Dr. Pond nodded.  “I would,” he said.

The road along which Smith had departed ran past the village, and Mary walked forth by it to seek her patient.  It was a splendid still afternoon; the trees by the wayside stood motionless in the late heat, their shadows in jet black twined and laced upon the white road.  Far ahead of her she could see the land undulating in easy green bosoms against the radiant west; the sun was in her face as she walked.  She had no fear that Smith had wandered far; for one thing, he had no strength to do so, and for another, she knew intuitively that the man lacked any purpose to carry him away.  Therefore she walked at her ease, keeping cool and comely, and at the first corner in the road met a slim youth on horseback, who stopped to salute her.  It was Harry Wylde, son of the great man of the neighborhood.

“Afternoon, Miss Pond,” he called cheerfully.  “Have you lost a little thing about the size of a pickpocket?”

“A little bigger than that, I think,” she answered.  “Have you seen him, Mr. Wylde?”

“Yes,” said Harry Wylde.  “I’ve seen him before, too, I’ll swear.  I knew the little beast at once.  I say, Miss Pond, how the dickens did you manage to get mixed up with him?”

“He’s my patient,” said Mary.  “Where did you see him, please?”

Harry Wylde pointed down the road.  “I passed him just now,” he said.  “He was in the churchyard.”

“The churchyard?”

“Yes, sitting on the grass, having no end of a time.  Looked as happy as a trout in a sand-bath.  I knew him at once.”

“How did you know him?” demanded Mary.

Harry Wylde leaned forward over his saddle.  “Miss Pond,” he said seriously, “there’s hardly a man that goes to races in all England that doesn’t know him.  His name’s Woolley—­that’s one of his names, anyhow.  He was a kind of jockey once, and since then he’s been the lowest, meanest little sharper in all the dirty little turf swindles that was ever kicked off a racecourse.  If I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t say so; but you ought to know whom you are entertaining.”

“But you must be utterly mistaken,” cried Mary.  “Professor Fish brought him to us.  It’s impossible.”

“Case of Fish and foul,” suggested the youth.  “But I’m not mistaken.  The man I mean has lost the tip of his ear, the left one.  Somebody bit it off, I believe.  Now, have you noticed your chap’s ear?”

He looked at her acutely, and she colored in hot distress.

“I see you have,” he said.  “I’d ask this Fish person for an explanation, if I were you; particularly as Woolley is supposed to be dead.  The police want him pretty badly, you know.  It looks queer, doesn’t it?”

“I—­I can’t understand it,” said Mary.  “I’m sure there’s a mistake somewhere.”

Young Wylde nodded.  “We’ll call it a mistake,” he said.  “He was injured on the Underground in London and taken to St. Brigid’s Hospital, where he died.  I remember reading about it.  Now, of course, I shan’t say anything to anybody; but you ought to have an explanation.  Fish—­is that his name—­seems to have played it pretty low down on you.”  He gathered up his bridle and nodded to her with intent.