Malcolm Sage, Detective. Jenkins Herbert George

when found that morning the mare was still alive,of the terrible nature of her injuries, and that the perpetrator haddisappeared, leaving no trace.

      "Her look, sir! Dammit!" the general broke in. "Her eyes havehaunted me ever since. They – " His voice broke, and he proceededonce more to blow his nose violently.

      Mr. Callice went on to explain that after having seen the mare putout of her misery, Sir John had motored over to his lodgings andinsisted that they should go together to Scotland Yard and demandthat something be done.

      "Callice is Chairman of the Watchers' Committee," broke in Sir John.

      "I should explain," proceeded Mr. Callice, "that some time ago weformed ourselves into a committee to patrol the neighbourhood atnight in the hope of tracing the criminal. On the way up Sir Johnremembered hearing of you in connection with Department Z and, as hewas not satisfied with his call at Scotland Yard, he decided to comeon here and place the matter in your hands."

      "This is the twenty-ninth maiming?" Malcolm Sage remarked, as heproceeded to add a graveyard to the church.

      "Yes, the first occurred some two years ago." Then, as if suddenlyrealising what Malcolm Sage's question implied, he added: "You haveinterested yourself in the affair?"

      "Yes," was the reply. "Tell me what has been done."

      "The police seem utterly at fault," continued Mr. Callice. "Locallywe have organised watch-parties. My boys and I have been out nightafter night; but without result. I am a scout-master," he explained.

      "The poor beasts' sufferings are terrible," he continued after aslight pause. "It is a return to barbarism;" again there was thethrob of indignation in his voice.

      "You have discovered nothing?"

      "Nothing," was the response, uttered in a tone of deep despondency.

      "We have even tried bloodhounds; but without result."

      "And now I want you to take up the matter, and don't spare expense,"burst out Sir John, unable to contain himself longer.

      "I will consider the proposal and let you know," said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "As it is, my time is fully occupied at present; butlater – " He never lost an opportunity of resenting aggression byemphasising the democratic tendency of the times. Mr. Llewellyn Johnhad called it "incipient Bolshevism."

      "Later!" cried Sir John in consternation. "Why, dammit, sir! therewon't be an animal left in the county. This thing has been going onfor two years now, and those damn fools at Scotland Yard – "

      "If it were not for Scotland Yard," said Malcolm Sage quietly, as heproceeded to shingle the roof of the church, the graveyard havingproved a failure, "we should probably have to sleep at night withpistols under our pillows."

      "Eh!" Sir John looked across at him with a startled expression.

      "Scotland Yard is the head-quarters of the most efficient andhighly-organised police force in the world," was the quiet reply.

      "But, dammit! if they're so clever why don't they put a stop to thistorturing of poor dumb beasts?" cried the general indignantly. "I'veshown them the man. It's Hinds; I know it. I've just been to seethat fellow Wensdale. Why, dammit! he ought to be cashiered, and Itold him so."

      "Who is Hinds?" Malcolm Sage addressed the question to Mr. Callice.

      "He used to be Sir John's head gamekeeper – "

      "And I discharged him," exploded the general. "I'll shoot a poacheror his dog; but, dammit! I won't set traps for them," and he puffedout his cheeks aggressively.

      "Hinds used to set traps to save himself the trouble of patrollingthe preserves," explained Mr. Callice, "and one day Sir Johndiscovered him actually watching the agonies of a dog caught acrossthe hind-quarters in a man-trap." Again there was the wave offeeling in the voice, and a stern set about the mouth.

      "It's Hinds right enough," cried the general with conviction. "Theman's a brute. Now will you – ?"

      "I will let you know as soon as possible whether or no I can take upthe enquiry," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "I fear that is the best Ican promise."

      "But – " began Sir John; then he stopped and stared at Malcolm Sageas he moved towards the door.

      "Dammit! I don't care what it costs," he spluttered explosively."It'll be worth five hundred pounds to the man who catches thescoundrel. Poor Betty," he added in a softer tone.

      "I will write to you shortly," said Malcolm Sage. There wasdismissal in his tone.

      With darkened jowl and bristling moustache Sir John strutted towardsthe door. Mr. Callice paused to shake hands with Malcolm Sage, andthen followed the general, who, with a final glare at WilliamJohnson, as he held open the swing-door, passed out into the street, convinced that now the country was no longer subject to conscriptionit would go rapidly to the devil.

      For the next half-hour Malcolm Sage pored over a volume ofpress-cuttings containing accounts of previous cattle-maimings.

      Following his usual custom in such matters, he had caused thenewspaper accounts of the various mutilations to be collected andpasted in a press-cutting book. Sooner or later he had determined todevote time to the affair.

      Without looking up from the book he pressed three times in rapidsuccession a button of the private-telephone. Instantly GladysNorman appeared, note-book in hand. She had been heard to remarkthat if she were dead "three on the buzzer" would bring her to lifeagain.

      "Whitaker and Inspector Wensdale," said Malcolm Sage, his eyes stillon the book before him.

      When deep in a problem Malcolm Sage's economy in words made itdifficult for anyone but his own staff to understand hisrequirements.

      Without a word the girl vanished and, a moment later, WilliamJohnson placed Whitaker's Almanack on the table, then he in turndisappeared as silently as Gladys Norman.

      Malcolm Sage turned to the calendar, and for some time studied thepages devoted to the current month (June) and July. As he closedthe book there were three buzzes from the house-telephone, thesignal that he was through to the number required. Drawing thepedestal-instrument towards him, he put the receiver to his ear.

      "That Inspector Wensdale? – Yes! Mr. Sage speaking. It's about thecattle-maiming business. – I've just heard of it. – I've not decidedyet. I want a large-scale map of the district, with the exact spotof each outrage indicated, and the date. – To-morrow will do. – Yes, come round. Give me half an hour with the map first."

      Malcolm Sage replaced the receiver as the buzzer sounded, announcing another client.

      II

      "So there is nothing?" Malcolm Sage looked up enquiringly from themap before him.

      "Nothing that even a stage detective could turn into a clue," said

      Inspector Wensdale, a big, cleanshaven man with hard, alert eyes.

      Malcolm Sage continued his study of the map.

      "Confound those magazine detectives!" the inspector burst outexplosively. "They've always got a dust-pan full of clues ready madefor 'em."

      "To say nothing of finger-prints," said Malcolm Sage dryly. He nevercould resist a sly dig at Scotland Yard's faith in finger-prints asclues instead of means of identification.

      "It's a bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Sage," continued the inspector, confidentially. "Last time The Daily Telegram went for usbecause – "

      "You haven't found a dust-pan full of clues?" suggested Malcolm Sage, who was engaged in forming geometrical designs with spent matches.

      "They're getting a bit restive, too, at the Yard," he continued. Hewas too disturbed in mind for flippancy. "It was this cattle-maimingbusiness that sent poor old Scott's number up," he added, referringto Detective Inspector Scott's failure to solve the mystery. "Nowthe general's making a terrible row. Threatens me with theCommissioner."

      For some seconds Malcolm Sage devoted himself to his designs.

      "Any theory?" he enquired at length, without looking up.

      "I've