47434 As the old man stood there he saw something coming across the moor, something which terrified him so that he lost his wits, and ran and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion.
47435 There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled.
47436 And from what?
47437 A sheep-dog of the moor?
47438 Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and monstrous?
47439 Was there a human agency in the matter?
47440 Did the pale, watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say?
47441 It was all dim and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it.
47442 One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last.
47443 This is Mr Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of us.
47444 He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric.
47445 His passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in litigation.
47446 He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting, and is equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that it is no wonder that he has found it a costly amusement.
47447 Sometimes he will shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him open it.
47448 At others he will with his own hands tear down some other man's gate and declare that a path has existed there from time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him for trespass.