* * * * *

“For the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal!”

He caught the words staring at him from the page of the open prayer book beside him, and automatically the Greek equivalent suggested itself.  He had always done well in “divinners”!  Then he became aware that the blessing had been given, that the organ was playing, and the congregation was breaking up.

* * * * *

Twenty-four hours later, Delane found himself on a road leading up from the town where he was lodging to the summit of the wide stretch of common land on the western side of which lay Great End Farm.  Half way up a long hill, he came upon a young man in uniform, disconsolately kneeling beside a bicycle which he seemed to be vainly trying to mend.  As Delane came up with him, he looked up and asked for a light.  Delane produced a match, and the young man, by the help of it, inspected his broken machine.

“No go!” he said with a shrug, “I shall have to walk.”

He rose from the ground, put up the tool he had been using, and buttoned up his coat.  Then he asked Delane where he was going.  Delane named a little village on the farther edge of the common.

“Oh, well, that’s straight ahead.  I turn off to the right,” said the young soldier, “at the cross road.”

They walked on together, Delane rather unwillingly submitting to the companionship thus sprung upon him.  He saw from the badge on the man’s shoulder that he belonged to one of the Canadian Forestry Corps in the district, and was at once on his guard.  They started in silence, till Delane, pulling his mind back with a jerk, asked his companion if he was going to Ipscombe.

“No—­only to Great End Farm.”

Darkness hid the sudden change in Delane’s countenance.

“You know some one there?”

“No, but I want to see one of the ladies about something.  There’s two of them running the farm.  But Miss Henderson’s the boss.”

Cautiously, with assumed indifference, Delane began to ask questions.

He discovered that his companion’s name was Dempsey; and before many minutes had passed the murderer’s grandson was in the full swing of his story.  Delane, despising the young man for a chattering fool, listened, nevertheless, with absorbed attention to every item of his tale.  Presently Dempsey said with a laugh,—­

“There’s been people in Ipscombe all these years as always would have it old Watson walked.  I know the names of three people at least as have sworn to seein’ ’im.  And there’s an old fellow in Ipscombe now that declares he’s seen him, only t’ther day.”

Delane lit his pipe, and nonchalantly inquired particulars.

Dempsey gave a mocking account of Halsey’s story.

“He’s an old fool!  Did you ever hear of a ghost bleedin’ before!” The speaker threw back his head and laughed.  “That’s all rot!  Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts—­never did.  But as Miss Henderson’s farmin’ the very land where old Watson was done in, I thought she’d like to have the true story and first hand.  And there’s no one but me knows it—­not first hand.  So I wrote to her, and said as I would call at six o’clock this evening.”