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Perris had gone away on a Wednesday to attend the obsequies of his Uncle George; on the following Saturday afternoon he returned home, looking lost and disconsolate. Rhoda learnt at once from his face that the deceased draper had not remembered his nephew in his will.

"I might as well ha' stayed at home," said Perris, sinking into his easy-chair. "There were nowt to be gotten by it."

"Do you mean to say that he didn't leave you anything?" exclaimed Rhoda. "Not—anything?"

"Nowt!" replied Perris. "An' he didn't leave our John William owt, either. He left nobody nowt. 'What brass he did leave were left to start a almshouse, as they call it, for t' townsfolk o' Fenford. It seems a queer thing to me 'at they can stand by a will like that theer, considerin' 'at he hed rellytives; but t' lawyers says it's all reight—nobody can upset it. T' man hed a reight, they say, to leave his brass as he liked."

"And how much had he to leave?" asked Rhoda.

"A matter o' five or six thousand pound," replied

Perris, shaking his head dolefully. "I wodn't ha' cared if he'd left me a thousand on it—I consider 'at me an' our John William were entitled to as much as that apiece. Howsomiver, theer it is—t' owd feller's left us nowt. It's a varry great disappointment to me, Rhoda, my lass—I'd aimed to repay Mestur Taffendale his money out o' that theer."

"Mr. Taffendale will wait," said Rhoda. She began to bustle about, and to prepare some supper for Perris, and, greatly to his surprise, she produced a bottle of whisky and mixed a glass for him. "It's no use taking it to heart, Abel," she said, as she handed him the glass. "We've managed without your Uncle George's money so far, and we can manage without it now."

Perris took the glass of whisky-and-water from her with a humble expression of thanks. He was tired and weary, and life had looked very drab to him during his four miles' walk from the station.

"Aye, but I could ha' done wi' a bit o' money," he said. "And so could our John William. Howsomiver, I suppose it's as you say, Rhoda, my lass—it's no use takin' t' matter to heart. I mun put mi shoulder to t' wheel a bit more. After all, we've gotten a roof over our heads, and t' farm's lookin' up i' promisin' fashion—thanks to Mestur Taffendale. All t' same, I wor a good deal cast down when t' lawyer read t' will out."

That night Rhoda was unusually attentive to her husband. She gave him an appetising supper, and mixed him another glass of whisky before he went to bed. Next day, being Sunday, she roasted one of her spring chickens for dinner, and Perris began to forget some of his troubles. He went with her to the chapel in the afternoon, and listened with great pride to her singing. The preacher went home to take tea with them, and Perris listened to him and to Rhoda as they discussed chapel affairs. But when it was time to return for the evening service he announced his intention of staying at home.

"I think I shan't go down to t' chappil agen tonight, my lass," he said. "I'm feeling a bit tired, like, wi' trailin' about this last two or three days, and I'll bide at home, quiet, 'cause I've a hard day afore me to-morrow."

"All right," said Rhoda. She went into the parlour, and came back with the key of the cupboard in which she kept certain things rigorously locked up. "I might be a bit late," she continued, "because I promised to go see Mrs. Simpson after chapel—their Mary Jane's not well. So you can get your supper when you want it, and there's the key if you want aught else."

"Very good, my lass, very good," said Perris. "I shall away to mi bed early."

He watched Rhoda and the preacher set out across the fields, and for a time after their departure occupied himself in feeding the pigs and fowls and in looking round the fold. And he was just thinking of settling down to his pipe, and to the study of a tract with which the preacher had presented him, when, happening to look through the window, he caught sight of Pippany Webster's horse-like countenance peeping over the wall which separated the farmyard from the orchard. As Perris looked, Pippany's face disappeared, as though he had suddenly ducked behind the wall; in another moment it appeared again. Pippany was evidently taking a view of the house.

"What's yon repscallion doin' about t' place?" thought Perris. "Happen he thinks we've all gone to t' chappil, and he wants to steyl summat. He's up to no good, anyway."

He caught up his ashplant switch from its cornor and made for the door, but when he opened it Pippany had disappeared again. Perris strode across the fold, and looked over the wall just as Pippany, who had not heard him approaching over the litter, once more lifted his head. The two men stared at each other across the wall.

"What are ye doin' on my premises?" demanded Perris.

Pippany grinned sheepishly, but he looked at his late employer with a species of sly defiance. He was not afraid of Perris, and he knew that Rhoda was safe in the singing-pew at the chapel.

"Didn't I warn yer niver to set foot o' my land agen?" continued Perris. "Ye're up to no goodye're for steylin' t' fowls or t' eggs, or summat."

"I'm for steylin' nowt," retorted Pippany. "Theer's no 'casion for me to steyl, Mestur Perris. I'm better off nor I were when I worked for ye."

Perris flourished his ashplant.

"What are yer theer for, then?—sneakin' behind t' wall," he asked. "I expect ye thowt we were all gone to t' chappil, did yer?"

"I knew ye hedn't gone to t' chappil," answered Pippany, grinning. "I see'd t' missis go wi' t' preycher chap. I—I wanted to hev' a word wi' ye, mestur."

Perris vouchsafed no reply; he continued to glare angrily at his visitor.

"A quiet word, like," said Pippany. "I gotten summat to tell yer, mestur—summat 'at ye owt to know."

Perris looked steadily and searchingly into Pippany's shifty eyes. And Pippany grinned anew.

"I want to hev' nowt to do wi' t' likes o' ye," said Perris slowly. "Tak' yersen off my premises, afore I lay this here ashplant across yer shoulders!"

But Pippany stood his ground, and he grinned again.

"If I don't tell what I hev' to tell I can go an' tell som'dy else," he said. "I come i' a friendly way, mestur. Ye'd better hear what I gotten to say."

Perris meditated awhile. His fingers itched to give Pippany a sound belabouring, but he saw that the man had some deep design, and his curiosity was aroused.

"What ha' yer gotten to say?" he asked dubiously. "I reckon it'll be nowt but a pack o' lies when all's said and done."

"It's no lies, mestur—it's t' Gospil truth," answered Pippany, with great eagerness. "It's summat 'at ye owt to be made aweer on—I'll tak' my 'davy it is!"

"Well?" said Perris.

Pippany, who had edged away a little from the wall which separated them, drew nearer.

"Will yer promise not to meddle on me wi' t' ashplant if I tell yer?" he asked. "It's nowt varry pleasant 'at I hev' to tell, but it's none my fault, mestur."

"Go on," said Perris. "An' no lies!"

"I wish I may be struck down dead this varry minute if I tell ye owt 'at isn't t' truth!" exclaimed Pippany, with pious fervour. He came up close to the wall and thrust his face over it. "Mestur!" he said in a low voice, "do ye know 'at your missis is carryin' on wi' Taffendale?"

Perris's first instinct was to slash Pippany across the face with the ashplant, and Pippany saw the intention in his eyes and started back from the wall with a cry of alarm. But Perris's left hand seized the other end of the ashplant. The switch, supple and yielding though it was, snapped in two as if it had been as brittle as a glass rod, and for a moment he stood staring stupidly at the two halves into which it had broken. Then he looked up and at the man who was shrinking away from him.

"If ye're tellin' me a lie," he said, in a voice that made Pippany shake in his Sunday clothes, "by God, I'll tear t' tongue out o' yer throat!"

"It's not a lie, mestur. I wish t' Lord may strike me blind and dumb and dead an' all this varry instant if it's a lie!" said Pippany excitedly. "It's as true as—as 'at you an' me's here. It's all true, mestur."

Perris stared at Pippany for a full moment without speaking. His face had become of a curious grey colour, but there was a bright spot of red burning on each high cheekbone, and his eyes blazed with a strange light. And suddenly he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his breeches, and, turning his back to the wall, leaned against it, and fixed his gaze on the open door of the house.

"Say what ye hev' to say," he said over his shoulder.

Pippany realised that he was safe from assault. He stole up to the wall and addressed himself to Perris's averted head. And as if he were making confession of his own misdeeds, he spoke in a low voice, occasionally hushing it to a whisper.

"Well, ye see, mestur, it were i' this way 'at I found it out," he began. "Ye see, one night, at after ye sent me away, I wor t' woods yonder down theer by what they call Badger's Hollow—ye know how quiet it is theer, mestur—an' yeer missis and Taffendale come along—sweetheartin'. Theer was no doubt about it, mestur, 'cause I see'd 'em—I see'd more nor what they'd ha' liked me to see. An' I seed 'em many a time at after that—gen'lin's o' Sunday nights, and t' choyer practice nights, when yeer missis hed come away thro' t' chappil. Used to meet i' them woods, they did, mestur—ye know as weel as I do 'at nobody iver goes there o' nights. Ye mun ha' known 'at shoo wor out late, mestur?"

Perris made no answer. He was still staring at the open door of the house. But he had withdrawn his hands from his pockets, and had folded them tightly across his chest, as if there was something there that he must repress and keep from breaking loose. And Pippany, getting no answer to his suggestion, went on with his story.

"An' I wor minded to come an' tell ye at t' time, mestur," he said, "but then I thowt it ovver and ovver, and I didn't reightly know what to do. Howsomiver, t 'other day, Mistress Graddige, shoo telled me 'at ye'd hed news o' yer Uncle George deëath, and 'at ye'd gone away to bury him and tak' up yer fortune, and so I thowt to misen 'at I'd find out if mi suspicions wor reight about Taffendale and yeer missis; and so that night 'at ye went off—last Wensda' night it wor, as yell rek 'lect—I come up here and watched t' house. I got into t' granary theer, and posted misen wheer I could see t' door yonder. It wor ten o'clock then—I heerd it strike fro' t' owd church clock i' t' village. An' afore varry long I see'd Taffendale come—I see'd him pass t' leeted window."

Still Perris gave no response and made no sign. He heard every word that was being whispered behind him, and something told him that it was all true.

"But t' leet worn't t' house-place theer," continued Pippany. "It wor t' best parlour. I thowt that wor queer, mestur, because ye and t' missis niver used t' best parlour 'at I remember on. An' of course theer wor nowt for it then but waitin'. An' I waited while t' clock struck eleven, and twelve, and one, and two, and it wor gettin' on to three and t' light wor just comin' when Taffendale let hissen out and went away. An'—an' that's all, mestur, and as I say, ye owt to know about it. An' if I've towd ye onny lies, ye're welcome to rive my tongue out o' mi throat wheniver ye like! But I hevn't—I've telled ye t' Gospil truth."

For a time Perris made no movement. His thoughts had shifted themselves to the chapel down in the valley. He knew that Rhoda was going to sing a solo that night as an anthem; she had been practising it all the week, and the preacher had talked about it with eager anticipation while they had tea together. It was about time for the anthem: he imagined her standing up in the shabby little conventicle, and holding spellbound the congregation huddled together on the rudely fashioned benches and the folk who listened at the gates and fences of the adjoining cottages. It was a beautiful anthem; Perris knew nothing of music, but he had found himself rapt and motionless more than once as Rhoda moved about the house singing it without accompaniment. Yes, she would be just about singing it now—little imagination as he possessed, he could see her, and see, too, the last beams of the westering sun shining in through the chapel windows and gleaming on her hair...

"T' Gospil truth," repeated Pippany Webster, at the other side of the wall. "Nowt but t' Gospil truth, Mestur Perris, sir."

Perris started and shivered.

"Ha' you said a word o' this to onnybody else?" he asked in a voice that seemed to himself to be a long way off. "Ha' you, now?"

"Not a word, mestur!" asserted Pippany. "Not a word to nobody. I've kep' it to myself."

"Nowt to yon Tibby Graddige?" asked Perris.

Pippany uttered a snort of derision.

"Her?" he said. "Noe!—not likely, mestur. I wodn't trust no woman wi' a secret like that theer. I tell yer, I've said nowt to nobody."

Perris remained leaning against the wall, his eyes always fixed on the open door of the house. Behind him, Pippany, waiting for him to speak, began to pick off the moss and lichen which had grown on the old masonry.

"When ye been i' them woods," said Perris at last, "when ye been i' them woods yonder, at nights, ha' you iver seen onnybody else hangin' about?"

"No, mestur. There's nobody goes into them woods at nights," replied Pippany, with decision. "Nobody wo'd go. Ye know 'at yon theer place wheerwheer I see'd them—is what they call haunted—there's a sperrit walks theer. No—I never seen nobody about them woods—'ceptin' them."

"What about t' gamekeeper?" asked Perris. Pippany laughed with further derision.

"T' gam'keeper niver goes theer," he answered. "He's ower fond o' stoppin' indoors, is t' gam'-keeper. If he iver goes that way he niver gets no forrarder nor t' Dancin' Bear. I been all ower them woods at night, an' I niver seen nobody—'ceptin' them."

Perris moved away from the wall. Without looking at Pippany, he flung him a word over his shoulder.

"Show me wheer ye posted yersen i' that granary t' other night," he said.

Pippany moved round to the gate of the fold with alacrity. He was convinced by that time that Perris would do him no hurt, and he had the fervour of the born busybody, and was delighted at the prospect of showing his cleverness in playing the spy. He shambled across the litter of the fold and up the steps of the granary, with Perris at his heels. As they entered, a big grey rat scuttered across the floor, stopped at the mouth of its hole in one corner, looked at them a second out of its beady eyes, and disappeared. To Perris the place seemed strangely quiet and unfamiliar.

Pippany went over to the slatted window and pushed the slats aside. He pointed a crooked forefinger towards the house.

"Here's wheer I stood, ye see, mestur," he said eagerly. "Ye can see t' house i' full fro' here. Yon's t' best parlour window wheer t' light wor burnin' when Taffendale cam' at ten o'clock. Aye, he were wi' her in theer a good four hours, an'—"

Perris had walked close behind Pippany as they entered the granary, and he was still closer as Pippany leaned into the window-place, thrusting his fingers through the slats. And suddenly, obeying an uncontrollable impulse, he lifted his hands, and, seizing Pippany by the throat, twisted him round and threw him on his back across a pile of wheat which had been emptied on the floor of the granary at a recent threshing. And Perris, conscious now of no other desire than to kill, fell heavily upon his victim, his hands tightly clutching the man's gullet, and slowly and surely squeezing the life out of him in a grip which never relaxed. He gave no attention to the convulsive struggles of the body beneath him, to the kicking of the legs, the frantic beatings and tearings of the arms and hands: all that he knew was that he had his man by the throat, and that he must hold on there until all was quiet. It seemed scarcely a minute before the last unconscious struggle faded into a mere movement, a tremor which ran through the body and shivered into his own; but when the limbs relaxed and the eyelids slowly dropped across the bulging eyes he still held on, pressing his long, sinewy fingers more tightly into the dead man's throat. And the granary grew so quiet, so silent, that the grey rat put its head out of the hole in the corner, and Perris saw its black eyes gleaming like tiny sparks of fire in the gloom.

He got up at last, and unconsciously wiped away the flecks of white froth that had gathered on his lips. He lifted his right hand higher and brushed off the sweat from his forehead; then he looked at both hands curiously as if he expected to see something on them. And as if they were numb, or hurt him, he began to rub them together. All this time his eyes strayed anywhere but to the body which lay twisted up on the heap of yellow wheat at his feet; when he finally turned to it, there was a look of curiosity and speculation in his face. He stretched out his foot and touched it gingerly with the point of his boot. Something in the contact made him start, and he looked round about him with a quick, searching glance. The grey rat, watching him stealthily, vanished affrighted into the blackness behind it.

Perris's glance lighted on a pile of old sacks which lay on the further side of the granary. He went over and tore the pile apart; returning to the body, he dragged it across the floor into the shadow and covered it with the sacks. Then, taking up a broom, he carefully swept the boards clear of the grains of wheat which had been scattered broadcast in the brief struggle; there was a deep depression in the heap itself, and he smoothed it over with the head of the broom. And just as the sun sank behind the ridge of the house he went down from the granary and entered the door which he had left open only half-an-hour previously.

Some instinct made Perris go to the sink in the kitchen and wash his hands, and as he washed and dried them he again looked at them with strange inquisitiveness. When they were dried he thrust them into his pockets; one hand encountered the key which Rhoda had handed to him before she set out for the chapel. With another instinctive notion Perris went over to the cupboard in the parlour in which his wife kept the whisky, and, taking out the bottle, helped himself to a stiff dram. Something told him, as he slowly drank it, that there was no fear of his getting drunk that night—not all the whisky in the world would have made him drunk. And, setting the glass down on the table in the house-place, he took his pipe from the mantelpiece, and filling it from the old leaden tobacco-box which stood on a shelf by his easy-chair, he lighted it with a coal from the fire, and began to smoke as calmly as if nothing had happened. The tract which the preacher had given him just before leaving for the chapel lay on the table where Perris had thrown it, and he picked it up and read some paragraphs of it between his gulps of the whisky-andwater. The tract was all about the terrors of hell; he began to wonder in vague fashion if Pippany Webster was already experiencing them.

It was dusk by that time, and Perris knew that there was work before him, but he finished his drink and his pipe leisurely. When both were done, he knocked the ashes out of the pipe and put the whisky bottle away, before going outside the house and turning the corner into a strip of neglected ground which lay beneath the gable end. It was neither garden nor orchard, though an apple-tree shaded it and neglected gooseberry bushes grew rank in it. Once upon a time some former tenant of the Cherry-trees had conceived the notion of sinking a well there, and had penetrated into the soil to a considerable depth, only to give up the attempt. The cavity so made had never been filled up; its mouth was protected by rough planking; over the planking there had stood for the past year a derelict reaping-machine, one of the many ancient wrecks which had congregated about the farmstead. Perris looked at it musingly as he stood beneath the apple-tree in the rapidly gathering gloom. It would be easy to move; it would be easy to move two or three of the rotting planks on which it stood; the unfinished well beneath them would do well enough for Pippany Webster's grave. But the darkness must come first.

Perris knew that there was no fear of interruption. Few people ever came by the Cherry-trees at night; if they did, you could hear their footsteps on the road before they were anywhere near. The desolate bit of ground was thickly shielded from the lane which ran behind it; in the darkness no one could see what was happening there. And it was not likely that Rhoda would be home before half-past ten; he knew her Sunday night habits of late, though until that night he had never known the reason of them.

So Perris waited, leaning over the wall of the fold and watching the familiar shapes about him grow less and less distinct in the gathering darkness. At last, when night had fairly settled over the land, he set about his task. It was a plain and an easy task, and in a few minutes it was all over; the dead man was in the ooze and slime at the bottom of the unfinished well, the planks were in their place again, and the crazy reaping-machine was pushed back upon them. And in the silence which always brooded over the uplands at night, Perris went back into his house and lighted the lamp and his pipe, and, helping himself to another glass of whisky, sat down again and resumed his reading of the tract. And more than once, as the writer described the torments which those who are lost must needs experience, Perris again thought of Pippany Webster, and wondered if what he read was true. He possessed the countryman's almost superstitious reverence for printed matter, and knowing the preacher who had given him the tract to be a worthy man, he came to the conclusion that the account now presented to him was founded upon fact. And as he drank off his whisky, preparatory to unlacing his Sunday boots, he shook his head.

"Well, he wor a reight bad 'un, wor yon Pippany Webster," he muttered, "a reight, rank bad 'un!"

He lay awake after he had gone to bed, and listened for Rhoda's return. She had taken to occupying the spare chamber, and Perris had never troubled himself about her likes or dislikes. As a strict rule he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, but on this night he remained purposely alive to all sounds until he heard her come in and presently enter the opposite room. Then he slept, and remained sleeping soundly until he suddenly awoke to find the morning sun shining, and to hear Rhoda moving about in the house-place. When he went down and met her it was only to begin the ordinary routine of his everyday life, and she observed nothing in his manner or conduct then or thereafter to show her that he had passed through any unusual experience.