As we stood and waited we were aware of a sound of wheels from the direction of Redfield, and as the policeman neared us from the right, so the sound of wheels approached us from the left. Presently a fly hove in sight--the sort of dusty vehicle that plies at every rural railway station in this country; and as he caught sight of us in the road the driver began waving his whip in a very singular and excited manner. As he drew nearer still he shouted, though at first we could not distinguish his words. By this time the policeman, trotting ponderously, was within a few yards. The passenger in the fly, a thin, dark, elderly man, leaned over the side to look ahead at us, and with that the policeman pulled up with a great gasp and staggered into the ditch. "'Ere 'e is!" cried the fly-driver, regardless of the angry remonstrances of his fare. "'Ere 'e is! 'E's all right! It ain't 'im! 'Ere he is!" "Shut your mouth, you fool!" cried the angry fare. "_Will_ you stop making a show of me?" "Not me!" cried the eccentric cabman. "I don't want no fare, sir! I'm drivin' you 'ome for honour an' glory, an' honour an' glory I'll make it! 'Ere 'e is!" Hewitt took in the case in a flash--the flabbergasted policeman, the excited cabman and the angry passenger. He sprang into the road and cried to the cabman, who pulled up suddenly before us. "Mr. Victor Peytral, I believe?" said Martin Hewitt. "Yes, sir," answered the dark gentleman snappishly, "but I don't know you!" "There has been a deal of trouble here, Mr. Peytral, over your absence from home, as no doubt you have become aware; and I was telegraphed for by your daughter. My name is Hewitt--Martin Hewitt." Peytral's face changed instantly. "I know your name well, Mr. Hewitt," he said. "There's a matter--but who is this?" "My friend, Mr. Brett, who is good enough to help me to-day. If I may detain you a moment, I should like a word with you aside." "Certainly." Mr. Peytral alighted, and the two walked a little apart. I saw Hewitt talking and pointing toward the burnt barn, and I well guessed what he was saying. He was giving Peytral warning of what he had discovered in the barn, explaining that he must give the information to the police, and asking if, in those circumstances, Peytral wished to go home, or to make other arrangements. Often Hewitt's duty to his clients and his duty as a law-upholding citizen between them put him in some such delicate position. But there was no hesitation in Mr. Victor Peytral. Plainly he feared nothing, and he was going home. "Very well, then," I heard Hewitt say as they turned towards us, "perhaps we had better go on slowly and let my friend cut across the fields first to break the news. Brett--I knew you would be useful, sooner or later." And so I hurried off, with the happy though delicate mission to restore both father and lover to Miss Claire Peytral. IV