Meanwhile Susy treated her sister very kindly.  She specially insisted on ordering dinner, and writing various business letters; though Lydia would have been thankful to do both.  And when the evening came on, Mrs. Penfold trembling with excitement and horror, chattered endlessly about the murder, as each visitor to the cottage brought some fresh detail.  Lydia seldom answered her.  She sat on the floor, with her face against her mother’s knee, while the soft, silly voice above her head rambled and rambled on.

* * * * *

Tatham rode back to Pengarth.  As he approached one of the lodge gates of Duddon, a man came toward him on a bicycle.  Boden, hot and dishevelled, dismounted as he saw Tatham.

“I thought I should just meet you.  Lady Tatham has had a telephone message from the Chief Constable, Colonel Marvell.  There is a man missing—­and a gun.  Brand’s younger son has not been seen for thirty-six hours.  He has been helping Andover’s head keeper for part of the year, as a watcher; and this man, Simpson, had let him have an old gun of his—­a muzzle-loader—­some months ago.  That gun can’t be found.”

Tatham sat thunderstruck, lights breaking on his face.

“Well—­there was cause enough.”

Boden’s eyes shone.

“Cause?  It smelled to heaven!  Wild justice—­if you like!  I was in the house yesterday afternoon,” he added quietly, “just before the old man died.”

“You were?” cried Tatham, amazed.  Yet he knew well that whenever Boden came to recruit at Duddon, he spent half of his time among the fell-farms and cottages.  His mind was invincibly human, greedy of common life and incident, whether in London or among the dales.  He said little of his experiences at Duddon; not a word, for instance, to Tatham or Victoria, the night before, had revealed his own share in the old farmer’s death scene; but, casually, often, some story would drop out, some unsuspected facts about their next-door neighbours, their very own people, which would set Victoria and Tatham looking at each other, and wondering.

He turned now to walk beside Tatham’s horse.  His plain face with its beautiful eyes, and lanky straying hair, spoke of a ruminating mind.

Tatham asked if there was any news from the railway.

“No trace so far, anywhere.  All the main line stations have been closely watched.  But Marvell is of opinion that if young Brand had anything to do with it he would certainly give the railway a wide berth.  He is much more likely to take to the fells.  They tell the most extraordinary tales of his knowledge of the mountains—­especially in snow and wild weather.  They say that shepherds who have lost sheep constantly go to him for help!”

“—­You know him?”

“I have talked to him sometimes.  A queer sulky fellow with one or two fixed ideas.  He certainly hated Melrose.  Whether he hated him enough to murder him is another question.  When I visited them, the mother told me that Will had rushed out of the house the night before, because he could not endure the sight of his father’s sufferings.  The jury I suppose will have to know that.  Well!—­You were going on to Pengarth?”