A colour crept into the wan cheek of Joyce. "I should like to get up and hear all about it," said he, "there might be material for a story." "You can hear details later on. At present you must stay in bed, until we return to Town." "What about our walking tour?" "I have decided to cut that short," replied the doctor, "this adventure has given me a distaste for the trip. In a day or so, when you are rested we will return to London. My practice is small but I must attend to it." "And what about me Jim?" "Well!" reflected Herrick, "you are now well enough off not to make work an imperative necessity. I think you should go abroad for a time, and do nothing, until you are quite yourself. Explore Italy or Spain, and don't do a stroke of work. Change of scene and company will make you your old self again in a short time." "Never, never!" moaned Joyce. "I shall never get over her death." "Nonsense! Don't give way Robin. You must be a man--" "It was so sudden," pleaded Robin piteously. "I know. Didn't I attend her! But apoplexy always ends suddenly. Your mother was a stout woman and took no exercise. That fit might have been expected; I warned her often. You know I am sorry for your loss Robin; but sorrow will not bring back the dead. You have your part to play in the world, so you must put this grief behind you. If I talk a little brutally, you must excuse me. To a man of your temperament, sympathy is the worst thing possible." In Herrick's hands Joyce was more or less of a child, so he submitted--rather against his will--to remain in bed, while his friend went forth to hear the news. As might have been guessed Robin employed his solitude in gloating over his sorrow. This weakness he did not dare to reveal to Jim, fearing lest he should be lectured again. Still, he could not but acknowledge to himself that Herrick's advice was sensible. Meantime the doctor made a tour of the village. The villagers, swarming like bees in the excitement of the moment, recognised a stranger, and guessed that this was one of the two gentlemen said to have discovered the body. Hence Herrick found himself the subject of considerable curiosity, but was not molested or accosted in any way, until he met with a clergyman. This was on the outskirts of the village, where a gorse-covered common stretched up to the pine wood surrounding the house of Colonel Carr. The parson seemed to have been wandering on the waste land, for he appeared suddenly at Herrick's elbow like a ghost. Probably he had seen the stranger coming and had just stepped out from behind a bush. "You are Dr. Herrick?" he asked nervously. Jim signified that he was. "I am, addressing the vicar?" he hazarded. "The rector," corrected the other. "I am Mr. Pentland Corn. You will excuse my breaking in on your meditations," he continued, "but I guessed that you were the finder of the body of our late lamented friend."