There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled.

And from what?
A sheep-dog of the moor?
Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and monstrous?
Was there a human agency in the matter?
Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say?
It was all dim and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it.
One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last.

This is Mr.
Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of us.

He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric.

His passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in litigation.