Bendigo looked sulkily from under his tangled eyebrows.

“I shouldn’t feel no very great call to give him up to the living death of an asylum, if he hove in here some night.”

“You’d do your duty—­that I will bet,” replied Brendon.

They descended to the dining-room, where Jenny Pendean was waiting to pour out tea.  All were very silent and Mark had leisure to observe the young widow.

“What shall you do and where may I count upon finding you if I want you, Mrs. Pendean?” he asked presently.

She looked at Redmayne, not at Brendon, as she answered.

“I am in Uncle Bendigo’s hands.  I know he will let me stop here for the present.”

“For keeps,” the old sailor declared.  “This is your home now, Jenny, and I’m very glad to have you here.  There’s only you and your Uncle Albert and me now, I reckon, for I don’t think we shall ever see poor Bob again.”

An elderly woman came in.

“Doria be wishful to know when you’ll want the boat,” she said.

“I should like it immediately if possible,” begged Brendon.  “Much time has been lost.”

“Tell them to get aboard, then,” directed Brendigo, and in five minutes Mark was taking his leave.

“I’ll let you have the earliest intimation of the capture, Mr. Redmayne,” he said.  “If your poor brother still lives, it seems impossible that he should long be free.  His present condition must be one of great torment and anxiety—­to him—­and for his own sake I hope he will soon surrender or be found—­if not in England, then in France.”

“Thank you,” answered the older man quietly.  “What you say is true.  I regret the delay myself now.  If he is heard of again by me, I’ll telegraph to Scotland Yard, or get ’em to do so at Dartmouth.  I’ve slung a telephone wire into the town as you see.”

They stood again under the flagstaff on the plateau, and Brendon studied the rugged cliff line and the fields of corn that sloped away inland above it.  The district was very lonely and only the rooftree of a solitary farmhouse appeared a mile or more distant to the west.

“If he should come to you—­and I have still a fancy that he may do so—­take him in and let us know,” said Brendon.  “Such a necessity will be unspeakably painful, I fear, but I am very sure you will not shrink from it, Mr. Redmayne.”

The rough old man had grown more amiable during the detective’s visit.  It was clear that a natural aversion for Brendon’s business no longer extended to the detective himself.

“Duty’s duty,” he said, “though God keep me from yours.  If I can do anything, you may trust me to do it.  He’s not likely to come here, I think; but he might try and get over to Albert down south.  Good-bye to you.”

Mr. Redmayne went back to the house, and Jenny, who stood by them, walked as far as the top of the steps with Brendon.

“Don’t think I bear any ill will to this poor wretch,” she said.  “I’m only heartbroken, that’s all.  I used to declare in my foolishness that I had escaped the war.  But no—­it is the war that has killed my dear, dear husband—­not Uncle Robert.  I see that now.”