“Well, you don’t have to sneak it out. Why can’t I just come into the house and have a quick peek at it?”

“Duff has probably hidden it again. Also, he’d be very upset if he caught you looking at it. I do want you to see it, though, if only to give you some evidence of my sanity.”

We arrived at the horse owner’s farm, which was on the next road—nearly opposite the Caine place, Father Jackson thought, on the other side of the woods. If a person knew a path through the woods, it seemingly would have been no trouble to lead a horse from one farm to the other.

We walked out to the barn and met the owner, Fred Dobbs. Mr. Dobbs was a lean and weathered seventy or so, and he watched me silently as Father Jackson explained that I was living in the Caine house and that someone had been riding a horse on the Caine property.

“I didn’t know any of it was cultivated, so’s it would make any difference,” Dobbs said.

“Actually, the horse and rider were on the road,” I said, “but the horse was being ridden too hard. I love horses and I don’t like to see them mistreated.”

Dobbs relaxed. “Are you going to keep horses on the Caine place?”

“Maybe later.”

“I’ve got a nice young hunter I can let you have cheap. Also, a couple of gentle ponies, if you’ve got children.”

“Could we see the horse that was stolen?” Father Jackson asked.

Dobbs took us into the barn, where there were several horses in stalls. He opened a stall door and led out a beautiful black mare.

“That’s the horse,” I said.

“You’re sure?” Father Jackson said.

“There can’t be that many black Arabians with white patches on their right forelegs around here. She’s a beauty,” I told Dobbs.

“Ain’t she? She ain’t full Arabian, but she’s got plenty of good blood. Look here how she was spurred.” He turned the horse around so we could see the gashes on both flanks. “That’s how I knew she’d been taken out. Whoever did it must’ve come around after dark. She’ll make up with anybody.”

“Don’t you keep this barn locked?” Father Jackson asked.

“Yes, but it’s an old padlock that would be easy to spring. Look here, whoever was on her must’ve ridden her into a fence or something.”

There was a long scratch on the mare’s right hind leg.

“Could she have been scraped by a car?” Father Jackson asked.

“Sure, that would’ve done it too. Did you get a good look at the fella riding her?” Dobbs asked me.

“Only a quick look. It was dark.”

“Was he young or middle-­aged or what?”

“Reasonably young.”