"I'd planned it for months—I've follered owd Melrose many times—I've been close oop to 'im—when he had noa noshun whativver. I might ha' killt him—a doosen times over. He wor a devil—an' I paid him oot! I was creepin' round t' hoose that night—and ov a suddent, there was a door openin', an' a light. It seemed to be God sayin', 'Theer's a way, mon! go in, and do't! So I went in. An' I saw Muster Faversham coom oot—an' Dixon. An' I knew that he wor there—alone—the owd fox!—an' I waited—an' oot he came. I shot 'un straight, Muster Boden! I shot 'un straight!"
"You never told any one what you were going to do, Brand? Nobody helped you?"
"Not a soul! I'm not yo'r blabbin' sort! But now I'm done—I'm clemmed!"
And he tottered against the bridge as he spoke. Baden caught him.
"Can you walk with my help? I have some brandy."
And taking from his pocket the tiny flask that a man with a weak heart is apt to carry, he put it into a shaking hand. Brand drank it greedily.
They stumbled on together, down the narrow road, through the streaming rain. It was a mile to the Whitebeck police station. Brand gave a gasping, incoherent account of his doings during his ten days of hiding—the various barns and outhouses he had sheltered in—the food he had been able to steal—the narrow escapes he had run. And every now and then, the frenzy of his hatred for the murdered man would break in, and he would throw out hints of the various mad schemes he had entertained at different times for the destruction of his enemy.
But presently he ceased to talk. It was evident that his weakness was great; he clung heavily to Boden's arm.
They reached a point where a road branched to the left. A roar of furious water greeted their ears.
"That's t' beck unner Wanthwaite Bridge," said Brand feebly. "Wait a bit, sir."