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There were three railway-stations in the market-town; that at which Perris arrived lay in a valley, far out from the centre of the place, and during his two years' acquaintance with the neighbourhood he had never seen it or its immediate surroundings before, never having had occasion to travel by the small branch line which had brought him to it from the main line at the big junction twelve miles off. Only himself and one more passenger left the train; on the wind-swept platform there was no one to be seen but a porter; the station itself was poorly lighted by a couple of oil-lamps; outside it the winter night was cheerless and black. Within a minute or two of his leaving the train, Perris was standing outside the station in the midst of a darkness that seemed all the denser because of his recollection of the brilliantly lighted scenes amidst which he had often wandered at night, lonely and wondering, during his residence in London. High above him, but some little distance away, he saw the lights of the market-town, the approach to which was by a winding road, lighted at long intervals by feeble and flickering jets of gas that shivered in their lamps; in a dip in this road he saw more lights which seemed to betoken the presence of a small, outlying hamlet, or cluster of cottages; amongst those lights was one which shone through red curtains. Perris felt cheered at the roseate glow.

"I'll lay yon's a public," he muttered. "Publics has red blinds as a rule. I'll call in and tek an odd glass afore I walk up to t' town—I could do wi' sum-mat after that theer journey, and wi' a bite o' sum-mat to eat an all."

Moving forward along the ill-lighted road, he came to a small inn which stood on an open space surrounded by a half-score of old cottages. It was no more than a wayside ale-house, and in the dim light of the one lamp which stood in front of it Perris regarded it doubtfully. But hunger overcoming his doubts he eventually pushed open the door and walked into a sanded passage, on either side of which were rooms meanly furnished with rough tables and benches of unpainted wood. There was a heavy scent of stale liquor and of pungent tobacco in the atmosphere, and as Perris closed the door behind him, he heard the loud voices of men in what appeared to be an argument of a spirited nature.

These voices came from the room on the left hand side of the passage, and Perris instinctively turned into the opposite one and was thankful to find it empty, for he was in the state of mind that makes a man desire loneliness. He sat down at one of the rough tables and rapped on its surface with his ash-plant. An elderly woman, hard-bitten, tall, gaunt, appeared from some interior part of the place, drying her hands on her rough apron, and looked an inquiry in silence.

"I'll tek a glass o' Scotch whisky, if you please," said Perris.

The woman shook her head.

"We've no licence for spirits, mister," she answered. "Only for ale and porter."

"Then a pint o' ale," said Perris. "An' happen ye could let me hey a plate o' bread-an'-cheese with it."

"Yes," replied the woman. "We've some good cheese just now. Happen you'd care for a pickled onion?"

"I shouldn't hey no objection," Perris answered. "Ye needn't be sparin' wi' t' bread-an'-cheese—I'm a bit hungry, like."

The landlady went down the passage, and Perris laid aside his ashplant and stared at the brewers' advertisements and grocers' almanacks which adorned the dingy walls.

In the other room across the narrow passage its occupants were continuing their loud-voiced debate; since Perris's entrance two of them had been speaking at the same time, and he had paid no attention to them, being more intent on his own affairs, but now one man had obtained a proper hearing and his voice came loud and clear into the room in which Perris sat alone. And Perris suddenly caught a word and a name, and he sat erect and listened.

"—an' I tell yer 'at our Jack's been workin' at yon theer Cheery-trees ever sin' they started building them cottages for Taffendale, and as he's been on t' spot all t' time 'at this has been goin' on, who's more likely to know all about it than what he is? He were present when t' body o' yon man 'at they called Pippany Webster were found—he helped to draw it up out o' t' well, and he heerd what they said 'at rekernised it, and I tell yer he's been theer ever sin,' and of course he's seen all and heerd all 'at there were to hear an' see. Our Jack's more likely to know all about t' matter than what ye are, and that he'd prove to yer if he were i' this company—now then!"

"Well, an' as ye're Jack isn't in this comp'ny ye can tell us what ye're Jack knows—I mean summat 'at folk like us doesn't know," said another voice, somewhat scornful and sceptical in tone.

"Our Jack knows what t' opinion o' them 'at's on t' spot is, mi lad, and ye're not on t' spot, any more nor what any on us here present is. Them 'at's been theer has drawn their own conclusions. It's t' common opinion 'at t' woman, Mrs. Perris, not only did away wi' yon Pippany Webster, but 'at she did away wi' her husband an' all. That's what t' common opinion is, so theer!"

"Well, I don't believe it!" said the scornful voice, with unrestrained contempt. "I don't believe 'at she killed Perris, nohow!"

"Then wheer is Perris? Ye tell me that! Wheer is t' man? Has he gone up above, as them theer owd pateriarks did 'at ye hear tell about i' t' Good Book, or has he been spirited away bi t' Owd Lad, or what? Men doesn't disappear same as if they were t' smook out o' this here pipe—"

"A' but don't they? Don't ye mek no mistak's! Theer's been many a man disappear 'at's never been heerd on agen—many a man, I say. I' my opinion yon theer Perris just took hissen off, quiet like, an—"

The landlady brought Perris his supper, took his money, and vanished. And Perris, with a queer smile, drank of his ale, crammed his mouth with food, and continued to listen attentively. The conversation in the other room had reached another point.

"Then ye tell me this—if t' woman did mak' away wi' Perris, what did she do wi' t' body? Now then, there's summat for yer to answer. What's ye're Jack say to that theer, now? Come!"

"Our Jack says what t' common opinion says about theer. It's supposed, d'ye see, 'at t' woman, when she'd made away wi' her husband, concealed t' corpse somewheer on t' premises, which is what she could easily do, theer bein' a good deal o' opportunity about a farmhouse. She could ha' hid him i' t' hay-cham'er, or i' t' barn, or i' t' granary, or—"

"An' d'ye mean to tell me 'at a woman could lift a man' corpse an' carry it away to eyther barn or hay-cham'er, or granary, or onnywheer else? A dead corpse, as everybody knows, is heavier nor when it's alive."

"Aye, varry like it is so, but yon Mrs. Perris, she's a reight fine, strong young woman, and as like to lift owt heavy as what ye are. I've seen her here at market—she's a strappin' woman. So that's no objection."

"Well, an' supposin' she did hide him i' t' haycham'er, or i' t' pig-sty, or wheer else, wheer is he now—wheer's t' body?"

"That's t' gre't point. Accordin' to what our Jack tells me, it's t' common opinion 'at that theer dead corpse were destroyed i' t' fire when Cherry-trees were burnt down bi them stang-riders. Destroyed, ye understand? In—that—theer—fire!"

For the first time since Perris's entrance there was a lull in the argument across the passage, and when the next contribution was made, it was by a new speaker whose voice was tinged with awe.

"It's a fearsome thing to think on, is that theer; a corpse bein' burnt up i' a fire and not able to stir hand or foot to do owt to help itsen. I've never heerd o' owt o' that sort i' mi life. But wodn't nowt ha' been found—no bones, nor nowt o' that sort?"

"Nowt. T' fire 'ud ha' destroyed 'em all."

"What about t' buttons on t' man's clothes. Most men has brass buttons on their breeches. Wodn't them ha' survived t' perils o' t' fire? An' happen he might ha' hed money i' his pocket."

"Brass, gold, or silver, t' fire 'ud destroy all t' lot. I once had t' misfortune to drop a shillin' into t' fire, and t' wife raked t' ash-nook out next mornin' but ye could mak' nowt out. No—fire's a very powerful instrument, as ye might term it, and if t' body were hidden away i' t' hay-cham'er, or elsewhere, it 'ud soon be dissolved into what they call t' elements—which means nowt—when that fire came."

There was another spell of silence as a result of this speech, and in its midst Perris finished his supper, drank off his ale, and filled his pipe. As he began feeling in his pockets for a match, and realising that he had struck his last in the train, the conversation broke out again.

"Aye, well, who knows wheer t' man be? Did ye ever see him?—ye say ye've seen t' wife."

"I seen him more nor once. A tall, bony man, loose t' joints and shammocked in his walk. Allus carried an ashplant stick wi' him—I seen him slappin' his leg wi' it many a time up yonder i' t' market. A sandy-coloured feller, wi' a long nose—no beauty. Aw, aye, I seen him!"

Perris could not find a match in his pockets, nor in the room in which he sat, and the fire had died down to black ash. But there was a vase of paper-spills on the mantelpiece, and he took one out and, still smiling the queer smile, deliberately walked across the passage into the room in which the men were talking, and coolly lighted his pipe at the fire round which they sat. Then, drawing steadily at it, and slapping his leg with his ashplant, he looked calmly round at their dilating eyes and parting lips and walked out of the house.

The company left behind let a full minute elapse before speech returned. Then with a mutual gasp of astonishment all spoke together.

"By Gow! what if yon wor t' man?"

"It mun ha' been t' man! I felt it when he walked in!"

"It wor his ghost. Lord ha' mercy—I'm fair ditherin' wi freet!"

The man who had seen Perris spoke after the others. "It wor t' man! He's grown a beard, but it wor him. Yon's Perris!"

Then, with a common consent, they made for the door and ran outside to the open space in front of the inn. But by that time the night was black and starless and the feeble gas-lamp made but a mockery of illumination. There was nothing to see, and nothing to hear, not even the sound of retreating footsteps.

For Perris was already round the corner of the little cluster of cottages, and striding quickly up the long hill that led to the centre of the town. He knew quite well where his destination lay, and now that he had supped and was smoking his pipe, he meant to go to it direct.

"Mestur Wroxdale's t' man for me," he muttered as he strode along. "A varry pleasant, reight-dealin' gentleman, is Mestur Wroxdale. He's t' man for my money."

The ancient market-place was in its usual half-lighted state when Perris turned into it. Now he passed across the front of a lighted shop; now he was lost in the shadow of some old building. He walked rapidly along, looking neither to right nor left, always sucking stolidly at his pipe and tapping his leg with his switch. And as he passed one shop, more brilliantly lighted than the rest, and its light fell full upon him, a man coming out of it saw him, glanced at him sharply, looked more searchingly, and turned to follow him.

In the shadow of the great church in the marketplace Perris felt a tap on his elbow, and turning, found himself face to face with Justice, the gamekeeper from Martinsthorpe. Justice held out a hand. Perris stared at it, making no offer to take it.

"So you're not dead?" said Justice.

"What's that to do wi' ye?" asked Perris sullenly. Justice smiled unpleasantly.

"It's had a good deal to do with a good many people lately, at any rate," said Justice. "Why, where have you been, man?"

Perris stooped and thrust his lean face closer to the gamekeeper than the gamekeeper liked.

"Look here!" he said. "Ye go your own ways, and I'll go mine. I want none o' your interference." Justice stepped back a pace.

"I mean to see where you're going," he said.

"If ye want to know where I'm going," said Perris, slowly, "I'm going to pay a call on Mestur Wroxdale, t' lawyer, as lives i' that house, theer. If ye foller me, I'll gi' yer summat to carry away wi' yer—d' yer understand?"

Justice made no answer. He moved away into the shadows, and from a convenient point watched Perris go up to the solicitor's house and ring the bell of the front door. A moment later he saw him admitted. Then Justice went away, and hurried to the police, with whom he had recently been cultivating friendly relations. It seemed to him that a new and interesting stage of his connection with what he was now accustomed to call the Cherry-trees Mystery, was being developed in surprising fashion, and he meant to have his share in it.

Perris, having the solicitor's door open to him, lost no time in setting to business. He walked into the hall without invitation, and without ceremony addressed the maid who had answered his summons.

"I expect Mestur Wroxdale 'II be at home at this time?" he said, slapping his leg with his ashplant. "Ye might just tell him 'at I could like to have a word wi' him,—I've done business wi' him before now—name o' Perris—Abel Perris."

While the maid hesitated, knowing that her master made no business appointments after office hours, Wroxdale came into the further end of the hall and caught the end of Perris's request. Without showing surprise, he walked towards the door.

"Good evening, Mr. Perris," he said quickly. "Come this way."

Perris followed the solicitor down the hall to a room at the end which Wroxdale used as a study. He took off his hat as he entered, and stood waiting while Wroxdale turned up the reading-lamp which stood on his desk.

"Sit down," said Wroxdale, pointing to one of the easy-chairs which flanked the hearthrug. He took the opposite one himself, and gave his visitor a keen glance. "So you want to see me, Mr. Perris?" he added. "Business, eh?"

Perris laid his hat and stick on the floor at his side, and folded his big hands, thumbs up, across his knees.

"Why, ye see, Mestur Wroxdale," he began, "you did a bit o' business for me once or twice, and I thowt I'd liefer come to you nor to any other, sir. Ye're no doubt aware, Mestur Wroxdale, 'at I've been away fro' this neighbourhood for a piece?"

"Some time, I think," answered Wroxdale.

"Aye, some time," continued Perris. "Ye see sir, I had mi reasons for leavin' this part o' t' country. Aye, I went to London and started on a bit o' horsedealin', and I were doin' nicely at it an' all. Howsomiver, this mornin' I were at t' Caledonian Market as they call it—it's a queerish place, but ye can now and then pick up a bargain o' sorts theer—and I chanced across yon there Mestur Mallins—Roger Mallins, him as farms out yonder at Woodbridge—and of course, we took a glass together, and he telled me some news o' t' owd neighbourhood, and 'specially this news about all t' recent goin's on at Cherry-trees. An', of course, it were all reight news to me, 'cause I'd niver heerd word on it afore."

"You'd heard—nothing?"

"Nowt, sir! I'm not one for readin' t' newspapers," replied Perris, "and ye see, I'd done—or wanted to ha' done wi' this part o' t' country an' t' owd life. Howsomiver, this feller Mallins, he telled me a deal, and I understand 'at they foun' t' body o' yon theer man, Webster—Pippany, as they called him—'at were once employed by me, and 'at now my wife's accused o' killin' the chap, and of getting rid o' me an' all. Is that reight, or is it wrong, Mestur Wroxdale?"

Wroxdale inclined his head.

"Right!" he answered.

Perris looked at the ceiling and sniffed.

"Well, sir," he said slowly, "it's a varry 'queer thing to me how folk gets mista'en notions into their heads. Howsomiver, as you say it is so, it is so, I reckon. Then—my wife's i' danger, Mestur Wroxdale?"

"Your wife is in serious danger," replied Wroxdale. She is in such serious danger that she may be arrested at any moment."

"Aw!" said Perris. "Aw! Why, then, sir, it's as well I came back. I think, as she's charged wi' t' matter, we mun as well hev' it cleared up reight. 'Cause it were not my wife, Mestur Wroxdale, 'at made away wi' Webster. It were me!"

For a full moment Wroxdale made no answer. He had wondered, when Perris presented himself, if the man was intoxicated and had speedily decided that he was not; now he wondered if Perris had lost his reason. He let Perris speak again before he himself spoke.

"Not her at all," said Perris. "She's nowt to do wi' t' matter. It were me!"

Wroxdale picked up the poker and stirred the fire: the mere act of doing something physical was a relief to his nerves. He sat up again and regarded Perris steadily.

"You say that you killed Pippany Webster?" he said.

"Aye, I killed him!" answered Perris. "I made away wi' t' chap reight enough."

"You know what you're saying?" asked Wroxdale. "You're quite sure you know what you're saying?"

"I know what I'm saying, sir, and I'm going to say, it to t' police, if you'll tell me how to act about it," replied Perris stoutly. "We'll clear t' matter up."

"But—do you realise what it means to you asked Wroxdale earnestly. "It may be—death."

"I know that an' all," said Perris. "An'—I don't care."

Wroxdale rose from his chair and paced the room. He had never known an experience of this sort in the whole course of his career, and he was puzzled beyond measure.

"Was it—was it accidental?" he asked, suddenly stopping in front of Perris and staring down at him in wonder. "It was, eh?"

Perris shook his head.

"No, sir, it were nowt o' t' sort," he answered. "It were what I understand—I'm no gre't scholar—what I understand they term deliberate. I meant to kill t' feller, and I did kill him."

"But—why?" asked Wroxdale.

Perris's face suddenly became sullen, and he shook his head.

"I shalln't tell nobody why I killed t' man," he answered. "That's my business. But," he added, his face clearing again, "I'll tell you, and I'll tell t' police how and where it wor 'at I made away wi' him. It were one Sunda' night—I can't reightly fix t' exact date, but our Rhoda were singing a new piece that night down at t' chappil, and t' preacher had been to tea wi' us. When they'd gone, I wor alone, d'ye see, an' this Webster he come moochin' round like, and I led him into t' granary, and as I say, I hed mi reasons for makin' away wi' him, and I made away wi' him. An' later on, I put t' body away i' t' owd well."

Wroxdale sat down and stared at the man who had voluntarily made this extraordinary confession. Was he sane? He could see no sign of insanity in him; he talked coherently, intelligently—and yet, what sane man would boldly appear and give up his liberty, life, in this fashion?

"You want to make a confession to the police?" he asked suddenly.

"That's what I come to you about, sir," answered Perris. "I know naught about no confessions to t' police—I want to tell t' truth. If so be 'at my wife's i' danger—why, then, she mun be putten out o' danger, an'—"

Wroxdale gave way to a sharp feeling of humanity. He rose impulsively from his chair, and laid his hand on Perris's shoulder.

"Perris!" he exclaimed. "Tell me the truth! You're not making all this up, not inventing it, to shield your wife? Out with the truth, now?"

Perris looked up wonderingly, and the solicitor knew at once that he had listened to the naked truth.

"Eh, Lord bless you, no, sir!" he answered. "I telled you just how it all were. My wife knew naught about it. Nobody knew naught about it. It were nobody but me—nobody!"

Wroxdale took away his hand, and turned to his desk. But before he could sit down, the maid who admitted Perris knocked at the door and called him out.

"Wait a moment, Perris," he said, as he left the room.

Perris folded his hands and twiddled his thumbs.

"As many as is agreeable to you, sir," he answered.

Outside in the hall Wroxdale confronted Taffendale, the inspector, and, behind them, half-hidden in the shadows, a cloaked and hooded figure which he instinctively guessed to be Rhoda's. And with a quick recognition of the situation he raised his hand in the gesture of silence, and beckoned the two men aside out of earshot of the woman.

"Hush!" he said. "I've an idea why you've come. But—there'll be no proceedings against Mrs. Perris. Her husband is in that room, and he's just told me the truth. She's innocent of everything—it was he who killed Webster! But why, only himself and God know I—I doubt if men ever will."