“What news?”

“Who do you think,” said Riderhood, with a hitch of his head, as if he disdainfully jerked the feint away, “picked up the body? Guess.”

“I am not good at guessing anything.”

“She did. Hooroar! You had him there agin. She did.”

The convulsive twitching of Bradley Headstone’s face, and the sudden hot humour that broke out upon it, showed how grimly the intelligence touched him. But he said not a single word, good or bad. He only smiled in a lowering manner, and got up and stood leaning at the window, looking through it. Riderhood followed him with his eyes. Riderhood cast down his eyes on his own besprinkled clothes. Riderhood began to have an air of being better at a guess than Bradley owned to being.

“I have been so long in want of rest,” said the schoolmaster, “that with your leave I’ll lie down again.”

“And welcome, T’otherest!” was the hospitable answer of his host. He had laid himself down without waiting for it, and he remained upon the bed until the sun was low. When he arose and came out to resume his journey, he found his host waiting for him on the grass by the towing-path outside the door.

“Whenever it may be necessary that you and I should have any further communication together,” said Bradley, “I will come back. Good-night!”

“Well, since no better can be,” said Riderhood, turning on his heel, “Good-night!” But he turned again as the other set forth, and added under his breath, looking after him with a leer: “You wouldn’t be let to go like that, if my Relief warn’t as good as come. I’ll catch you up in a mile.”

In a word, his real time of relief being that evening at sunset, his mate came lounging in, within a quarter of an hour. Not staying to fill up the utmost margin of his time, but borrowing an hour or so, to be repaid again when he should relieve his reliever, Riderhood straightway followed on the track of Bradley Headstone.

He was a better follower than Bradley. It had been the calling of his life to slink and skulk and dog and waylay, and he knew his calling well. He effected such a forced march on leaving the Lock House that he was close up with him — that is to say, as close up with him as he deemed it convenient to be — before another Lock was passed. His man looked back pretty often as he went, but got no hint of him. He knew how to take advantage of the ground, and where to put the hedge between them, and where the wall, and when to duck, and when to drop, and had a thousand arts beyond the doomed Bradley’s slow conception.

But, all his arts were brought to a standstill, like himself when Bradley, turning into a green lane or riding by the river-side — a solitary spot run wild in nettles, briars, and brambles, and encumbered with the scathed trunks of a whole hedgerow of felled trees, on the outskirts of a little wood — began stepping on these trunks and dropping down among them and stepping on them again, apparently as a schoolboy might have done, but assuredly with no schoolboy purpose, or want of purpose.

“What are you up to?” muttered Riderhood, down in the ditch, and holding the hedge a little open with both hands. And soon his actions made a most extraordinary reply. “By George and the Draggin!” cried Riderhood, “if he ain’t a going to bathe!”

He had passed back, on and among the trunks of trees again, and has passed on to the water-side and had begun undressing on the grass. For a moment it had a suspicious look of suicide, arranged to counterfeit accident. “But you wouldn’t have fetched a bundle under your arm, from among that timber, if such was your game!” said Riderhood. Nevertheless it was a relief to him when the bather after a