Miss Greeby was quite her old breezy, masculine self, and her presence in the cottage was like a breath of moorland air blowing through the languid atmosphere of a hot-house.  She was arrayed characteristically in a short-skirted, tailor-made gown of a brown hue and bound with brown leather, and wore in addition a man’s cap, dog-skin gloves, and heavy laced-up boots fit to tramp miry country roads.  With her fresh complexion and red hair, and a large frame instinct with vitality, she looked aggressively healthy, and Lambert with his failing life felt quite a weakling beside this magnificent goddess.

“Hallo, old fellow,” cried Miss Greeby in her best man-to-man style, “feeling chippy?  Why, you do look a wreck, I must say.  What’s up?”

“The fever’s up and I’m down,” replied Lambert, who was glad to see her, if only to distract his painful thoughts.  “It’s only a touch of malaria, my dear Clara.  I shall be all right in a few days.”

“You’re hopeful, I must say, Lambert.  What about a doctor?”

“I don’t need one.  Mrs. Tribb is nursing me.”

“Coddling you,” muttered Miss Greeby, planting herself manfully in an opposite chair and crossing her legs in a gentlemanly manner.  “Fresh air and exercise, beefsteaks and tankards of beer are what you need.  Defy Nature and you get the better of her.  Kill or cure is my motto.”

“As I have strong reasons to remain alive, I shan’t adopt your prescription, Dr. Greeby,” said Lambert, dryly.  “What are you doing in these parts?  I thought you were shooting in Scotland.”

“So I was,” admitted the visitor, frankly and laying her bludgeon—­she still carried it—­across her knee.  “But I grew sick of the sport.  Knocked over the birds too easy, Lambert, so there was no fun.  The birds are getting as silly as the men.”

“Well, women knock them over easy enough.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Miss Greeby, vigorously.  “It’s a rotten world, this, unless one can get away into the wilds.”

“Why don’t you go there?”

“Well,” Miss Greeby leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and dandled the bludgeon with both hands.  “I thought I’d like a change from the rough and ready.  This case of Pine’s rather puzzled me, and so I’m on the trail as a detective.”

Lambert was rather startled.  “That’s considerably out of your line, Clara.”

Miss Greeby nodded.  “Exactly, and so I’m indulging in the novelty.  One must do something to entertain one’s self, you know, Lambert.  It struck me that the gypsies know a lot more about the matter than they chose to say, so I came down yesterday, and put up at the Garvington Arms in the village.  Here I’m going to stay until I can get at the root of the matter.”

“What root?”

“I wish to learn who murdered Pine, poor devil.”

“Ah,” Lambert smiled.  “You wish to gain the reward.”

“Not me.  I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, as it is.  Silver is more anxious to get the cash than I am.”