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“You shall though.” He began to cross-examine the girl. “At what time that night did your father see the hearse?”

“I believe, sir, ’twas soon after eleven. He has a cow, sir, in calf, and went round to the chall to make sure she was all right–“

Mr. Noy nodded. “And the hearse was passing–in what direction?”

“Towards the church town, sir; or, as you may say, towards St. Neot parish.”

“Inland, that is?”

“Yes, sir. But later on that same night Reub Clyma, up to Taphouse, saw it too; and this time ’twas moving fast and making towards Polperro.”

“Fits like a puzzle. Is Polperro a seaport town?” he asked the farmer.

“A sort of fishing town, sir.”

“Your nearest? Good. And you reach it by a road running north and south across the coach-road? Good. Now if you wanted to drive to Polperro you could do so across the downs for some distance, eh? before striking this road. Good again. How far?”

“You’ll excuse me, but I don’t know that I rightly take your meaning.”

“Then we’ll go slower. Suppose that you wished to drive towards Polperro over turf, never minding the jolts, and not to strike into the hard road until you were compelled. How far could you contrive to travel in this way?”

Farmer Menhennick found a seat and sat scratching his head. “Three miles, maybe,” he decided at length.

“And what sort of road is this when you strike it?”

“Turnpike.”

“Indeed? And where’s the pike?”

“At Cann’s Gate.”

“That tells me nothing, I’m afraid; but we’ll put the question in another form. Suppose that we are forced at length to leave the turf and fields and strike into the road for Polperro. Now where would this happen? Some way beyond the turnpike, I imagine.”

“Indeed no, sir: it would be a mile on this side of the pike, or threequarters at the least.”

“You are sure?”

“Sure as I sit here. Why the road goes down a coombe; and before you get near the turnpike, the coombe narrows so.” The farmer illustrated the V by placing his hands at an angle.

Mr. Noy found his snuff-box, took a heavy pinch, inhaled it, and closed his box with a snap. Then he faced the farmer’s wife with a low bow.

“Madam,” said he, “you may put this young gentleman to bed, and the sooner the better. He has lost a large sum of money, which I am fairly confident I can recover for him without his help; and your parish–which is also mine–has lost its character, and this also I propose to recover. But to that end I must require your excellent husband to fetch out his trap and drive me with all speed to Squire Granville’s.” He paused, and added, “We are in luck to-night undoubtedly; but I fear I can promise him no such luck as to meet a hearse and headless driver on the way. . . . One moment, Mr. Menhennick! Have you such things as pen, ink and paper, and a farm-boy able to ride?”

“Certainly I have, sir.”

“Then while you are harnessing your nag, I’ll drop a line to the riding-officer at Polperro; and if after receipt of it he allows a single fishing-boat to leave the harbour, he’ll be sorry–that’s all. Now, sir–Eh? Why are you hesitating?”

“Well, indeed, your reverence knows best; and if you force me to drive over to Squire Granville’s, why then I must. But I warn you, sir, that he hunts to-morrow; and if, begging your pardon, you knew the old varmint’s temper on a hunting day in the morning–“

“Hunts, does he? D’ye mean that he keeps a pack of hounds?”

“Why, of course, sir!”

Farmer Menhennick’s accent was pathetically reproachful.

“God forgive me! And I didn’t know it–I, your rector! Your rebuke is just, Mr. Menhennick. And this Church of England of ours–I say it with shame–is full of scandals. Where do they meet to-day?”