“There’s something in your line happened, master, by the look of it.  A pretty bobbery to-morrow.”

“A convict escaped, Will?” asked the detective, yawning and longing for bed.  “That’s about the only fun you get up here, isn’t it?”

“Convict escaped?  No—­a man done in seemingly.  Mr. Pendean’s uncle-in-law have slaughtered Mr. Pendean by the looks of it.”

“What did he want to do that for?” asked Brendon without emotion.

“That’s for clever men like you to find out,” answered Will.

“And who is Mr. Pendean?”

“The gentleman what’s building the bungalow down to Foggintor.”

Mark started.  The big red man flashed to his mind complete in every physical feature.  He described him and Will Blake replied: 

“That’s the chap that’s done it.  That’s the gentleman’s uncle-in-law!”

Brendon went to bed and slept no worse for the tragedy.  Nor, when morning came and every maid and man desired to tell him all they knew, did he show the least interest.  When Milly knocked with his hot water and drew up his blind, she judged that nobody could appreciate the event better than a famous detective.

“Oh, sir—­such a fearful thing—­” she began.  But he cut her short.

“Now, Milly, don’t talk shop.  I haven’t come to Dartmoor to catch murderers, but to catch trout.  What’s the weather like?”

“’Tis foggy and soft; and Mr. Pendean—­poor dear soul—­”

“Go away, Milly.  I don’t want to hear anything about Mr. Pendean.”

“That big red devil of a man—­

“Nor anything about the big red devil, either.  If it’s soft, I shall try the leat this morning.”

Milly stared at him with much disappointment.

“God’s goodness!” she said.  “You can go off fishing—­a professed murder catcher like you—­and a man killed under your nose you may say!”

“It isn’t my job.  Now, clear out.  I want to get up.”

“Well, I never!” murmured Milly and departed in great astonishment.

But Brendon was not to enjoy the freedom that he desired in this matter.  He ordered sandwiches, intending to beat a hasty retreat and get beyond reach; then at half past nine, he emerged into a dull and lowering morn.  Fine mist was in the air and a heavy fog hid the hills.  There seemed every probability of a wet day and from a fisherman’s point of view the conditions promised sport.  He was just slipping on a raincoat and about to leave the hotel when Will Blake appeared and handed him a letter.  He glanced at it, half inclined to stick the missive in the hall letter rack and leave perusal until his return, but the handwriting was a woman’s and did not lack for distinction and character.  He felt curious and, not associating the incident with the rumoured crime, set down his rod and creel, opened the note, and read what was written: 

“3 Station Cottages, Princetown.