Still he ran, with sobbing gasps and limbs that
swerved under his weight; at his elbow hung death unnamable, and the
fear of it urged him on while every instinct of his exhausted body
called out to him to fling up his hands and end it. Out of the mist ahead rose the rough outline of a building by the
roadside; it was the village smithy, half workshop, half dwelling. The
road here skirted a patch of grass, and the moonlight, glistening on the
dew, showed the dark circular scars of the turf where, for a generation,
the smith's peat fires had heated the great iron hoops that tyred the
wheels of the wains. One of these was even then lying on the ground with
the turves placed in readiness for firing in the morning, and in the
throbbing darkness of Maynard's consciousness a voice seemed to speak
faintly--the voice of a girl:

"_There's a Thing that hunts people to death. But iron--cold iron--it
cannot cross._"

The sweat of death was already on his brow as he reeled sideways,
plunging blindly across the uneven tufts of grass. His feet caught in
some obstruction and he pitched forward into the sanctuary of the huge
iron tyre--a spasm of cramp twisting his limbs up under him. As he fell a great blackness rose around him, and with it the bewildered
clamour of awakened dogs. *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Stanmore came down the flagged path from the smith's cottage,
pulling on his gloves. A big car was passing slowly up the village
street, and as it came abreast the smithy the doctor raised his hat. The car stopped, and the driver, a fair-haired girl, leant sideways from
her seat. "Good-morning, Dr. Stanmore! What's the matter here? Nothing wrong with
any of Matthew's children, is there?" The Doctor shook his head gravely. "No, Lady Dorothy; they're all at school. This is no one belonging to
the family--a stranger who was taken mysteriously ill last night just
outside the forge, and they brought him in. It's a most queer case, and
very difficult to diagnose--that is to say, to give a diagnosis in
keeping with one's professional--er--conscience." The girl switched off the engine, and took her hand from the
brake-lever. Something in the doctor's manner arrested her interest. "What is the matter with him?" she queried. "What diagnosis have you
made, professional or otherwise?" "Shock, Lady Dorothy; severe exhaustion and shock, heart strained,
superficial lesions, bruises, scratches, and so forth. Mentally he is in
a great state of excitement and terror, lapsing into delirium at
times--that is really the most serious feature. In fact, unless I can
calm him I am afraid we may have some brain trouble on top of the other
thing. It's most mysterious!" The girl nodded gravely, holding her underlip between her white teeth. "What does he look like--in appearance, I mean? Is he young?" The shadow of a smile crossed the doctor's eyes. "Yes, Lady Dorothy--quite young, and very good-looking. He is a man of
remarkable athletic build. He is calmer now, and I have left Matthew's
wife with him while I slip out to see a couple of other patients." Lady Dorothy rose from her seat and stepped down out of the car. "I think I know your patient," she said. "In fact, I had taken the car
to look for him, to ask him to lunch with us. Do you think I might see
him for a minute? If it is the person I think it is I may be able to
help you diagnose his illness." Together they walked up the path and entered the cottage. The doctor led
the way upstairs and opened a door. A woman sitting by the bed rose and
dropped a curtsey. Lady Dorothy smiled a greeting to her and crossed over to the bed. There, his face grey and drawn with exhaustion, with shadows round his
closed eyes, lay Maynard; one hand lying on the counterpane opened and
closed convulsively, his lips moved. The physician eyed the girl
interrogatively. "Do you know him?" he asked. She nodded, and put her firm, cool hand over the twitching fingers. "Yes," she said. "And I warned him. Tell me, is he very ill?" "He requires rest, careful nursing, absolute quiet----"

"All that he can have at the Manor," said the girl softly. She met the
doctor's eyes and looked away, a faint colour tingeing her cheeks. "Will
you go and telephone to father? I will take him back in the car now if
he is well enough to be moved." "Yes, he is well enough to be moved," said the doctor. "It is very kind
of you, Lady Dorothy, and I will go and telephone at once. Will you stay
with him for a little while?" He left the room, and they heard his feet go down the narrow stairs. The
cottage door opened and closed. The two women, the old and the young, peasant and peer's daughter,
looked at each other, and there was in their glance that complete
understanding which can only exist between women. "Do 'ee mind old Jarge Toms, my lady?" Lady Dorothy nodded. "I know, I know! And I warned him! They won't believe, these men! They
think because they are so big and strong that there is nothing that can
hurt them." "'Twas th' iron that saved un, my lady. 'Twas inside one of John's new
tyres as was lyin' on the ground that us found un. Dogs barkin' wakened
us up. But it'd ha' had un, else----" A sound downstairs sent her flying
to the door. "'Tis the kettle, my lady. John's dinner spilin', an' I
forgettin'." She hurried out of the room and closed the door. The sound of their voices seemed to have roused the occupant of the bed. His eyelids fluttered and opened; his eyes rested full on the girl's
face. For a moment there was no consciousness in their gaze; then a
whimsical ghost of a smile crept about his mouth. "Go on," he said in a weak voice. "Say it!" "Say what?" asked Lady Dorothy. She was suddenly aware that her hand was
still on his, but the twitching fingers had closed about hers in a calm,
firm grasp. "Say 'I told you so'!" She shook her head with a little smile. "I told you that cold iron----"

"Cold iron saved me." He told her of the iron hoop on the ground outside
the forge. "You saved me last night." She disengaged her hand gently. "I saved you last night--since you say so. But in future----"

Someone was coming up the stairs. Maynard met her eyes with a long look. "I have no fear," he said. "I have found something better than cold
iron." The door opened and the doctor came in. He glanced at Maynard's face and
touched his pulse. "The case is yours, Lady Dorothy!" he said with a little bow. IX

THE TRAGEDY AT THE "LOUP NOIR"


The Boy at the corner of the table flicked the ash of his cigar into the
fire. "Spiritualism is all rot!" he declared. "I don't know," the Host reflected thoughtfully. "One hears queer
stories sometimes." "Which reminds me----" started the Bore. But before he could proceed any further the little French Judge
ruthlessly cut him short. "Bah!" Contempt and geniality were mingled in his tone. "Who are we,
poor ignorant worms, that we should dare to say 'is' or 'is not'? Your
Shakespeare, he was right!