A sign-post at the corner of a winding road gave the direction "To Dunster Castle." Reading this by the glimmer of the moon, Helmsley stood irresolute for a minute or so, and then resumed his tramp, proceeding through the streets of what he knew must be Dunster itself.

He had no intention of stopping in the town,--an inward nervousness pushed him on, on, in spite of fatigue, and Dunster was not far enough away from Blue Anchor to satisfy him.

The scene of Tom o' the Gleam's revenge and death surrounded him with a horrible environment,--an atmosphere from which he sought to free himself by sheer distance, and he resolved to walk till morning rather than remain anywhere near the place which was now associated in his mind with one of the darkest episodes of human guilt and suffering that he had ever known.

Passing by the old inn known as "The Luttrell Arms," now fast closed for the night, a policeman on his beat stopped in his marching to and fro, and spoke to him.
"Hillo! Which way do you come from ?" "From Watchett." "Oh! We've just had news of a murder up at Blue Anchor.

Have you heard anything of it ?" "Yes." And Helmsley looked his questioner squarely in the face.