't the money. 'E were the only man 'as ever understood me. 'Is h'intellergence wuz a thing to marvel h'at. A wonder of a 'oss, 'e were. I've often said h'it. 'E'd bring me 'ome as drunk as a lord and as saife as a baby. 'E wuz a reg'lar mother ter me, 'e were.” [Illustration: 0421] The revelers melted into the night down the shuttered street, leaving Mr. Grace with the disregarded hat of money, the dead horse sprawled across the broken shafts and a gentleman, from whose hand a pair of white spats dangled, contemplating the ruin disconsolately. CHAPTER XLI--TREE-TOPS Tree-Tops stood half-way up the hill, looking out across a terraced garden. At the foot of the hill lay a plain, where hamlets nestled beneath the wings of trees, and meadows washed about the shores of yellow wheat-lands like green rivers in flood. In blue pastures, beyond the edge of the horizon, white clouds wandered like browsing sheep.