“Fair enough, Squire; I’m bound for Collinwood to ketch the mornin’ train.  Bye, bye! no time to lose.”  Off trudged the Grinstun man, once more whistling, but this time his tune was “It’s no use a knockin’ at the door.”

The Squire, the detective, and the lawyer held a council of war.

“Pity we hadn’t arrested that chap,” remarked Mr. Nash.

“Couldn’t do it,” said Coristine; “there is no warrant for his arrest, no definite charge against him.  A justice of the peace can’t issue one on mere suspicion, nor can he institute martial law, which would of course cover the case.”

“If what Maister Nash has seen be as he thinks,” added the Squire, “it’s as weel we laid nae han’ on him, for it would just hae preceepitated metters, and hae brocht the haill o’ thae Lake Settlement deevils doon upon us.  D’ye think Rawdon’s gaun to Collingwood, Nash?”

“Not a bit of it.  I believe he came past here, openly and dressed as he was, for three reasons.  First, he wants to prove an alibi for himself, whatever happens.  Second, he wanted to see how we are guarded, and by that loud whistling has informed his confederates not far off that it is useless to try the house from the front.  Thirdly, he has circled round to take command of the villains that fired on me out of the waggon we couldn’t find.”

“What’s to be done then?” asked the Squire and the lawyer in a breath.

“We must watch the means of access from the left to the right.  You see, there are bushes, young willows and alders, all along the bank of the creek, behind which they can steal towards that ferny hollow under the birches, and, from thence, either make for the bit of bush Mr. Terry is guarding, or creep behind the scattered boulders towards the fence.  Your shrubberies about the house and live hedges and little meadow copses are very pretty and picturesque, Squire, but a bare house on the top of a treeless hill would be infinitely better to stand a siege.”

“Aye, aye, Nash; but I’m no gaun tae cut doon my bonnie trees an’ busses for a wheen murderin’ vagabones.”

“Well, I’ll get a gun from one of the men in the kitchen, and explore the hillside below the Captain.”

Having secured Ben Toner’s gun, the best of the lot, the detective walked down the garden to the gate, where he found Perrowne vainly endeavouring to comfort Muggins.  The poor dog did not even whine, but shivered as he stood, otherwise paralyzed with abject terror.

“Crouch down by the fence,” whispered the detective in the parson’s ear, and at once crouched down beside him.

“Do you see that moving object coming up the hill from the birches?  By Jove! there’s another crawling behind it.  What is it?”

“It’s an animal of some sawrt,” answered Perrowne.

“That accounts for your dog’s fear.  It isn’t a bear, is it?  There may be some about after early berries.”

“Now, it’s not a bear, though I’ve been towld dawgs are very much afraid of bears.”