“Thus we know it.  I go every morning early to Strete Farm on the hills above us for milk and butter.  I go this morning and they have an ugly story.  Last night a man entered Strete Farm and took food and drink.  The farmer hears him and comes upon him sitting eating in the kitchen—­a big man with a red head and a red mustache and a red waistcoat.  The man, when he sees Mr. Brook—­that is the farmer—­he bolts through the back kitchen by which he has come.  Mr. Brook knows nothing of the man and he tells me of his adventure, and then I go home to tell padron mio—­my master.

“When I describe this man, Mr. Redmayne and Madonna nearly have a fit between them.  They recognize him—­he is the assassin!  They think instantly of you and bid me take my bicycle and ride here at my best speed to catch you, if it may be done before you go.  I succeed, but I cannot stay with you; I must return to keep guard.  I do not like to feel there is nobody there.  My old sea wolf is not frightened of the sea, but I think he is a little frightened of his brother.  And Mrs. Jenny—­she is very frightened indeed.”

“Come to breakfast,” said Mark, whose toilet was now completed.  “I’ll get a motor in a quarter of an hour and run out as quick as may be.”

They swallowed a hasty meal and Giuseppe displayed growing excitement.  He begged Brendon to bring other policemen with him, but this Mark declined to do.

“Plenty of time for that,” he said.  “We may catch him easy enough.  I shall do nothing until I have seen Mr. Bendigo at ‘Crow’s Nest’ and heard his views.  If Robert Redmayne is breaking into houses for food he must be at the end of his tether.”

By nine o’clock the Italian had started homeward, and as soon as he was gone, Brendon went to the police station, borrowed a revolver and a pair of handcuffs, hinted at his business, and ordered a police car to be ready as quickly as possible.  A constable drove him and before setting out he told the local chief of police, one Inspector Damarell, to await a message over the telephone in the course of the morning.  He enjoined strictest secrecy for the present.

Mark overtook and passed Doria on his way home.  The storm had nearly blown itself out and the morning was clear and cold.  Beneath the cliffs a big sea rolled, but it was fast going down.

Any suspicion that the inhabitants of Bendigo’s home were seeking to create false impressions left Brendon’s mind, when he stood before Jenny and her uncle.  The former was nervous and the latter beyond measure puzzled.  There was now little doubt that Robert Redmayne must be the man who broke into Strete Farm for food, since Mark’s experience of the previous night tended to confirm the fact.  He had seen Redmayne some hours before the fugitive alarmed the household at Strete.  Where was he now and why had he come hither?  All suspected that the unfortunate man had probably returned from France or Spain, and now lay hid close at hand, waiting for a safe opportunity to see the old sailor.