‘You need be under no fear of treachery from me,’ said the steward, somewhat bitterly.  ’I am a man to whom you have been kind—­no patron could have been kinder.  You have clothed and educated me; have installed me here; and I am not unmindful.  But what of it—­has your Grace gained much by my stanchness?  I think not.  There was great excitement about Captain Ogbourne’s disappearance, but I spoke not a word.  And his body has never been found.  For twenty-two years I have wondered what you did with him.  Now I know.  A circumstance that occurred this afternoon recalled the time to me most forcibly.  To make it certain to myself that all was not a dream, I went up there with a spade; I searched, and saw enough to know that something decays there in a closed badger’s hole.’

‘Mills, do you think the Duchess guessed?’

‘She never did, I am sure, to the day of her death.’

‘Did you leave all as you found it on the hill?’

‘I did.’

‘What made you think of going up there this particular afternoon?’

‘What your Grace says you don’t wish to be told.’

The Duke was silent; and the stillness of the evening was so marked that there reached their ears from the outer air the sound of a tolling bell.

‘What is that bell tolling for?’ asked the nobleman.

‘For what I came to tell you of, your Grace.’

‘You torment me it is your way!’ said the Duke querulously.  ’Who’s dead in the village?’

‘The oldest man—­the old shepherd.’

‘Dead at last—­how old is he?’

‘Ninety-four.’

‘And I am only seventy.  I have four-and-twenty years to the good!’

’I served under that old man when I kept sheep on Marlbury Downs.  And he was on the hill that second night, when I first exchanged words with your Grace.  He was on the hill all the time; but I did not know he was there—­nor did you.’

‘Ah!’ said the Duke, starting up.  ’Go on—­I yield the point—­you may tell!’

’I heard this afternoon that he was at the point of death.  It was that which set me thinking of that past time—­and induced me to search on the hill for what I have told you.  Coming back I heard that he wished to see the Vicar to confess to him a secret he had kept for more than twenty years—­“out of respect to my Lord the Duke”—­something that he had seen committed on Marlbury Downs when returning to the flock on a December night twenty-two years ago.  I have thought it over.  He had left me in charge that evening; but he was in the habit of coming back suddenly, lest I should have fallen asleep.  That night I saw nothing of him, though he had promised to return.  He must have returned, and—­found reason to keep in hiding.  It is all plain.  The next thing is that the Vicar went to him two hours ago.  Further than that I have not heard.’

‘It is quite enough.  I will see the Vicar at daybreak to-morrow.’