All that morning I looked down the winding road to Marshminster, but saw no one coming therefrom. Not a soul was in sight, and if I did for a moment think that Strent and his daughter might return and declare themselves innocent, the thought was banished by a few hours' outlook. The inn, as I said before, was on a slight rise, and I could see far and wide. No human being was to be seen, and as the hours passed I grew almost horrified at the gruesome solitude. To be alone with a dead body in a lonely house in a lonely moor is hardly healthy for the mind. Toward noon I took a resolution. "If," said I, "the mountain won't come to Mahomet--why, then, Mahomet must go to the mountain." The interpretation of this was that I intended to see Felix Briarfield at Bellin Hall, Marshminster. Face to face with him, I would force him to explain why he had not kept the appointment. It seemed to me a suspicious circumstance. Perhaps Strent had told him Francis was dead, and therefore it would be useless for him to ride to the Fen Inn. If this were so, it would go a long way toward implicating him in the crime. I re-entered the house, locked up everything, and, strapping on my knapsack, took my departure toward Marshminster. Some way down the road I looked back at the ruin, and saw it loom more grim and ghastly than ever. Even in the bright sunshine it could not appear otherwise than eerie, and it was with great pleasure that I left it behind. Yet under those sloping roofs Francis Briarfield lay dead, and it was to discover his assassin and to avenge his death that I set my face toward Marshminster. CHAPTER III. FELIX OR FRANCIS? Late in the afternoon I tramped into Marshminster. It was by no means my first visit to that sleepy provincial town. Under the shadow of the cathedral tower dwelt relatives with whom I had aforetime spent school and college holidays. Their house was the goal of my pilgrimage, and a week's rest was to recoup me for the toils of the walking tour. The tragic occurrence at the Fen Inn altered all my plans. With an assassin to be tracked, there was no time for comfortable idleness. Francis Briarfield had been my friend, and I owed it to his memory to avenge his death. It was no easy task I had set myself; I recognized that from the first.