for a moment that it was his friend the poet; but if the latter had actually been seen coming out of the wood the matter was serious.  As he walked the rapidly darkening twilight was cloven with red gleams, that made him almost fancy for a moment that some fantastic criminal had set fire to the tiny forest as he fled.  A second glance showed him nothing but one of those red sunsets in which such serene days sometimes close.

As he came out of the gloomy gate of trees into the full glow he saw a dark figure standing quite still in the dim bracken, on the spot where he had left the woodcutter.  It was not the woodcutter.

It was topped by a tall black hat of a funeral type, and the whole figure stood so black against the field of crimson fire that edged the sky line that he could not for an instant understand or recall it.  When he did, it was with an odd change in the whole channel of his thoughts.

“Doctor Brown!” he cried.  “Why, what are you doing up here?”

“I have been talking to poor Martin,” answered the doctor, and made a rather awkward movement with his hand toward the road down to the village.  Following the gesture, Paynter dimly saw another dark figure walking down in the blood-red distance.  He also saw that the hand motioning was really black, and not merely in shadow; and, coming nearer, found the doctor’s dress was really funereal, down to the detail of the dark gloves.  It gave the American a small but queer shock, as if this were actually an undertaker come up to bury the corpse that could not be found.

“Poor Martin’s been looking for his chopper,” observed Doctor Brown, “but I told him I’d picked it up and kept it for him.  Between ourselves, I hardly think he’s fit to be trusted with it.”  Then, seeing the glance at his black garb, he added:  “I’ve just been to a funeral.  Did you know there’s been another loss?  Poor Jake the fisherman’s wife, down in the cottage on the shore, you know.  This infernal fever, of course.”

As they both turned, facing the red evening light, Paynter instinctively made a closer study, not merely of the doctor’s clothes, but of the doctor.  Dr. Burton Brown was a tall, alert man, neatly dressed, who would otherwise have had an almost military air but for his spectacles and an almost painful intellectualism in his lean brown face and bald brow.  The contrast was clinched by the fact that, while his face was of the ascetic type generally conceived as clean-shaven, he had a strip of dark mustache cut too short for him to bite, and yet a mouth that often moved as if trying to bite it.  He might have been a very intelligent army surgeon, but he had more the look of an engineer or one of those services that combine a military silence with a more than military science.  Paynter had always respected something ruggedly reliable about the man, and after a little hesitation he told him all the discoveries.