During those few and sombre days which represented the epact of the dying year, Martin Grimbal returned to Chagford.  He had extended his investigations beyond the time originally allotted to them, and now came back to his home with plenty of fresh material, and even one or two new theories for his book.  He had received no communications during his absence, and the news of the bee-keeper’s death and his sweetheart’s disappearance, suddenly delivered by his housekeeper, went far to overwhelm him.  It danced joy up again through the grey granite.  For a brief hour splendid vistas of happiness reopened, and his laborious life swept suddenly into a bright region that he had gazed into longingly aforetime and lost for ever.  He fought with himself to keep down this rosy-fledged hope; but it leapt in him, a young giant born at a word.  The significance of the freedom of Chris staggered him.  To find her was the cry of his heart, and, as Will had done before him, he straightway set out upon a systematic attempt to discover the missing girl.  Of such uncertain temper was Blanchard’s mind at this season, however, that he picked a quarrel out of Martin’s design, and questioned the antiquary’s right to busy himself upon an undertaking which the brother of Chris had already failed to accomplish.

“She belonged to me, not to you,” he said, “an’ I done all a man could do to find her.  See her again we sha’n’t, that’s my feelin’, despite what she wrote to me and left so mysterious on the window.  Madness comed awver her, I reckon, an’ she’ve taken her life, an’ theer ban’t no call for you or any other man to rip up the matter again.  Let it bide as ’t is.  Such black doin’s be best set to rest.”

But, while Martin did not seek or desire Will’s advice in the matter, he was surprised at the young farmer’s attitude, and it extracted something in the nature of a confession from him, for there was little, he told himself, that need longer be hidden from the woman’s brother.

“I can speak now, at least to you, Will,” he said.  “I can tell you, at any rate.  Chris was all the world to me—­all the world, and accident kept me from knowing she belonged to another man until too late.  Now that he has gone, poor fellow, she almost seems within reach again.  You know what it is to love.  I can’t and won’t believe she has taken her life.  Something tells me she lives, and I am not going to take any man’s word about it.  I must satisfy myself.”

Thereupon Blanchard became more reasonable, withdrew his objections and expressed a very heartfelt hope that Martin might succeed where he had failed.  The lover entered methodically upon his quest and conducted the inquiry with a rigorous closeness and scrupulous patience quite beyond Will’s power despite his equally earnest intentions.  For six months Martin pursued his hope, and few saw or heard anything of him during that period.

Once, during the early summer, Will chanced upon John Grimbal at the first meeting of the otter hounds in Teign Vale; but though the younger purposely edged near his enemy where he stood, and hoped that some word might fall to indicate their ancient enmity dead, John said nothing, and his blue eyes were hard and as devoid of all emotion as turquoise beads when they met the farmer’s face for one fraction of time.