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head and after several minutes, he appeared again at the yard door. He was in no hurry, weighing the situation with the hardheaded prudence of the North. Rutledge waited impatiently but said nothing, nearly certain that there was a shotgun somewhere within easy reach.
    “Here, Bieder,” the farmer at last called to the dog, and with a final challenging glance at Rutledge, the animal turned obediently to his voice.
    Pulling on a pair of Wellingtons, the man came out into the yard, a lantern in his hand. Holding it high, he stared from Rutledge to the pale face of his passenger.
    “An accident, you say?” he demanded suspiciously. “Miss?”
    “My—my—carriage—went off—the road,” the woman managed, her teeth chattering as she raised her head out of the nest of blankets. In the lantern light the blood on her lip was a dark and ominous smudge. “Please—I don't think I can bear the cold much longer. L-Let me sit by your fire for ten minutes, and we'll b-be on our way.”
    “Ah.” He lowered the lantern and said to Rutledge, “Can she walk, then?”
    “Her ribs are bruised—possibly cracked. Her feet are numb.”
    Rutledge got out, walked around the bonnet, and came to the passenger door. Opening it, he said gently, “It will hurt, to help you out. Can you manage?”
    A ghost of a smile appeared on the strained face. “If there's a fire—”
    The farmer, a burly man, said, “Come along, lass. I'd lift you myself but for the ribs, now. Between us, we'll have you in the kitchen in the blink of an eye. My wife already has the kettle on!” His accent was heavy, the words gruff, but his intentions were kind.
    They got her down, and between them on their crossed wrists, to the house, the dog sniffing at their heels. A heavyset woman with a red face, cheeks permanently windburned, was waiting for them in the kitchen, her hands tight together.
    As they came through the door, her expression softened. She said, “My sweet Lord! Oh, the poor
lass
! Bring her here, by the stove!” Over the injured woman's head she said to Rutledge, “What's happened to her?” He could see the shadow of alarm in her eyes, as if the older woman expected him to say his companion had been attacked by a murderer.
    He explained again as his passenger was urged into a chair, her blankets hastily settled around her like cushions. She tried to lean back and gasped.
    The farmer's wife, tightening the sash of her robe about her thick waist, said, “Jim, take the inspector into the sitting room, if you please. I'll just have a look at this young lady.”
    Rutledge followed Jim into a small sitting room. It was already losing the evening's heat but was still comfortable, compared to the raw night outside. The man lit a lamp on a table, settled the chimney in place again, and motioned Rutledge towards the best chair. The fire on the hearth had been banked for morning, but the farmer stirred it into life, still holding the poker as he turned back to his unexpected guest.
    “If you're a policeman, you'll have something to show me.”
    Rutledge reached into his coat and withdrew his card. The farmer examined it. “Scotland Yard, is it, then? You've made rare good time!”
    “I was in Preston when the summons came.”
    The farmer set the poker back in its place, shaking his head. “Bad business, this! There was a search party come through early this morning. I asked if they needed me as well, but they said they had enough men for this part of the valley. They hadn't found the boy—more's the pity.” He sat heavily in the next chair. “Tonight I put the dog in the barn, with the door ajar. A precaution, belated though it was! I don't put much faith in anyone except myself, out here. There's a shotgun in the entry, behind the pantry door. If I'd needed it.” He held out a rough hand. “James Follet.”
    Rutledge acknowledged the introduction, but couldn't stop himself from casting a glance towards the kitchen.
    “Don't worry about the