To Maurice Malherb it seemed that he was living his life over again. Upon the second disappearance of his daughter, the old turmoil recurred; but less fury marked his manners and more method. Grace had gone for a long tramp over the Moor, and had never returned home. She set out after her mid-day meal and was no more seen. Neither had any man nor woman heard of her. Tom Putt, indeed, remembered the letter that he had conveyed to her through Mr. Cloberry; but he also knew this missive came from John Lee. Therefore he felt no alarm, but doubted not that John was working with Cecil Stark, and that Grace was safe.

When the catastrophe at Prince Town became known and it transpired that not a few besides Stark were reported missing, the Americans declared their compatriots were fallen in the struggle and had been hastily buried by night, that the numbers of the slain might not challenge too much attention; but the history of the time may be relied upon in this matter, and it is safe to assume that those unaccounted for upon that unhappy night escaped in the subsequent confusion, even as Cecil Stark had done.

So, at least, concluded Maurice Malherb; and, awake to the significance of the incident in connection with his daughter\'s disappearance, he was first minded to yield and let her have her way; but then he came back to himself, and fury awoke him, and he sought Peter Norcot, that the wool-stapler might assist him to recover his daughter.

Malherb rode over the Moor to Chagford upon the morning after the tragedy at Prince Town; and on his way he reflected concerning his own peculiar position.

It was now generally known that in a fit of rage he had slain an ancient woman upon Cater\'s Beam. But since the attributes of Lovey Lee and her history came also to be apprehended; so soon as it was understood that Lovey had plotted with the American prisoners and herself was hiding from a rope when Malherb destroyed her, no further concern in the matter touched men\'s minds. The times were troublous; there was much to think of; none made it his business to take action, and Malherb\'s only punishment lay within his own heart and brain.

His personal grief did not lessen; his wife alone knew of the tortures that he still suffered. His physical health began to break under the strain, for the man\'s old zest in food departed; his zest in sport was dead; and his zest in life and the work of life had wholly vanished. Remorse ate him alive.

To Chagford he came, and Gertrude Norcot, who had not seen him for many days, started to find the master of Fox Tor Farm much changed. His demeanour had altered; his carriage had grown humble; his head had sunk forward under the blows of time. Native pugnacity had given place to melancholy; even the incisive and stern methods of his speech were merged into a hollow and phlegmatic indifference, as of one careless of affairs.

Yet to-day he was sufficiently himself to be eager, and even passionate, as he recounted events.

"Peter has heard all," said Miss Norcot. "He has not been idle. Indeed, for three days he has lived in the saddle. Certainly we have seen very little indeed of him here."

"Your daughter must have a strange disposition," said a weak voice; and, turning round, Malherb saw a little clergyman, who held out his hand. He was flat-faced, meek and humble.

"Our kinsman, Mr. Relton Norcot," said the lady. "Peter had occasion to go to London recently, and on his way back through Exeter he picked up Relton. My cousin stands in need of rest, for he works too hard."

"It is the duty of man to toil," said the minister. "What is life without work? A formless void."

"And where is Peter now?" inquired Malherb.

"Heaven knows," answered Gertrude. "He may return to dinner, or he may not do so. Will you stay with us for the night?"

"No, no; I must home to my wife. I am sorry to miss him. Let him know that Cecil Stark has escaped from the War Prison. This will quicken his wits as it has quickened mine. I have watchers set round about Holne. And also at Dartmouth. And yet there is that in me which begets a great indifference now. It is vain to fight the young, for Time is on their side."

"You must be brave, dear Mr. Malherb."

Miss Norcot put a light hand upon his arm.

"You can touch me," he said, "knowing what you know?"

"Indeed, yes. You have atoned."

He shook his head, and the clergyman spoke.

"Who shall fling the first stone, my dear sir? Who shall hale you before your outraged country?"

Malherb stared at him, as a man who sees an unpleasant insect suddenly where before there was none. Then his expression changed.

"You say well. Who shall? There is but one man. His duty it is, and he hangs back."

Miss Norcot was much interested.

"You mean her grandson? But he cannot, dear Mr. Malherb, for he, too, stands in danger of the law. He ought to have been hung long ago."

"I mean Maurice Malherb," he said, speaking to himself rather than to her. "Farewell. Tell Peter that I have been here. If he learns anything of comfort, let him hasten to us at Fox Tor Farm."

"Be of good cheer," said the clergyman; but Malherb did not answer. He departed and left them whispering together.

Hardly had his horse gone out of the courtyard when Peter appeared. He had been above, in his bedchamber.

"You have made your sister say the thing which was not, my dear Peter," said the clergyman mournfully.

"Pardon me," she answered. "I did nothing of the sort. He asked where my brother was, and I said that Heaven knew. That was not to say I did not know."

They fell to talking, and Maurice Malherb went slowly towards Chagford. For a moment he stopped at Norcot\'s place of business beside Teign river, and asked if Peter was there; but a doorkeeper shook his head, and the master went on his way to the "Three Crowns," that he might bait his horse before returning home.

And as he passed the great manufactory, Maurice Malherb had been within twenty yards of his daughter; for there she was hidden; there, where hundreds of busy men and women circled round about her and the roar of water-wheels and the hum of looms made grand music of industry from dawn till eve, Grace Malherb was securely shut up in Norcot\'s private rooms. Two apartments had been prepared for her, and Peter\'s sister visited the girl every night after dark. The full extent of her brother\'s purpose Gertrude only suspected when he returned from London and brought the Rev. Relton Norcot along with him; but how Peter proposed to compass the marriage his sister had not yet comprehended. Her sympathies were with him, however, and she was true and trustworthy. She guessed which way things were tending. She understood now that Peter\'s sole reason for going to London was that he might procure a Special License of marriage; and she knew that he had got it. Gertrude doubted not that days—perhaps hours—would bring the sequel; and nightly she exhausted her powers of persuasion upon Grace from eleven o\'clock until one, in the silent factory; but as yet the captive showed no signs of being tamed. Norcot had also striven with her, and now she was a chained fury, so that Peter told his sister frankly that he went in fear of his eyes. Even his equanimity had given out, and he was casting round to know by what channel the ceremony might be celebrated as quickly as possible. But no course of action appeared until the night before Malherb\'s visit. Then Lovey Lee had brought her news out of the cottage on Sittaford\'s side, and, from that moment, Peter began to see light. Long ago he had asked himself whether Cecil Stark could be made of any service in the great matter of Grace; and now, when he learned that the American was almost at his door, Peter\'s spidery instincts served him well. While yet he waited, confident of the speedy advent of Stark, the future began to unfold, and a project as extraordinary as it was difficult matured in the merchant\'s brains.

"An enterprise involving violent melodrama, no doubt," he told himself, "but then these are melodramatic times, and in the rush and hurry of wars, and rumours of wars—in the scare of Bonaparte and the tragedy over the hills at Prince Town, a little lawlessness must pass unnoticed. Tut, tut! Does not the world still think that fool at Fox Tor Farm a murderer? Yet no hand is lifted against him. And there is a source of strength there; for when we tell him that he is innocent of blood, he\'ll be so overjoyed that he\'ll forgive anything and anybody. And she—once married all must right itself. Let it work then. Come, Mr. Cecil Stark of Vermont! I\'m nearly read............