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On the Friday of Cattle Show week in London that year a man, dressed after the fashion of a fairly well-to-do countryman and carrying in his hand an ash-plant stick, stepped off a tram-car in the neighbourhood of Pentonville Prison, and after staring about him for a moment entered a public-house and asked for a glass of ale. And waiting until the white-aproned barman appeared to have a temporary cessation from his duties, he summoned him with an apologetic grin and a shy nod.

"I say, mister," he said, leaning over the bar in a confidential attitude. "You'll excuse me, but I'm a stranger hereabouts. Where's that place or whatever it is that they call the Cal—Cal summat or other? Sort o' market, ye know."

The barman, from sheer force of habit, picked up a glass and begun to polish it vigorously.

"Caledonian Market," he said carelessly. "Third street on your left as you go up the road—you can't miss it."

"I'm much obliged, mister. Is there aught much to see there, like?" said the stranger. "I expect you'll know it, living so near."

"Plenty to see for such as likes that sort of thing," answered the barman shortly.

The stranger tapped the side of his boot with his ashplant and looked still more inclined to be confidential.

"Aye—why, ye see," he said, in the lazy fashion of a man who, making holiday, feels that time is of no consequence, "ye see, I come up to t' Cattle Show yonder at t' Agricultural Hall, and of course there's naught to see theer on a Friday, and my ticket isn't up till Sunda', and there were a man I met theer yesterday he says, If you want to see one o' the most remarkable sights o' London,' he says, go an' see t' Caledonian Market to-morrow morning. It's near Pentonville Gaol,' he says. 'Get out o' t' tram-car there, and any 'll tell you just where t' spot is.' And so I thowt I'd just tak' a glass o' ale and ask mi directions, an'—"

"Third street on the left," repeated the barman, and moved off to another part of the counter with a jerk of his head in the direction indicated.

The countryman drank off his ale and went slowly out, musing on the strange fact that never ever seemed to be inclined to have a hit of friendly talk. He lounged leisurely up the road, staring at the unlovely lines of the great prison on the opposite side, and marvelling at the groups of idlers who hung about its gates and at the street corners. And suddenly he was aware of streams of folk making up the incline of another street towards pillared gates about which was gathered a thickening concourse of men, women, lads, children, horses, carts, donkeys. He paused and rubbed the crook of his ashplant against his chin.

"This'll be t' market," he said to himself. "Gow! they're a queer looking lot this here to be goin' to market. They look more like as if they'd come out o' t' gaol yonder. I'm glad I took advice and left mi watch and chain and mi brass wi' t' hotel folk. Howsomiver, Roger Mallins, mi lad, here we are, and in we go!"

Once within the vast, four-square enclosure Roger Mallins eyed everything which presented itself to him with curiosity and wonder. He wondered who the people could be who wanted to buy furniture so old and decrepit that it seemed only fit for firewood; carpets so worn out that they were only fit for dust heaps; odds and ends of china and earthenware that appeared to have been collected from middens. He stared at the booths on which cheap haberdashery and glittering jewellery were displayed; at the men who, having no booths, spread out on the grass-grown surface of the market-ground all manner of flotsam and jetsam from heaps of scrap iron to books and pamphlets in the last and most woeful stages of neglect and decay. He marvelled at the people who thronged about him; at their speech, their manners, their attire; himself, in his good suit of honest, substantial stuff; his great coat of stout Melton cloth, through which no wind, whether of December or March, could penetrate, seemed to be of a vastly different world to that in which these human scavengers hung about the refuse heaps in which they took such obvious interest. That there was some merchandise of value in this strange Vanity Fair the Yorkshire-man's shrewd eye was quick to perceive, but that fact afforded him no amusement; what tickled his curiosity and aroused his senses was the other and newer one, that here were folk—hundreds, thousands of folk—who hovered about piles and spreads of mere rubbish as the foulest flies of the hedgerows hover around a dung-heap on a hot day.

"Ecod, this is t' rummest market I iver set ees on!" he said, with a chuckle of contemptuous laughter. "I wonder what they'd say to this i' our part o' t' world? Market, say ye? Gow, wheer's t' cattle, and t' sheep, and t' pigs, and t' hosses? An' by mi soul, theer is a hoss, and a bonny hoss an' all—wo'th about a fi'-pun note!"

Between two rows of the unused stalls, in a quiet part of the market in which a few miserable horses, vagabond donkeys, and certain goats of both sexes gave something of an agricultural touch to the scene, a gipsy-looking fellow was showing off such paces as an ill-bred and ill-fed cob still possessed. Round about lounged a number of men who appeared to have some connection with horses by the fact of their wearing billycock hats, large-pocketed coats, and very tight trousers, and cultivated a habit of carrying bits of straw between their lips. Amongst them was a man somewhat better dressed than the others, a fresh-complexioned man who carried, as Mallins did, a genuine ashplant, and had upon him a rustic air which betokened comparatively recent acquaintance with country life. Mallins at first glanced carelessly at this man; then he suddenly started, and looked carefully, then more carefully still; eventually, edging his way amongst the other men, he scrutinised him from head to foot. He drew back, screwing up his lips to a whistle.

"Psu!" he hissed between his teeth. "Yon's that theer Perris, 'at disappeared fro' Martinsthorpe yonder a piece back—I'll be dall'd if it isn't! He's grown a beard, but it's him. By Gow! him here, an' all that theer talk about his wife—"

The men around the miserable cob moved further away, chaffering and babbling, and Perris was left standing a little apart. Mallins hesitated a moment, and then went up to him.

"Ye'll excuse me, sir," he said, with an apologetic smile, "but aren't ye Mestur Perris, 'at used to farm at Martinsthorpe? I farm at Woodbridge, a few o' miles away fro' Martinsthorpe, but I'm sewer I've met ye, Mestur Perris, at market and auction days,"

Perris's face had flushed at Mallins's first words, and he edged away, eyeing the stranger defiantly. His eyes grew sullen and threatening.

"Ye've made a mistake," he said. "Ye've—" But there he paused, and walked a step or two into the throng. Turning, he looked back at Mallins with a glance which seemed to say, "Don't you interfere with me, because I won't be interfered with."

Mallins stood where Perris had left him, still watching. He shook his head, and presently taking off his flat-topped billycock, produced a highly-coloured handkerchief and polished his forehead. By the time he had replaced handkerchief and hat his thoughts had collected themselves and his mind was made up. He advanced towards Perris, who was again left outside the crowd, and he boldly tapped him on the shoulder.

"It's no use, Perris," he said. "I know yer—ye're t' man. I know yer, for all 'at ye've grown that theer beard. An' I don't want to shove misen on to ye, nor onny other man, but—hevn't ye heerd t' news about ye're wife?"

Perris, who had averted his face at Mallins's second approach, turned sharply.

"I've heerd nowt," he muttered. "Nowt! An' didn't want!"

Mallins opened his mouth in sheer astonishment. Unconsciously he laid a hand on Perris's arm and drew him aside.

"What!" he exclaimed. "D'ye mean to tell me 'at ye don't know? Don't ye read t' newspaper?" Perris shook his head sullenly.

"I niver read t' newspaper," he replied. "I know nowt."

Mallins drew him still further away, and his voice sank to a whisper.

"What!" he said. "Don't ye know what's happened to ye're wife?"

"Tell yer I know nowt," repeated Perris, with stubborn insistence.

Mallins drew back and looked at Perris in undisguised wonder. Then he advanced again, speaking in a loud whisper.

"She's i' danger o' bein' hanged!" he said.

Perris frowned. He had begun tapping the stones at their feet with the ferrule of his ashplant, and the tapping grew more insistent.

"For why?" he asked.

"Why, for t' murder o' yon Pippany Webster, 'at used to work for ye!" answered Mallins sharply. "Gow niver heerd t' like o' this here! I couldn't ha' believed 'at ye'd niver heerd on it. It's all t' talk o.' t' countryside, man. But I reckon 'at them as lives i' London niver hears nowt o' what's going on down i' our parts. Howsomiver, Perris, that's t' Gospil truth. Gow!—I niver knew owt like this—it fair caps me!"

Perris stood like a man who has just awakened from some strange and unnatural sleep. He stared about him—at the people, the houses round the market, at the great tower in its centre, at the sky, the ground; finally, he turned to Mallins.

"Tell about it," he said dully. "I know nowt."

Mallins again took off his hat and rubbed his head.

"I'll tell ye all I know," he replied, "if ye'll come and tak' a glass somewhere, quiet, like. I'm fair moydered wi' this here—niver hed such a surprise in mi life. I'm ditherin'!—wheer can we tak' a glass i' comfort?"

Without answer Perris made a sidelong motion of his head, and began to make his way through the crowd. He led Mallins across the market to one of the great taverns which stand at its corners, and passing into its recesses with the knowledge of one well accustomed to them, piloted him into an empty room. He maintained his silence until he and his companion had been provided with a generous measure of spirits; even then, he waited for Mallins to speak.

"Well, it's a reight dinger is this, Perris!" said Mallins at last. "Ye tell me 'at ye know nowt o' t' matter?"

"I've heerd nowt o' that part o' t' world sin' I left it," answered Perris. "An' didn't want to, neyther."

Mallins settled himself comfortably in his chair, his lips close to Perris's ear.

"Well, ye've a deal to learn, then," he said. "Ye see, it's o' this way. Of course, ye'll understand 'at as I don't farm i' Martinsthorpe, I only hear t' countryside gossip, as it weer, when I go to market, but I think I've gotten t' tale reight. Ye see, Perris, mi lad, efter ye went away theer sprang up a deal o' talk about ye're wife an' yon theer Mestur Taffendale o' t' Limepits Farm, an' it was set about 'at her an' him wor ower friendly. It wor established 'at she'd visited him late at night at his house, when all t' rest wor i' bed, and so on, and so on—ye know—an' t' village folk talked, as they will, and finally it wor decided to ride t' stang for 'em."

"Aye?" exclaimed Perris wonderingly. "An' did they?"

"Did they? Aye, I should think they did an' all!" answered Mallins. "They tell'd me 'at such a do was niver known i' Martinsthorpe. They went up to t' Cherry-trees first, and somehow or other t' place wor set on fire, and it wor burnt to t' ground. If ye went back theer, Perris, ye wodn't know t' place. All 'at wor on t' premises wor burnt—t' live stock an' all."

Perris made no remark. He sat with his hands clasped on the top of his stick, his drink untasted at his side, staring at a framed advertisement on the dingy wall opposite—listening.

"An' then," continued Mallins, "then they went on to t' Limepits. One o' t' stang-riders wor killed dead theer—some said bi Taffendale hissen: howsomiver, nowt came o' that. An' Taffendale's stackgarth got o' fire, and ivery stack wor burnt—over forty on 'em. Aye!—such a night theer niver wor i' Martinsthorpe, so they say."

"Well?" said Perris, as Mallins paused to drink. "An'—efter?"

"Why, efter that things seemed to settle down a bit," said Mallins. "Ye're wife wor taken in bi Taffendale and his housekeeper, as is some sort o' relation to him, and there she bided. Then Taffendale took that land 'at ye hed, and another lot next to it, and t' steward agreed to build some labourers' cottages wheer ye're place wor. An' theer wor a deal to do about t' water supply, and one day they opened out an owd well—"

Perris turned to his glass and suddenly drank off its contents. He got up and rang the bell.

"Here, ye mun tak' a glass wi' me, Mestur Mallins," he said, as a barman appeared. "Two more o' t' same, young man. Aye," he continued, when the barman had served them and had disappeared again, "aye, an owd well, ye were sayin'?"

"An owd well," repeated Mallins. "An' theer they foun' t' body o' this Pippany Webster. An' of course theer wor the Crowner's 'Quest on it, an' all sorts o' what they call evidence started comin' out. It were proved 'at this Pippany wor i' possession o' facts about ye're wife an' Taffendale. Then it were proved 'at Pippany wor seen to go to ye're house on a certain Sunday night and wor niver seen efter bi onnybody t' village. An' one thing an' another come up—more nor I know on—and now, all t' talk is 'at it wor your wife 'at murdered Pippany Webster, and got rid o' t' body, and they do say 'at t' police may arrest her onny minute. But theer's more nor that, Perris, mi lad."

Perris looked round: Mallins's voice had grown serious.

"Well?" he said. "What more?"

Mallins bent near.

"T' theory, as they call it," he whispered, "t' theory is 'at ye're wife not only killed Webster, but 'at she killed ye an' all, and 'at ye're body's somewheer about t' Cherry-trees theer! That's what they think i' our part o' t' country, mi lad. An' theer ye are, sittin' and takkin' yer glass, as large as life! Gow! but it's t' queerest do, is this, 'at iver I heerd on!"

Perris made no immediate remark. He continued to stare at the opposite wall.

"What are ye goin' to do about it?" asked Mallins.

Perris began to scratch the floor with the point of his ashplant. To the man sitting at his side his apathy and unconcern seemed strange and unaccountable.

"I been doin' a bit o' horse-dealin' sin' I came to London," he said at last. "I were goin' to meet a man this afternoon. But of course, seein' 'at things is as serious as what they are, I suppose summat mun be done. So they what they call suspect her o' killin' me, like?

"Aye, that's so," answered Mallins, still mystified. "Ye hed some transactions about sellin' some corn and some beasts t' day afore ye disappeared—what? Well, this here theory is 'at ye did go home that night, an' 'at she made away wi' yer, and then gev out 'at ye'd disappeared. An' theer is them—a many on 'em an' all—'at says 'at Taffendale's known summat about t' matter, and 'at he happen helped to dispose o' ye're body, d'ye see? But so far, they can't get what they call evidence agen him. How-. somiver, as I say, she couldn't ha' killed ye, Perris, 'cause theer ye are!"

"Aw, I'm here reight enough," agreed Perris.

"Well," said Mallins, after a short pause,"I expect ye'll hev to let 'em know 'at ye're alive?"

"I expect so," replied Perris.

"All t' same," observed Mallins, "that'll none settle up t' matter o' Pippany Webster's murder."

"Happen he worn't murdered," said Perris. "Happen he tummled head first into t' owd well and brok' his neck. He wor a reight bad 'un, wor that theer, for meddlin' wi' things 'at he'd nowt to do wi' Happen he wor prowlin' about t' place and looked down t' owd well, and fell in. Like enough."

Mallins laughed and gave his companion a queer, sidelong glance.

"Aye, and happen he pulled t' well coverin' ower t' top when he'd tummled in, and then set t' owd reapin' machine ower that!" he said with a sneer. "Nay, come! Besides, they foun' marks on t' man' throat. He'd been throttled. Murdered, wi'out a doubt."

Perris scratched the floor again, making strange marks on it with his ashplant.

"Why, I'm sewer it's a varry bad job," he said. "I'm afraid I mun put mi business off, and go down theer and see about it. How's t' time goin'? Aw, it's none twelve o'clock yit. I think I shall tak' a bit o' dinner; an' then go t' station, and catch the afternoon train. When are ye goin' back that way?"

"Not till Sunda'—I hey an excursion ticket," answered Mallins. "I'm goin' to see some relations o' mine 'at lives i' Kent this afternoon, and I shall bide wi' them till Sunda' mornin'. Aye, well, I'm sure it's t' best thing ye can do, Perris, is that theerye can't see t' woman pointed at all ower t' countryside as a murderess! Ye're presence theer 'II clear that mystery up, onnyway. An' as for t' other, why we mun hope some light 'll be thrown on t."

"Why, it's one o' them things 'at seems t' need a bit o' summat thrown' on it," answered Perris, as he rose. "Will yer tak' another glass?—I mun be off if I'm goin' to catch t' afternoon train."

But Mallins declined; he, too, would go, he said. They shook hands solemnly outside the tavern, and each man went his way. And Mallins, left to himself, was full of soliloquy.

"Ecod, but it's a rum 'un, is this here!" he said. "I wor wonderin' at one time if he'd hed owt to do wi' t' matter hissen, but a man 'ud none offer to go straight down theer, as he did, if he had. That 'ud be rammin' ye're head into t' lion' mouth wi' a vengeance, and—"

But then a sudden thought occurred to Mallins, which brought him to a sharp halt in the middle of the pavement, and made several less stoutly fashioned pedestrians eye him with unfriendly glances. Did Perris really mean to go down to their district, or was he only tricking him, meaning all the time to disappear once more?

"Gow, I owt t' ha' kept watch on him!" said Mallins. "Dang me for a butter-brained fool! How do I know wheer he lives i' London, or wheer he's gone?"

A little exercise of Yorkshire shrewdness and Mallins recovered his equanimity. He could, at any rate, assure himself as to whether Perris really went off to Yorkshire or not. He was well acquainted with King's Cross Station, and he proceeded there, and after eating and drinking, posted himself at the third-class ticket office to wait, if need be, till midnight. And at three o'clock up came Perris, carrying his ashplant, unconcerned and lackadaisical as ever. He seemed to attach no particular importance to the fact of Mallins's presence. They drank together at the refreshment-bar, and Mallins accompanied Perris to the train. They shook hands through the window.

"Well, I hope ye'll be able to put matters reight," said Mallins.

"Aye!" replied Perris curtly. "Aye!—I hope so."

Mallins walked away when the train was gone. He was still musing, still puzzled. But at last he lifted his head and nodded at the grey London sky.

"Yon man hed nowt to do wi' it!" he said, with firm decision. "Nowt! I'd tak' mi solemn 'davy o' that—he'd nowt to do wi' it at all!"