“Quite so.”  Mr. Rogers turned next to the constable.  “Hosken,” he asked, “you have been making inquiries about this man?”

“I have, sir; all along the road, so far as Torpoint Ferry.”

“And you learnt enough to justify you in arresting him?”

“Ample, y’r worship.  There wasn’t a public-house along the road but thought his behaviour highly peculiar.  He’s a well-known character, an’ the questions he asks you would be surprised.  He plies between Falmouth and Plymouth, sir, once a week regular.  So, actin’ on information that he might be expected along early this morning, I concealed myself in the hedge, sir, the best part of two miles back—­”

“You didn’t,” interrupted Mr. Goodfellow.  “I saw your red stomach between the bushes thirty yards before ever I came to it, and wondered what mischief you was up to.  I’m wondering still.”

“At any rate, you are detained, sir, upon suspicion,” said Mr. Rogers sharply, “and will come with us to the cottage and submit to be searched.”

“Brooks,” asked Mr. Goodfellow feebly, “what’s wrong with ’em?  And what are you doing here?”

“Mr. Rogers,” I broke in, “I know this man.  His name is Goodfellow; he lives at Falmouth; and you are wrong, quite wrong, in suspecting him.  But what is more, Mr. Rogers, you are wasting time.  There’s blood on the stile down the lane.  Whoever broke into the garden must have escaped that way—­by the path through the plantation—­”

“Eh?” Mr. Rogers jumped at me and caught me by the arm.  “Why the devil—­you’ll excuse me, Miss Plinlimmon—­but why on earth, child, if you have news, couldn’t you have told it at once?  Blood on the stile, you say?  What stile?”

“The stile down the lane, sir,” I answered, pointing.  “And I couldn’t tell you before because you didn’t give me time.”

“Show us the way, quick!  And you, Hosken, catch hold of the mare and lead her round to Miss Belcher’s stables.  Or, stay—­she’s dead beat.  You can help me slip her out of the shafts and tether her by the gate yonder.  That’s right, man; but don’t tie her up too tight.  Give her room to bite a bit of grass, and she’ll wait here quiet as a lamb.”

“What about the prisoner, sir?” asked the stolid Hosken.

“D—­n the prisoner!” answered Mr. Rogers, testily, in the act of unharnessing.  “Slip the handcuffs on him.  And you, Miss Plinlimmon, will return to the cottage, if you please.”

“I’d like to come, too, if I may,” put in Mr. Goodfellow.

“Eh?” Mr. Rogers, in the act of rolling up one of the traces, stared at him with frank admiration.  “Well, you’re a sportsman, anyhow.  Catch hold of his arm, Hosken, and run him along with us.  Yes, sir, though I say it as a justice of the peace, be d—­d to you, but I like your spirit.  And with the gallows staring you in the face, too!”

“Gallows?  What gallows?” panted Mr. Goodfellow in my ear a few moments later, as we tore in a body down the lane.  “Hush!” I panted in answer.  “It’s all a mistake.”