roadside grass ran along outside the grounds of both of these—the Manse, and another and older mansion, Durley Dene; but, before reaching either of these properties, he completely lost sight of the padded footmarks on the ground, and, strive as he might, failed to make any more discoveries that night.

The rain had commenced to fall again, and he made up his mind to return home. As he sauntered along he pondered over the strange case that he had, of his own free will, begun to investigate. Had the cyclist whose identity he was so anxious to discover disappeared into the grounds of either of the two adjoining mansions?

A sinister idea occurred to him. Was it possible that the man who had made so determined an attempt to murder old Mr. Carrington in cold blood could be one of his father's own retainers? If so, how did he know that the would-be assassin was not even now carrying out his horrible plan? The idea was truly a terrible one, but was quickly abandoned as impossible when Laurence remembered that neither Kingsford nor Head, the gardener, could ride a cycle, that Moggin was out of the question, and that the remaining men-servants, Nathaniel (the footman) and Tom (the stable hand), were as incapable of the audacity and cunning displayed by the cyclist as the other servants, though their age and affection for their master were above suspicion. Therefore, if the unknown man had, by chance or otherwise, taken refuge in the Manse grounds, he must only have done so for temporary concealment, or have used these grounds as a short cut to his real lair.

But then, of course, it was equally possible that the strange highwayman hailed from the estate adjoining the Manse. And, like a flash of lightning, Laurence remembered the story he had heard of a retiring neighbour who lived at the Dene, and on whom not a single person in the village had yet cast eyes—the supposed invalid gentleman surrounding whose personality there was such a halo of mystery.

Was his father's determined and bloodthirsty enemy lurking in this adjoining house, whence he might steal out to repeat the attack on the old man at any moment?

The thought was, indeed, a horrible one.

In spite of the rain, something impelled the young man, when he reached the broken-down gate of Durley Dene, to pause for a moment in the shadow of the trees, and meditate upon the strange business that had brought him out of doors on so wild a night. He lighted his pipe, drew his coat tighter around him, and leaned back against the massive fence.

The first question that he failed to answer satisfactorily was this—how was it that the Squire had made an enemy?—for he could not doubt but that the highwayman had some grudge against the old gentleman since he had so deliberately fired at Mr. Carrington. Had he been a maniac—the idea that he was possibly such occurred to Laurence—he would have shot blindly into the carriage, and not taken careful aim, as he had.

To be sure, the Squire was a magistrate, and as such had frequently been the means of sending rascals of all kinds to gaol. But Carrington's name was famous in the county for his light sentences, his remarkable leniency, his kindness, and his charity. A poacher, indeed, had once threatened to have his revenge on the Squire, who had been compelled to inflict a fairly severe punishment upon him, but what judge or magistrate has not been thus threatened? And, besides, there was a certain undisguised skill and cunning demonstrated in the behaviour of the stranger on the moor that marked him as being something more than a common criminal. His idea of "holding up" the carriage while on a cycle, his ingenuity in concealing his tracks in the manner already recorded, and the mystery of his eventual disappearance—all these proved him to be possessed of fertile brains that one could hardly expect to find in a poacher; while, as a matter of fact, if Laurence recollected right, the man who had uttered the threat against Mr. Carrington was still working out his "time" in prison.

Another peculiar feature of the case was the behaviour of the Squire himself. Laurence remembered how, during the last few months, his father's manner had changed. He had always been a particularly silent, thoughtful, and retiring man, but of late he had become childish in his conduct. He had purchased, as his son had accidentally discovered, a vest, fronted with chain armour, strong, but of such a kind that no one could know, when its owner wore it, that it was of so remarkable a nature. He had even gone so far as to have new bolts and catches fixed to the doors and windows of his house, while he had taken to putting a revolver in his breast coat pocket before setting out for a walk or drive. Whenever he left the house it was only in the company of his son or escorted by a servant, and he had instructed that no one, except those with whom he was personally acquainted, should be admitted to the house.

He had given, in explanation of these extraordinary precautions, the information that he was nervous of attacks by burglars, and for some weeks past the young man had wondered whether his father's mind had not become deranged. Now, it naturally occurred to Laurence that the Squire must have been expecting this attempt on his life, and the idea much alarmed him.

If this were so, he argued, Mr. Carrington must have some secret which he would not even disclose to his own son. That secret, too, suppose the suspicion had any foundation, must be one which the Squire was most anxious to guard, for he had gone out of his way to remark upon the fear of burglary which had caused the numerous precautions he had adopted; and Laurence noted, too, that, in at least one way, his father's explanation was doubtful and apparently untrue. For instance, the chance of a burglar attempting the old gentleman's life was a very remote one. The conviction that the Squire really had some secret, and had been expecting and fearing some such outrage as that on the North Moor, seemed only too well grounded.

And then Laurence arrived at the question—Whence had the mysterious cyclist come, and how was it that he had disappeared into the grounds of Durley Dene?

Laurence's suspicions on recollecting all he had heard of the occupant of the old house were at once directed against its owner. But was the repulsive face at the carriage window that of their unknown neighbour?

Here, again, was some mystery. And Laurence recalled all he knew about the neighbouring house since his father had settled down at Northden. Its original owners were the descendants of the blue-blooded Elizabethan dignitary who had built it. Owing to financial embarrassments the house was sold, and fell into the hands of a crusty, miserly old scoundrel of the name of Northcott, who had died shortly after.

After Northcott's decease the Dene was again put up for auction, but without being knocked down for the sum asked by the late owner's nephew, who had claimed the property. For years it had stood empty—to some extent a ruin—but within the last few months intelligence had reached the villagers that the Dene had been purchased by an invalid army man—one Major Jones-Farnell—who, in due course of time, arrived late one night, accompanied, it was reported, by his secretary. To the surprise and disgust of the neighbourhood, it became apparent that the owner of Durley Dene would employ no local servants, a man and his wife (so it was said) doing the outdoor work and cooking respectively.

Now Laurence could not help wondering, was there not something peculiarly suspicious about the inhabitants of the residence adjoining his father's house? Was it possible that the advent of