ar where poor heidegger met his death."

"exactly. well, now, watson, how many cows did you see on

the moor?"

"i don't remember seeing any."

"strange, watson, that we should see tracks all along our

line, but never a cow on the whole moor; very strange,

watson, eh?"

"yes, it is strange."

"now, watson, make an effort; throw your mind back! can

you see those tracks upon the path?"

"yes, i can."

"can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that, watson"

-- he arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion --

: : : : : -- "and sometimes like this" -- : ' : ' : ' : ' --

"and occasionally like this" -- . ' . ' . ' . "can you remember

that?" {2}

"no, i cannot."

"but i can. i could swear to it. however, we will go back

at our leisure and verify it. what a blind beetle i have

been not to draw my conclusion!"

"and what is your conclusion?"

"only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters,

and gallops. by george, watson, it was no brain of a country

publican that thought out such a blind as that!

the coast seems to be clear, save for that lad in the smithy.

let us slip out and see what we can see."

there were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the

tumble-down stable. holmes raised the hind leg of one of

them and laughed aloud.

"old shoes, but newly shod -- old shoes, but new nails.

this case deserves to be a classic. let us go across

to the smithy."

the lad continued his work without regarding us.

i saw holmes's eye darting to right and left among the

litter of iron and wood which was scattered about the floor.

suddenly, however, we heard a step behind us, and there was

the landlord, his heavy eyebrows drawn over his savage eyes,

his swarthy features convulsed with passion. he held a short,

metal-headed stick in his hand, and he advanced in

so menacing a fashion that i was right glad to feel the

revolver in my pocket.

"you infernal spies!" the man cried. "what are you doing

there?"

"why, mr. reuben hayes," said holmes, coolly, "one might

think that you were afraid of our finding something out."

the man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his

grim mouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more

menacing than his frown.

"you're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy," said he.

"but look here, mister, i don't care for folk poking about my

place without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and

get out of this the better i shall be pleased."

"all right, mr. hayes -- no harm meant," said holmes.

"we have been having a look at your horses, but i think i'll

walk after all. it's not far, i believe."

"not more than two miles to the hall gates. that's the

road to the left." he watched us with sullen eyes until we

had left his premises.

we did not go very far along the road, for holmes stopped

the instant that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.

"we were warm, as the children say, at that inn," said he.

"i seem to grow colder every step that i take away from it.

no, no; i can't possibly leave it."

"i am convinced," said i, "that this reuben hayes knows all

about it. a more self-evident villain i never saw."

"oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? there are the

horses, there is the smithy. yes, it is an interesting

place, this fighting cock. i think we shall have another

look at it in an unobtrusive way."

a long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone

boulders, stretched behind us. we had turned off the road,

and were making our way up the hill, when, looking in the

direction of holdernesse hall, i saw a cyclist coming

swiftly along.

"get down, watson!" cried holmes, with a heavy hand upon my

shoulder. we had hardly sunk from view when the man flew

past us on the road. amid a rolling cloud of dust i caught

a glimpse of a pale, agitated face -- a face with horror in

every lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring wildly in

front. it was like some strange caricature of the dapper

james wilder whom we had seen the night before.

"the duke's secretary!" cried holmes. "come, watson,

let us see what he does."

we scrambled from rock to rock until in a few moments we

had made our way to a point from which we could see the

front door of the inn. wilder's bicycle was leaning

against the wall beside it. no one was moving about the

house, nor could we catch a glimpse of any faces at the

windows. slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank

behind the high towers of holdernesse hall. then in the

gloom we saw the two side-lamps of a trap light up in the

stable yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards heard the

rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore

off at a furious pace in the direction of chesterfield.

"what do you make of that, watson?" holmes whispered.

"it looks like a flight."

"a single man in a dog-cart, so far as