Miss Berengaria's servants had been with her for a long time and were all eminently respectable. She was – needless to say – very good to them, and they adored and obeyed her in quite a feudal manner. When at supper in the servants' hall – all old and all sedate – they might have been a company of Quakers from the sobriety of their demeanor. The head of the table was taken by the cook, and the foot by James the coachman. Those two were married and were both fat, both devoted to Miss Berengaria, and both rulers of the other servants. The coachman swayed the little kingdom of domestics with his stout wife as queen.

On the very evening Miss Plantagenet came back from Cove Castle, the servants were enjoying a good supper, and James was detailing the events of the day. After this his wife narrated what had taken place during his absence. And at the side of the table sat Jerry, looking the picture of innocence, occupied with his bread and cheese, but taking everything in. The information conveyed to James by the cook related to several tramps that had called, and to the killing of two fowls by a fox terrier that belonged to a neighbor.

"And a nice rage the missus will be in over them," said cook.

"You should have set Sloppy Jane on the terrier," said James. "Our poultry is prize birds and worth a dozen of them snappy dogs as bite the heels of respectable folk."

"Sloppy Jane was with me," said a sedate housemaid. "A tramp came to the gate asking for Miss Alice, and I couldn't get him away."

"What did he want with Miss Alice?" demanded James, aggressively.

"Ah, what indeed!" said the housemaid. "I told him Miss Alice wouldn't speak to the like of him. But he looked a gentleman, though he had a two days' beard and was dressed in such rags as you never saw."

"Did he go, Sarah?"

"Oh, yes, he went in a lingering sort of way, and I had to tie Jane up in case she'd fly on him. I didn't want that."

"Why not?" said the coachman, dictatorially. "Tramps is tramps."

Sarah pondered. "Well, cook and James, it's this way," she said, with some hesitation. "This murder of old Sir Simon – " Jerry pricked up his ears at this and looked more innocent than ever.

"Go on," said the cook, wondering why Sarah stopped.

"They said his grandson done it."

"And that I'll never believe," cried James, pounding the table. "A noble young gentleman Mr. Bernard, and many a half-crown he's given me. He never did it, and even if he did, he's dead and gone."

Sarah drew back from the table. "I really forgot that," she whimpered. "It must have been his ghost," and she threw her apron over her head.

"What's that, Sarah? A ghost! There's no such thing. Whose ghost?"

"Mr. Bernard's," said Sarah, looking scared, as she removed her apron. "Oh, to think I should have lived to see a ghost. Yes, you may all look, but that tramp, ragged and torn, was Mr. Gore. Don't I know him as well as I know myself?"

"Sarah," said James, while the cook turned pale and Jerry listened more eagerly than ever, "you rave in a crazy way."

"Oh, well, there's no knowing," cried Sarah, hysterically, "but the tramp was Mr. Gore, and I forgot he was dead. His ghost – it must have been his ghost. No wonder Jane wanted to fly at him."

"Mr. Bernard's ghost wanting to see Miss Alice!" said cook. "Get along with you, Sarah! He must be alive. I don't believe all the papers say. Perhaps he wasn't drowned after all."

"We must inquire into this," said James, magisterially and feeling for his glasses. "Oh, by the way" – he drew a dirty envelope out of his pocket – "here's something for you, young shaver." He threw it across to Jerry. "I was sitting in the kitchen in his lordship's castle and being waited on by a dark-eyed wench. I told her of us here and mentioned you. She said she knew you and asked me to give you that. And, to be sure, she would know you," added James, half to himself, "seeing Mrs. Moon is your grandmother, and a fine figure of a woman. But touching this here ghost – "

Jerry rose from the table and retreated to a corner of the warm room to read his note. But he kept his ears open all the time to the coachman's investigation of Sarah's doings with the tramp. The note was from Victoria asking Jerry to come over and see her, and stating that there was a gentleman stopping at the castle. "There's something queer about him, Jerry, as he keeps himself very much to himself. Also he knows your whistle as you whistles to me, which is funny. Can't you come over and see me?" This, with all allowance for mis-spelling, was what Jerry deciphered. Then he thrust the note into his pocket and returned to the table.

"He had an awful cough, this tramp," said Sarah.

"Ghosts don't cough," remarked cook.

"This one did awful, and he looked that pale and thin as never was."

"He went away in broad daylight?" asked James.

"It was getting dark – about five maybe. I was sorry for him, and I would have let him in to see Miss Alice, he seemed so disappointed."

"Ah, Sarah, it's a pity you didn't let him in."

"But, Mr. James, you can a-bear tramps."

"Or ghosts," added the cook, fearfully.

"It were no tramp and no spectre," said the coachman. "I see it all." He looked solemnly round the company. "This was Mr. Bernard come to see if Miss Alice will help him. He's alive, God be praised!"

"Amen," said the cook, bowing her head as though in church.

"And if he comes again, we will let him in and say nothing to the police."

"I should not," said Sarah; "he looked so sad and pale. Oh dear me! and such a fine, handsome young gentleman he was, to be sure."

"We will swear to be silent," said James, solemnly, "seeing as we are all sure Mr. Bernard never killed old Sir Simon."

"I'd never believe it if a jury told me," said the cook.

"Young Jerry, swear to be silent."

"Oh! I'm fly, Mr. James," said Jerry, easily; "but who is Mr. Bernard? and why did he kill Sir Simon?"

"He didn't, and he's the present baronet at the Hall, young Jerry. You don't chatter or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."

"Oh, he won't talk," said the good-natured cook. "He's an angel."

Sarah snorted. She was not so impressed with Jerry's angelic qualities as the rest of the company. However, Jerry, who had his own reasons to retire, slipped away unostentatiously and read Victoria's letter for the second time. Then he talked to himself in a whisper.

"He's alive after all," he said, "and he's stopping at that castle. I daresay the old girl" – he thus profanely described his mistress – "went over to there to see him with Miss Alice. And they brought him back, dropping him on the way so that he could get into the house quietly. He knows my whistle. No one but him could know it, as he heard me on that night. What's to be done? I'll go out and have a look round. He may come back again."

Jerry was too young to be so exact as he should be. There were several flaws in his argument. But he was too excited to think over these. It never struck him that Miss Plantagenet could have smuggled Gore easier into the house by bringing him in her carriage after swearing James to secrecy, than by letting him approach the house in the character of a tramp. But it was creditable to the lad's observation that he so quickly conjectured the mysterious stranger at the castle should be Bernard. Jerry knew that Conniston was a close friend of Gore's, and saw at once that Bernard had sought the refuge of the castle where he would remain undiscovered. But for Victoria's hint Jerry would never have guessed this. It was his duty to communicate this knowledge to Beryl, but for reasons of his own connected with the chance of a reward or a bribe to hold his tongue, from someone who could pay better than Beryl – say Lord Conniston – Jerry determined to wait quietly to see how things would turn out. Meanwhile he strolled round to the fowls, where he thought it likely the tramp – if he was a tramp – might come. If not a tramp he might come this way also as the easiest to enter the grounds.

The poultry yard was carved out of a large meadow by the side of the gardens. It ran back a considerable distance from the high road, and at the far end was fenced with a thin plantation of elms. Wire netting and stout fences surrounded the yard, and there was a gate opening on to the meadow aforesaid. Jerry hovered round these precincts watching, but he did not expect any luck. However, the boy, being a born bloodhound, waited for the sheer excitement of the thing.

Now it happened that Miss Berengaria had left the house of a pair of Cochin fowls unlocked. She would have gone out to lock it herself but that she was so weary. All the same, she would not delegate the duty to her servants, as she considered they might not execute the commission properly. Finally Alice offered to go, and, after putting on a thick waterproof and a large pair of rubber boots which belonged to Miss Plantagenet, she ventured out. Thus it was that she paddled round to the yard with a lantern and came into the neighborhood of Jerry. That suspicious young man immediately thought she had heard of Bernard's coming and had come out to meet him. He snuggled into a corner near the gate and watched as best he could in the darkness.

It was pouring rain, and the sky was black with swiftly-moving clouds. These streamed across the face of a haggard-looking moon, and in the flaws of the wind down came the rain in a perfect drench.

Alice, with her dress drawn up, a lantern in one hand and an umbrella of the Gamp species extended above her head, ventured into the yard, and locked up the precious fowls. Then she came back round by the gate to see if it was barred. To her surprise it was open. Rather annoyed she closed it again, and put up the bar. Then she took her way round by the side of the house to enter by the front door.

Jerry followed with the step of a red Indian. He was rewarded.

Just as Alice turned the corner of the house, she heard a groan, and almost stumbled over a body lying on the flower-bed under the wall of the house. At first she gave a slight shriek, but before she could step back the man clutched her feet – "Alice! Alice!" moaned the man. "Save me! – it's Bernard."

"Bernard here," said Alice, with a shudder, and wondered how he had come from the castle. She turned the light on to his face, and then started back. This was not Bernard.

In the circle of light she saw – and Jerry slinking along the side of the fence saw also – a pale, thin face with a wild look on it. The hair was long and matted, there was a scrubby growth on the chin, and the eyes were sunken for want of food. Still it was Bernard's face, and but that she had seen him on that very afternoon, she would have been deceived, until she had made a closer acquaintance with the tramp. But Alice, having heard the story of Mrs. Gilroy's son, knew at once that this miserable creature was Michael. He was representing himself to her as Bernard, and, mindful of Durham's advice, after the first start of alarm she determined to treat him as though she believed he was her lover.

"Can you get to your feet?" she said, touching him, although her soul shuddered within her when she thought what the man had done.

"Yes," said Michael, hoarsely, and tried to rise.

She assisted him to his feet but his weight almost made her sink. "I must get the servants," said she, trying to disengage herself.

"No! no!" said the man in a voice of hoarse terror. "They will give me up. Remember what I have done."

Alice did remember indeed, and shuddered again. But it was needful for the clearing of Bernard that she should carry on the comedy so as to detain the man. A word from her, that she knew who he really was, and he would fly at once – when all chance of saving Gore would be at an end. Therefore she half led, half dragged him round the corner of the house in the driving rain. Jerry waited till the two disappeared and the last gleam of the lantern vanished. Then he went back to the kitchen unconcernedly.

"Where have you been?" asked James, sternly.

"Looking to see if the poultry gate was all right," said Jerry. "You see, Mr. James, a tramp might come in there."

"It was your duty to shut it."

"I have shut it," said Jerry, with assumed sulkiness.

"Now don't you give me your lip, young sir, or I'll knock your head off – do you hear? Any tramps about?"

"No," said Jerry, mendaciously, "all's safe." And, with a wonderful sense in a lad of his age, he said no more. Then he sat down to cards with the cook, and never made a solitary mention of what was going on in the front of the house. As he quite expected, Miss Plantagenet never sent for any of the servants. "They'll manage the job themselves," thought Jerry, playing cheerfully. When he retired to bed he had a wonderful lot to think about, and more than ever he determined to watch which way the wind blew so as to make as much money out of his knowledge as possible. Jerry was a marvellously precocious criminal and knew much more than was good for him. Miss Berengaria would have fainted – unaccustomed as she was to indulge in such weakness – had she known the kind of youth she sheltered under her roof.

But poor Miss Berengaria had her hands full. She left the front door open for the return of Alice, and heard it close with a bang. At once she started from her seat before the fire in the drawing-room to rebuke the girl for such carelessness, but her anger changed to astonishment when Alice appeared at the door streaming with wet and supporting a man. "Aunt!" cried Alice, dropping the man in a heap and eagerly closing the door. "Here's Bernard!"

"Bernard!" exclaimed Miss Plantagenet, staring.

"Yes, yes!" said Alice, passing over and pinching her aunt's arm. "See how pale he is and hungry. He escaped, and has come for us to save him. If the police – "

The man on the floor, who was in a half stupor, half rose. "The police – the police!" he said thickly, and his wild eyes glared. "No. I will confess everything. Alice, I am – I am – " He dropped again.

By this time Miss Plantagenet, accepting the hint of Alice's pinch, was beginning to grasp the situation. She scarcely relished having a murderer under her roof, but for the sake of Bernard she felt that she also must aid in the deception. But she could not conceive how Michael could have the audacity to pass himself off as Bernard to one who knew him so intimately as Alice. At the same time, she saw the wonderful likeness to Gore. He and Michael might have been twins, but Michael had not the mole which was his brother's distinguishing mark. Still, unless Michael knew all about Bernard's life, unless he was educated like him, unless he knew his ways and tricks and manners, it was impossible that he should hope to deceive Alice or even Miss Berengaria herself.

Also there was another thing to be considered. How came the man in this plight? He had received one thousand pounds from Sir Simon in the beginning of October, and therefore must have plenty of money. Yet here he was – thin, haggard, in squalid rags, and evidently a hunted fugitive. It was not a comedy got up to deceive them, for both women saw that the man really was suffering. He was now lying in a stupor, but, for all that, he might have sense enough to know what they said, so both were cautious after a glance exchanged between them.

"We must take Bernard up to the turret-room," said Miss Berengaria, promptly. "He'll be all right to-night and then we can send for Payne to-morrow. Help me with him, Alice."

"But, aunt, the servants – "

"They will hold their tongues. I'll see to that."

"Bless you," murmured the half stupefied man. "I can't thank you for – Oh! if you only knew all! I want to tell you something."

"Never mind just now," said the old lady, sharply. "Try and get up the stairs supported by Alice and myself. Then we'll put you to bed and give you something to eat."

"Will I be safe?" asked the man, looking round anxiously.

"Quite safe. Do you think I would let you be taken, Bernard?" said Alice, although her soul sickened in her at the deception.

"I – trust – you," said Michael, with a strange look at her. "I am ill and dirty, and – and – but you know I am Bernard," he burst out in a pitiful kind of way.

"Yes, of course you are. Anyone can see that," said Miss Berengaria, as Alice didn't answer. "Help him up, Alice."

The two dragged the man up the stairs painfully, he striving his best to make his weight light. Miss Berengaria approved of this. "He's got good stuff in him," she said, when they led him into the small room, which took up the whole of the second floor of the turret.

"He always had," said Alice, warmly, and for the sake of the comedy.

But Miss Berengaria frowned. She applied what she said to Michael.

Then Miss Berengaria sent Alice downstairs to heat some wine, and made Michael go to bed. He was as weak as a child, and simply let her do what she liked. With some difficulty she managed to put him between the sheets, and then washed his face and hands. Finally, on Alice returning with the wine and some bread, she fed him with sops of the latter dipped into the former. After this, as Michael displayed symptoms of drowsiness, she prepared to leave him to a sound sleep. "And Payne shall see you to-morrow."

"But I'll be safe – safe," said the sick man, half starting up.

"Of course. Lie down and sleep."

Michael strove to say something, then sank back on his pillows. The two hurried out of the room and down the stairs feeling like conspirators. Not until they were safe in the drawing-room with the door closed did they venture to speak, and then only did so in whispers. Alice was the first to make a remark.

"If I hadn't seen Bernard this very day, I should have been deceived, aunt. Did you ever see so wonderful a likeness?"

"Never," admitted Miss Berengaria. "But how the deuce" – she was always a lady given to strong expressions – "does the man expect to pass himself off to you as Bernard? There's lots of things Bernard has said about which he must know nothing."

"I can't understand it myself. Perhaps he came to tell the truth."

"Humph!" Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose. "I don't think a man who would commit a murder would tell the truth. My flesh creeped when I touched him. All the same, there's pluck in the fellow. A pity he is such a scamp. Something might be made of him."

"Do you think he has got himself up like this to – "

"No, no!" snapped Miss Plantagenet, "the man's illness is genuine. I can see for myself, he's only skin and bone. I wonder how he came to be in such a plight?"

"Perhaps he will tell us."

"He'll tell lies," said the old lady, grimly. "And for the sake of Bernard we'll pretend to believe him. Wait till I get Durham on to him. He won't lie then. But the main point is to keep him. He is the only person who can get Bernard out of the trouble."

"What shall we do, aunt?"

"Nurse him up in that room, telling the servants that we have a guest. They need not see him. And Payne can cure him. When he is cured we will see what Durham says. That young man's clever. He will know how to deal with the matter. It's beyond me. Now we must go to bed. My head is in a whirl with the excitement of this day."

CHAPTER XVII
THE DIARY

Before Miss Berengaria could communicate with Durham, he had left the castle for town. On hearing this from Bernard, the old lady at once sent up to him a full report of the arrival of Michael at the Bower under the name of Gore.

"He is now a trifle better," wrote Miss Berengaria, "but having suffered from great privations he is still ill, and, so far as I can see, is likely to keep to his bed for some time. Payne is attending to him and says he needs careful nursing and tonics. He is so weak as to be scarcely able to talk, which is perhaps all the better, as Alice and I might arouse his suspicions. We have accepted him as Bernard, and when you come down you can question him either in that character or as Michael. To tell you the truth, I am sorry for the boy – he is only twenty-one or thereabouts, and I think he has been misguided. After all, even he may not have committed the crime, although he was certainly with Sir Simon on that fatal night. The servants – with the exception of my own especial maid, Maria Tait – know nothing of the man's presence in the turret chamber. And you may be sure that I am taking care Jerry Moon learns nothing. But I shall be glad when you can come down to take the matter out of my hands. I am much worried over it. Conniston comes over daily to see Lucy Randolph at the Hall, but he is so feather-brained a creature that I don't care about entrusting such a secret to him. Nor do I wish Bernard to know. With his impetuosity, he would probably come over at once, and run the chance of arrest. The whole matter is in your hands, Durham, so write and tell me what I am to do. At all events I have a fast hold of Bernard's double, and you may be sure I shall not allow him to go until this mystery is cleared up."

In reply to this pressing epistle, Durham wrote, telling Miss Berengaria to wait for three or four days. He was advertising for Tolomeo, and hoped to see him at his office. If, as Durham thought, the Italian had been with Sir Simon on that night, something might be learned from him likely to prove the presence of Michael in the room. The examination of Michael – which Durham proposed to make, would then be rendered much easier. The lawyer, in conclusion, quite agreed with Miss Plantagenet that Conniston and Bernard should not be told. "I hope to be with you by the end of the week," he finished.

"Deuce take the man," said Miss Berengaria, rubbing her nose. "Does he think I can wait all that time?"

"I don't see what else you can do, aunt," said Alice, when the letter was read. "And this poor creature is so weak, that I do not think he will be able to speak much for a few days. All we have to do is to nurse him and ask no questions."

"And to let him think we believe him to be Bernard."

"Oh, he is quite convinced of that," said Alice, quickly. "I suppose he hoped I would think his altered looks might induce me to overlook any lack of resemblance to Bernard."

"Yes, but he must guess when you talk you will find him out, seeing you know much of Bernard that he cannot know."

"Perhaps that is why he holds his tongue," said Alice, rising. "But we must wait, aunt."

"I suppose we must," said Miss Berengaria, dolefully. "Drat the whole business! Was there ever such a coil?"

"Well then, aunt, will you leave it alone?"

"Certainly not. I intend to see the thing through. Owing to my reticence to Sir Simon about your parents, Alice, I am really responsible for the whole business, so I will keep working at it until Bernard is out of danger and married to you."

"Ah!" sighed Miss Malleson. "And when will that be?"

"Sooner than you think, perhaps. Every day brings a surprise."

One day certainly brought a surprise to Lucy Randolph. She learned that Conniston loved her, though, to be sure, his frequent visits might have shown her how he was losing his heart. She was glad of this as she admired Conniston exceedingly, and, moreover, wished to escape from her awkward position at the Hall. When Bernard came back and married Alice, she would have to leave the Hall and live on the small income allotted to her by the generosity of the dead man. It would be much better, as she truly thought, to marry Conniston, even though he was the poorest of peers. One can do a lot with a title even without money, and Lucy was wise in her generation. Moreover, she was truly in love with the young man, and thought, very rightly, that he would make her a good husband.

As usual, Conniston, having taken into his head that Lucy would be an ideal wife, pursued his suit with characteristic impetuosity. He came over daily – or almost daily – to Gore Hall, and, finally, when Lucy broke off her engagement to Beryl, he told her of the whereabouts of Bernard. Lucy was overwhelmed and delighted.

"To think that he should be alive after all," she said. "I am so pleased, so glad. Dear Bernard, now he will be able to enjoy the fortune and the title, and marry Alice."

"You forget," said Conniston, a trifle dryly, "Bernard has yet to prove his innocence. We are all trying to help him. Will you also give a hand, Miss Randolph?"

Lucy stared at him with widely-open eyes. "Of course I will, Lord Conniston," she said heartily. "What do you wish me to do?"

"In the first place, tell me if you sent a boy to bring Bernard to Crimea Square?"

"No. I know the boy you mean. He is a lad called Jerry Moon. Julius found him selling matches in town, ragged and poor. He helped him, and the other day he procured him a situation with Miss Berengaria."

"He is there now. But he – we have reason to believe – is the boy who lured Bernard to Crimea Square."

"I know nothing about that," said Lucy, frankly. "Why not ask the boy himself? It would be easy."

"We will ask the boy shortly," replied Conniston, evasively, not wishing at this juncture to tell her that the great object of everyone was to prevent Jerry thinking he was suspected. "Should you meet the boy say nothing to him."

"I will not, and I am not likely to meet the boy. He is usually in Miss Plantagenet's poultry yard, and I rarely go round there." Lucy paused. "It is strange that the boy should act like that. I wonder if Sir Simon sent him to fetch Bernard, and arranged the Red Window as a sign which house it was?"

"The Red Window. Ah yes! Mrs. Webber saw the light, and – "

"And Julius afterwards didn't. I know that. It was my fault. When we drove up in the carriage on that terrible night I saw the Red Light, and wondered if Sir Simon had arranged it as a sign to Bernard. When I saw Bernard in the hall I was not astonished, for I thought he had come in answer to the light. I went upstairs, and after attending to Sir Simon, I went to the window. The lamp was before it, and stretched across the pane was a red bandanna handkerchief of Sir Simon's. I took that away, so you see how it was Julius did not see the light."

"Why did you remove the handkerchief?" asked the puzzled Conniston.

"Well, I wanted to save Bernard if possible, and I thought if the Red Light which had drawn him were removed, he could make some excuse. Julius knew about the Red Light, and, as he hated Bernard, I fancied he would use it against him. But really," added Miss Randolph, wrinkling her pretty brows, "I hardly knew what I was doing, save that in some vague way I fancied the removal of the handkerchief might help Bernard. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear," said Conniston, "and I am glad I know this. May I tell Bernard and Durham?"

"Certainly. I want to do all I can to help Bernard."

"Ah, you are a good woman," said Conniston, eagerly. "I wonder if you could make a chap good?"

"It depends upon the chap," said Lucy, shyly.

"I know a chap who – "

"Please stop, Lord Conniston," cried Lucy, starting up in confusion. "I have heaps and heaps to do. You prevent my working."

Her hurried flight prevented Conniston from putting the question on that occasion. But he was not daunted. He resolved to propose as soon as possible. But Lucy thought he was making love too ardently, and by those arts known to women alone, she managed to keep him at arm's length. She was anxious that Bernard should be cleared, that he should take up his rightful position, and should receive back the Hall from her, before Lord Conniston proposed. Of course, Lucy was ready to accept him, but, sure of her fish, she played with him until such time as she felt disposed to accept his hand and heart and title and what remained of the West fortune. Conniston, more determined than ever to win this adorable woman, came over regularly. But Lucy skilfully kept him off the dangerous ground, whereby he fell deeper in love than ever. Then one day, she appeared with a blue-covered book, the contents of which so startled them that love-making was postponed to a more convenient season.

"Fancy," said Lucy, running to meet Conniston one afternoon as soon as he appeared at the drawing-room door, "I have found the diary of Mrs. Gilroy."

"That's a good thing," said Conniston, eagerly. "She knows more of the truth than anyone else. We must read her diary."

"Will that be honorable?" said Lucy, retaining her hold of the book.

"Perfectly. One does not stand on ceremony when a man's neck is at stake. Mrs. Gilroy's diary may save Bernard's life. She knew too much about the murder, and fled because she thought Durham would come and question her."

"Oh! Was that why she ran away?"

"Yes! A woman like Mrs. Gilroy does not take such a course for nothing. She's a clever woman."

"And a very disagreeable woman," said Lucy, emphatically. "But what did she know?"

Conniston wriggled uneasily. He was not quite certain whether he ought to tell Lucy all that had been discovered, and, had he not been in love with her, he would probably have held his tongue. But, after some reflection, he decided to speak out. "You are, of course, on Bernard's side," he said.

"Yes. And against Julius, who hates Bernard. I will do anything I can to help Bernard. I am sure you can see that," she added in a most reproachful manner.

"I know – I know. You are the truest and best woman in the world," said Conniston, eagerly, "but what I have to tell you is not my own secret. It concerns Bernard."

"Then don't tell me," said Lucy, coloring angrily.

"Yes, I will. You have the diary and I want to read it. To know why I do, it is necessary that you should learn all that we have discovered."

"What have you discovered? Who killed Sir Simon?"

"No. We are trying to hunt down the assassin. And Mrs. Gilroy's diary may tell us."

"I don't see that."

"You will, when you learn what I have to say." And Conniston related everything concerning the false marriage and the half-brother of young Gore. "And now, you see," he finished triumphantly, "Mrs. Gilroy is fighting for her son. It is probable that she has set down the events of that night in her diary."