He came riding slowly along the street in the fading light, a man of striking appearance, mounted on a fine horse, a man of about three-and-thirty, tall, broad-shouldered. He had a dark complexion, and dark-brown hair, deep-set gray eyes, which looked almost black under dark heavy brows, an aquiline nose, a heavy moustache and beard. He had begun life as a younger son, and had practised for some years as a solicitor in the town of Plymouth--had been town clerk and a man of public importance in that place--when his elder brother died a bachelor, and Edward Heathcote inherited a snug little estate near Bodmin, with a curious old country house called The Spaniards. The place had been so named on account of the Spanish chestnuts which flourished there in exceeding beauty. On becoming owner of The Spaniards, and the estate that went with it, Edward Heathcote retired from the law, and went to live at the place of his birth, where he looked after the well-being of his baby girls and his young sister, and let his days glide by in the quiet monotony of a country squire's life, hunting and shooting, sitting in judgment upon poachers and small defaulters at petty sessions, and acting as coroner for his division of the county. He had been leading this life of rural respectability for a year. He rode up to the carriage and shook hands with Mrs. Wyllard. He was her neighbour, and had visited Penmorval during the last year. There had never been the faintest indication in his manner or his speech that Julian Wyllard's wife was any more to him than a friend. He was pleased to visit her, anxious that she should be interested in his motherless children, pleased to confide his plans and his thoughts to her. Time had sobered his enthusiasm about all things, and had softened all bitter memories. He took life now as a gentle legato movement. He had lived and suffered, and done his duty, and that which was left to him was rest. He sat down among his fields and his vineyards to take his ease just a little earlier than other men, that was all. A great sorrow suffered in the morning of life ages a man by at least a decade. "Why are you waiting outside the station-house?" he asked; "have you had an alarm of burglars at Penmorval?" "It is something much worse than that," answered Mrs. Wyllard gravely; and then Bothwell related the catastrophe on the railway. Julian Wyllard came back to the carriage just as the story was finished. "This will be a job for you, Heathcote," he said. "A very sad one. The story has a brutal sound to me, remembering past stories of the same kind," answered Heathcote. "It shall not be my fault if the ruffian escapes." "You think there is a ruffian, then? You don't take it for a case of suicide?" "Decidedly not," replied the other promptly. "Why should a girl choose such a death as that?"