"But it's all covered wi' blood," came the disturbing statement.

A handkerchief soon gave evidence that Bates was not exaggerating.
Miss--or is it Madam?--Dorothy Perkins can scratch as well as look sweet,
and a thorn had opened a small vein in Grant's cheek which bled to a
surprising extent.

"Oh, it is nothing," he said. "I remember now--a rose shoot caught me as
I went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for you to come
and see _this_."

Soon the two were examining the rope and the staple.

"Now who put _that_ there?" said Bates, not asking a question but rather
stating a thesis.

"It was not here yesterday," commented his master, accepting all that
Bates's words implied.

"No, sir, that it wasn't. I was a-cuttin' the lawn till nigh bed-time,
an' it wasn't there then."

Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope.

"Suppose we solve the mystery," he said.

"No need to dirty your hands, sir," put in Bates. "Let I haul 'un in."

In a few seconds the oaken tint in his face grew many shades lighter.