“Well, and you!” she cried, and rose radiantly and swiftly.  “With what kind of fairy tales do you come to me?  In what enchanted groves are you walking?  You come and tell me that Mr. Paynter found a well where the water danced and then disappeared; but of course miracles are all moonshine!  You tell me you yourself fished bones from under the same water, and every bone was as dry as a biscuit; but for Heaven’s sake let us say nothing that makes anybody’s head go round!  Really, Mr. Ashe, you must try to preserve your common sense!”

She was smiling, but with blazing eyes; and Ashe got to his feet with an involuntary laugh of surrender.

“Well, we must be going,” he said.  “May I say that a tribute is really due to your new transcendental training?  If I may say so, I always knew you had brains; and you’ve been learning to use them.”

The two amateur detectives went back to the wood for the moment, that Ashe might consider the removal of the unhappy Squire’s remains.  As he pointed out, it was now legally possible to have an inquest, and, even at that early stage of investigations, he was in favor of having it at once.

“I shall be the coroner,” he said, “and I think it will be a case of ‘some person or persons unknown.’  Don’t be surprised; it is often done to give the guilty a false security.  This is not the first time the police have found it convenient to have the inquest first and the inquiry afterward.”

But Paynter had paid little attention to the point; for his great gift of enthusiasm, long wasted on arts and affectations, was lifted to inspiration by the romance of real life into which he had just walked.  He was really a great critic; he had a genius for admiration, and his admiration varied fittingly with everything he admired.

“A splendid girl and a splendid story,” he cried.  “I feel as if I were in love again myself, not so much with her as with Eve or Helen of Troy, or some such tower of beauty in the morning of the world.  Don’t you love all heroic things, that gravity and great candor, and the way she took one step from a sort of throne to stand in a wilderness with a vagabond?  Oh, believe me, it is she who is the poet; she has the higher reason, and honor and valor are at rest in her soul.”

“In short, she is uncommonly pretty,” replied Ashe, with some cynicism.  “I knew a murderess rather well who was very much like her, and had just that colored hair.”

“You talk as if a murderer could be caught red-haired instead of red-handed,” retorted Paynter.  “Why, at this very minute, you could be caught red-haired yourself.  Are you a murderer, by any chance?”

Ashe looked up quickly, and then smiled.