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Phoby Geen glowered at her for half a minute longer, and then snapped his fingers.

“As it happens,” said he, “you’re doing me a cruel injustice; but we needn’t talk of that. A man o’ my savings–though you’ve sneezed at ’em– doesn’t want to be searching the country for two-hundred-and-fifty pound.”

He swung on his heel and walked off towards St. Ives. Amelia Sanders watched him round the next bend, and turning, began to run homewards for dear life, when, just at the corner, she fell into the arms of Tummels.

“A nice dance you’ve led me,” grunted Tummels, as she fought down her hysterics. “I’ve been pulling hot-foot after the man all the way from Penzance. I tracked him there; but you and he between you gave me the slip in the crowd. ‘Tis the Lord’s mercy you didn’ lead him all the way to Stack’s Folly: for if I’d a-caught up with him there I must have committed murder upon him.”

“Oh, take me home!” sobbed Amelia Sanders.

“Take you home? How the dickens be I to take you home?” Tummels demanded. “I’ve got to follow that villain into St. Ives if he goes so far, and stick to him like a shadow.”

So Amelia Sanders trudged it back to Porthleven, calling herself every name but what she was christened: and Phoby Geen trudged it fore to St. Ives, cursing his luck, but working out a problem in his wicked little mind. At the top of the hill over the town he stood quiet for a minute and snapped his fingers again. Since ’twas near St. Ives that Dan’l lay in hiding, what could the hiding-place be but Stack’s Folly! Tummels had hidden him: Tummels’ brother-in-law rented the farm of Stack’s Folly and kept the keys of the house. Why, the thing fitted in like a child’s puzzle! Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

None the less he did not turn aside towards the great desolate barrack, though he eyed it as he went down the slope between it and the sea. He had not yet begun to think out a plan of action. He wanted Dan’l disposed of without showing his hand in the business. As it was, the girl (and he cursed her) had guessed him to blame for the loss of the lugger. Was it more than a guess of hers? He couldn’t say. He had told her at parting that he was walking to St. Ives on business. On a sudden thought he halted in the main street and turned to walk up towards Tregenna, the great house overlooking the town. Its owner, Squire Stephens, was an old client of his.

Squire Stephens was at home, and Phoby Geen sat closeted with him for an hour and more. Nothing was talked of save business, and when the Squire mentioned Dan’l Leggo and the price on his head, Phoby waved a hand mute-like, as much as to beg off being questioned.

Twilight was falling as he took the road back to Porthleah; and Tummels, who had been waiting behind a hedge above the town, dogged him home through the dusk and through the dark.

Phoby’s call on the Squire had begun and ended with business. The Nonesuch had made another trip to Roscoff, and he had one hundred and fifty pounds’ worth of white cognac to dispose of, all sunk–for Mr. Pennefather had put on a sudden activity–off Old Lizard Head. He had reason to believe that the Preventive men were watching his usual routes inland. Since the accident to Dan’l he had felt, in his cunning way, a new watchfulness in the air.

The day after his journey to St. Ives, the Nonesuch sailed again for Roscoff. At the last moment he decided not to command her this trip; but turned the business over to his mate, Seth Rogers–a very dependable man, though not clever at all. So away she went, leaving the Cove empty but for himself only and Bessie Bussow and Tummels, that lived in a freehold cottage on his savings and didn’t draw a regular wage, but only took a hand in a run when he chose. Moreover, Tummels had never sailed for years past but in the Black Joke, and the Black Joke was taken and her crew in prison or in hiding.