CHAPTER XVI.
SEARCHING FOR A CLUE.
The landlord of the "Carne's Arms" was somewhat puzzled by a strangerwho had just been dropped at his door by the coach from Plymouth. He didnot look like either a fisherman or an artist, or even a wanderingtourist. His clothes were somewhat rough, and the landlord would havetaken him for a farmer, but what could any strange farmer be stopping atCarnesford for? There were no farms vacant in the neighbourhood, nor anylikely to be, so far as the landlord knew; besides, the few words hisguest had spoken as he entered had no touch of the Devonshire dialect.While he was standing at the door, turning the matter over in hismind--for he rather prided himself upon his ability to decide upon thecalling and object of his guests, and was annoyed by his failure to doso in the present instance--the man he was thinking of came out of thecoffee-room and placed himself beside him.
"Well, landlord, this is a pretty village of yours; they told me inPlymouth it was as pretty a place as any about, and I see they wereright."
"Yes, most folks think it's pretty," the landlord said, "although I amso accustomed to it myself I don't see a great deal in it."
"Yes, custom is everything. I have been accustomed for a great manyyears to see nothing much but plains, with clumps of bush here andthere, and occasionally a herd of deer walking across it. I have beenfarming down at the Cape, and so, you see, a quiet, pretty place likethis is very pleasant to me."
"I should think it is quiet enough farming there," the landlord said. "Ihave heard from folk who have been out in some of those parts that youoften haven't a neighbour nearer than four miles away."
"That's true enough, landlord, but the life is not always quiet for allthat. It's not quiet, for instance, when you hear the yell of a hundredor so savages outside your windows, or see a party driving half yourcattle away into the bush."
"No, I shouldn't call that quiet; and that is what you have been doing?"
"Yes, I was in the disturbed part when the Kaffirs rose. Most of ourneighbours were killed, and we had a hard time of it, but some mountedpolice came up just in time. I have had trouble three or four timesbefore, and it's no use going on for years rearing cattle if they are tobe all swept away by the natives, and you are running the risk ofgetting your throat cut in the bargain; so, after this last affair, Ilocked up my farmhouse, drove off what cattle I had got left, and soldthem for what I could get for them, and here I am."
"Yes, here you are," repeated the landlord; "and what next?"
"The ship touched at Plymouth, and I thought I might as well get outthere as anywhere else. Well, there is too much noise and bustle atPlymouth. I haven't been used to it, and so now I am just looking for alittle place to suit me. I have been up to Tavistock, and then some onesaid that Carnesford was a pretty village. I said I would look atCarnesford, and so you see here I am."
"What sort of a place are you looking for?" the landlord asked, lookingat his visitor closely, and mentally appraising his worth.
"Oh, quite a little place, I should say about twenty pounds a year. Isuppose one could get a girl to help from the village, and could livefor another eighty. That's about what I could afford."
"Oh, yes, I should say you could do that," said the landlord,thoughtfully, "but I don't know that there is any such place to letanywhere about here. There is a nice cottage at the other end of thevillage just empty. It's got a good garden, and is rather away from therest of the houses; but the rent is only half-a-crown a week. Thatwouldn't do for you."
"Well, I wanted something better than that; but still I might have alook at it. Of course if I took it I should want to stay, and I might aswell spend a little money in doing it up to my fancy as in payinghigher rent. By the way, my name is Armstrong. Perhaps you wouldn't mindputting on your hat and showing me this place you speak of. We have beenused to roughing it, and don't want anything fine."
The cottage was certainly large and roomy, and stood in a pretty garden.But its appearance was not prepossessing, for it differed from most ofthe other little houses in the village inasmuch as it was not, likethem, half hidden by roses and creepers climbing over it.
"Yes, it's rough, decidedly rough," Mr. Armstrong said, "still there isa pretty view down the valley. Now I should save nearly fourteen poundsin rent by taking this instead of a twenty pound a year house; and ifone were to put up a verandah round it, touch up the windows somehow,and put pretty paper on the walls, I should say that at the end of twoyears it would stand me in just the same. That and plenty of roses andthings would make it a pretty little place. Who is the landlord?"
"The landlord is Mr. Carne, up at The Hold; that's the big house on thehill. But he is away at present. Mr. Kirkland, a lawyer at Plymouth, ishis agent, and sees to the letting of his houses and that sort of thing.His clerk comes over once a month to collect the rents. I expect youwould have to go to him even if Mr. Carne was at home. Squire was nevermuch down in the village in the best of times, and we have hardly seenhis face since his sister's death."
"Yes, they were telling us about that affair at Plymouth," the colonistsaid, quietly. "It was a bad business. Well, have you got some prettysociable sort of fellows in the village? I like a chat as well as anyman, and I should want some one to talk to."
"Well, I don't know that they would be your sort," the landlord said,doubtfully. "There's the clergyman--and the doctor----"
"Oh, no. I don't want to have to do with clergymen and doctors--wecolonists are pretty rough and ready fellows, and it's no odds to uswhat a man is. A man stops at your door, and in he comes, and he iswelcome--though he is only a shepherd on the look-out for work;sometimes one of the Kaffir chiefs with nothing on but a blanket and aleather apron, will stalk in and squat down and make himself at home.Oh, no. It's tradesmen I mean, and perhaps the small farmers round."
"Well, we are pretty well off for that, Mr. Armstrong. There is HiramPowlett, the miller, and Jacob Carey, the blacksmith--they drop inpretty regular every evening and smoke a pipe with me, in what I call mysnuggery; and there's old Reuben Claphurst--he was the clerk at onetime, and is a wonderful chap for knowing the history of every familyfor miles round; and there's some of the farmers often come in for aglass--if you are not too proud for that sort of company."
"Proud! Bless your heart, what is there to be proud about; ain't I beenworking as a farmer for years and years with no one to talk to but myown hands?--I mean my own men. No, that's just the thing to suit me;anyhow, I think I will try the experiment. If at the end of a couple ofyears I don't like it, why, there is no harm done."
"Well, I am sure we shall be all glad to have you here, Mr. Armstrong;we like getting some one from outside, it freshens our ideas up a bitand does us good. We are cheerful enough in summer with the artists thatcome here sketching, and with the gentlemen who sometimes come to fish;but the rest of the year I don't often have a stranger at the 'Carne'sArms.'"
Two days later Mr. Armstrong returned to Carnesford with a builder fromPlymouth. The following day, five or six workmen appeared, and in afortnight a considerable transformation had been made in the cottage. Averandah was run round the front and two sides. Some rustic woodworkappeared round the windows, and the interior of the house wastransformed with fresh paper and paint. Nothing could be done in the wayof roses and creepers, as these could not be moved at that time of year,for it was now just midsummer.
The day after the workmen went out, a waggon load of furniture, simpleand substantial, arrived, and on the following day the coach broughtdown the new tenants. A girl had already been engaged in the village toact as servant. Miss Armstrong was quietly and plainly dressed, andmight, by her attire, be taken for the daughter of a small farmer, andthe opinion in the village, as the newcomers walked through on their wayto the cottage, was distinctly favourable. In a very short time Mr.Armstrong became quite a popular character in Carnesford, and soon wason speaking terms with most of the people. He won the mothers' hearts bypatting the heads of the little girls, and praising their looks. He hada h
abit of carrying sweets in his pockets, and distributing them freelyamong the children, and he would lounge for hours at the smith's door,listening to the gossip that went on, for in Carnesford, as elsewhere,the forge was the recognised meeting-place of those who had nothing todo. He was considered a wonderful acquisition by the frequenters of thesnuggery at the "Carne's Arms," and his stories of life at the Cape gavean added interest to their meetings. Hearing from Hiram Powlett that hehad a wife and daughter, he asked him to get them, as a matter ofkindness, to visit his daughter; and within a fortnight of his arrival,he and Mary went to tea to the Mill.
Several times the conversation in the snuggery turned upon the murder atThe Hold. In no case did the new-comer lead up to it, but it cropped upas the subject which the people of Carnesford were never weary ofdiscussing. He ventured no opinions and asked no questions upon thefirst few occasions when the subject was being discussed, but smoked hispipe in silence, listening to the conversation.
"It seems strange to me," he said at last, "that you in this villageshould never have had a suspicion of any one except this Captain Mervyn;I understand that you, Mr. Claphurst, and you, Mr. Carey, have neverthought of any one else; but Mr. Powlett--he always says he is sure itisn't him. But if it wasn't him, Mr. Powlett, who do you think it was?"
"Ah, that is more than I can tell," Hiram replied. "I have thought, andI have thought, till my head went round, but I can't see who it can havebeen."
"Miss Carne seems to have had no enemies?"
"No, not one--not as I ever heard of. She was wonderful popular in thevillage, she was; and as for the Squire, except about poaching, he neverquarrelled with any one."
"Had he trouble with poachers, then?"
"Well, not often; but last year, before that affair, there was a bad lotabout. They were from Dareport--that's two miles away, down at the mouthof the river--with one or two chaps from this village, so it was said.About a fortnight--it may be three weeks--before Miss Carne was killed,there was a fight up in the woods between them and the gamekeepers. Oneof the keepers got stabbed, but he didn't die until some timeafterwards; but the jury brought it in wilful murder all the same. Itdidn't matter much what verdict they brought in, 'cause the man as theevidence went against had left the country--at least, he hadn't beenseen hereabouts."
"And a good job too, Hiram--a good job too," Jacob Carey put in.
"Yes," Hiram said, "I admit it; it was a good job as he was gone--a goodjob for us all. He would never have done any good here, anyway; and thebest job as ever he did for himself, as I know of, was when he tookhimself off."
There was a general chorus of assent.
"What was the man's name?" Mr. Armstrong asked, carelessly.
"His name was George Forester," Jacob Carey said.
As they were going out from the snuggery that evening, the landlord madea sign to Mr. Armstrong that he wanted to speak to him. He accordinglylingered until the other men had left.
"Oh, I thought I would just tell you, Mr. Armstrong, seeing that yourdaughter and you have been to the Mill, it's just as well not to talkabout the poaching and George Forester before Ruth Powlett. You see,it's rather a sore subject with her. She was engaged to that GeorgeForester, and a lot of trouble it gave her father and mother. Well, Iexpect she must have seen now that she had a lucky escape. Still, a girldon't like a man as she has liked being spoken against, so I thoughtthat I would say a word to you."
"Thank you; that's very friendly of you. Yes, you may be sure that Iwon't introduce the subject. I am very glad you told me, or I might haveblundered upon it and hurt the girl's feelings. She doesn't look verystrong, either. She has a nervous look about her, I think."
"She used to be very different, but she had a great shock. She was thefirst, you know, to go into Miss Carne's room and find her dead. She washer maid before that, and she was ill for weeks after. It came on thetop of an illness, too. She fell down on the hill coming home fromchurch, and they found her lying insensible there, and she was verybad--had the doctor there every day. Then came this other affair, and Idare say this business of George Forester's helped too. Anyhow, she wasvery bad, and the doctor thought at one time that she wouldn't get overit."
Mr. Armstrong walked home thoughtfully.
"Well, father, what is your news?" Mary Armstrong said, as he entered."I can see you have heard something more than usual."
"Well, my dear, I don't know that it's anything, but at the same time itcertainly is new, and gives us something to follow up. It seems thatthere was a fellow named George Forester living somewhere about here,and he was engaged to your friend, Ruth Powlett, but her father andmother disapproved of it highly. They say he was a bad lot; he got mixedup with a gang of poachers, and some little time before this murder,about three weeks before, they had a fight with Mr. Carne's keepers; oneof the keepers was mortally wounded, it was said by this GeorgeForester. The man lived for some time, but at last died of the wound,and the jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder against GeorgeForester, who had been missing from the time of the fight."
"Yes, father, but that seems no great clue."
"Perhaps not, Mary, but it shows at least that there was one fellowabout here who may be considered to have had a quarrel with the Carnes,and who was a thoroughly bad character, and who--and this is ofimportance--was engaged, with or without her parents' consent, to MissCarne's own maid."
Mary gave a little gasp of excitement.
"Now it seems, further," her father went on, "that some time betweenthis poaching affray and the murder--I could not inquire closely intodates--Ruth Powlett was found insensible on the road going up the hill,and was very ill for some days; she said she had had a fall, and ofcourse she may have had, although it is not often young women fall downso heavily as to stun themselves. But it may of course have beensomething else."
"What else, father?"
"Well, it is possible she may have met this lover of hers, and that theymay have had a quarrel. Probably she knew he had been engaged in thispoaching affair, and may have told him that she would have nothing moreto do with him, and he may have knocked her down. Of course, this is allmere supposition, but it is only by supposition that we can grope ourway along. It seems she was well enough anyhow to go up to her placeagain at The Hold, for she was the first to discover the murder, and theshock was so great that she was ill for weeks, in fact in great danger;they say she has been greatly changed ever since. I don't know whetheranything can be made of that, my dear."
"I don't know. I don't see what, father," Mary said, after thinking forsome time, "unless she is fancying since that it was this man who didit. Of course, anyhow, it would be a fearful shock for a girl to findher mistress lying murdered, and perhaps it may be nothing more thanthat."
"No doubt, it may be nothing more than that, Mary; but it's the otherside of the case we have to look at. Let us piece the things together.Here we have four or five facts, all of which may tell. Here is a badcharacter in the village; that is one point. This man had a poachingaffray with Mr. Carne's keepers; he killed, or at any rate the coroner'sjury found that he killed, one of the keepers. He is engaged to MissCarne's own maid. This maid is just after this poaching business foundinsensible in the wood, and tells rather an improbable story as to howit came about. She is the first to enter her mistress's room, and thenshe has a serious illness. Of course, any girl would be shocked andfrightened and upset, but it is not so often that a serious illnesswould be the result. And lastly, she has been changed ever since. Shehas, as you remarked to me the other day, an absent, preoccupied sort ofway about her. Taken altogether, these things certainly do amount tosomething."
"I think so too, father; I think so too," Mary Armstrong said, walkingup and down the little room in her excitement. "I do think there may besomething in it; and you see, father, after this poaching business, theman wanted to get away, and he may have been in want of money, and sohave thought of taking Miss Carne's watch and jewels to raise money totake him abroad."
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bsp; "So he might, my dear. That is certainly a feasible explanation, butunfortunately, instead of taking them away, you see he buried them."
"Yes, father, but he only just pushed them into the ground, the reportsaid; because on reading through the old files of the newspapers theother day I particularly noticed that. Well, father, you see, perhapsjust as he was leaving the house a dog may have barked, or something mayhave given him a scare, and he may just have hidden them in the ground,intending to come for them next day; and then, what with the excitementand the police here, and the search that was being made, he could get noopportunity of getting them up again, and being afraid of being arrestedhimself for his share in the poaching affray, he dared not hang abouthere any longer, but probably went down to Plymouth and got on boardship there. Of course, all this is nothing more than supposition, stillit really does not seem improbable, father. There is only one difficultythat I can see. Why should he have killed Miss Carne, because thedoctors say that she was certainly asleep?"
"We cannot tell, dear. She may have moved a little. He may have thoughtthat she would wake, and that he had better make sure. He was adesperate man, and there is no saying what a desperate man will do.Anyhow, Mary, this is a clue, and a distinct one, and we must follow itup. It may lead us wrong in the end, but we shall not be losing time byfollowing it, for I shall keep my ears open, and may find some other andaltogether different track."
"How had we better follow it?" Mary asked, after having sat silent forsome minutes. "This Forester is gone, and we have no idea where. I thinkthe only person likely to be able to help us is Ruth Powlett."
"Exactly so, my dear."
"And she would not be likely to speak. If she knows anything she wouldhave said it at the trial had she not wished to shield this man, whomshe may love in spite of his wickedness."
"Quite so, my dear; and besides," and he smiled, "young women in loveare not disposed to believe in their lovers' guilt."
"How can you say so, father?" Mary said, indignantly; "you would notcompare----"
"No, no, Mary; I would not compare the two men; but I think you willadmit that even had the evidence against Ronald Mervyn been ten times asconclusive as it was, you would still have maintained his innocenceagainst all the world."
"Of course I should, father."
"Quite so, my dear; that is what I am saying; however, if oursupposition is correct in this case, the girl does believe him to beguilty, but she wishes to shield him, either because she loves him stillor has loved him. It is astonishing how women will cling to men evenwhen they know them to be villains. I think, dear, that the best way ofproceeding will be for you to endeavour to find out from Ruth Powlettwhat she knows. Of course it will be a gradual matter, and you can onlydo it when she has got to know and like you thoroughly."
"But, father," Mary said, hesitating, "will it not be a treacherousthing for me to become friends with her for the purpose of gaining hersecret?"
"It depends how you gain it, Mary. Certainly it would be so were you toget it surreptitiously. That is not the way I should propose. If thisgirl has really any proof or anything like strong evidence that themurder was committed by this man Forester, she is acting wrongly andcruelly to another to allow the guilt to fall upon him. In time, whenyou get intimate with her, intimate enough to introduce the subject,your course would be to impress this upon her so strongly as to induceher to make an open confession. Of course you would point out to herthat this could now in no way injure the man who is her lover, as he hasgone no one knows where, and will certainly never return to thiscountry, as upon his appearance he would at once be arrested and triedon the charge of killing the gamekeeper. All this would be perfectlyopen and above-board. Then, Mary, you could, if you deemed it expedient,own your own strong interest in the matter. There would be nothingtreacherous in this, dear. You simply urge her to do an act of justice.Of course it will be painful for her to do so, after concealing it solong. Still, I should think from the little I have seen of her that sheis a conscientious girl, and is, I doubt not, already sorely troubled inher mind over the matter."
"Yes, father, I agree with you. There would be nothing treacherous inthat. I have simply to try to get her to make a confession of anythingshe may know in the matter. I quite agree with you in all you have saidabout the man, but I do not see how Ruth Powlett can know anything forcertain, whatever she may suspect; for if she was, as you say,dangerously ill for a long time after the murder, she cannot very wellhave seen the man, who would be sure to have quitted the country atonce."
"I am afraid that that is so, Mary. Still, we must hope for the best,and if she cannot give us absolute evidence herself, what she says mayat least put us in the right track for obtaining it. Even if no legalevidence can be obtained, we might get enough clues, with what we havealready, to convince the world that whereas hitherto there seemed noalternative open as to Mervyn's guilt, there was in fact another againstwhom there is at any rate a certain amount of proof, and whose characteris as bad as that of Captain Mervyn is good. This would in itself be agreat step. Mervyn has been acquitted, but as no one else is shown tohave been connected with it in any way, people are compelled, in spiteof his previous character, in spite of his acquittal, in spite in facteven of probability, to consider him guilty. Once shown that there is atleast reasonable ground for suspicion against another, and the opinion,at any rate of all who know Mervyn, would at once veer round."
"Very well, father; now you have done your part of the work by findingout the clue, I will do mine by following it up. Fortunately, RuthPowlett is a very superior sort of girl to any one in the village, and Ican make friends with her heartily and without pretence. I should havefound it very hard if she had been a rough sort of girl, but sheexpresses herself just as well as I do, and seems very gentle and nice.One can see that even that sharp-voiced stepmother of hers is very fondof her, and she is the apple of the miller's eye. But you must not beimpatient, father; two girls can't become great friends all at once."
"I think, on the whole, Miss Armstrong," her father said, "you are quiteas likely to become impatient as I am, seeing that it is your businessmuch more than mine."
"Well, you may be sure I shall not lose more time than I can help,father." Mary Armstrong laughed. "You don't know how joyous I feelto-night, I have always been hopeful, but it did seem so vague before.Now that we have got what we think to be a clue, and can set to work atonce, I feel ever so much nearer to seeing Ronald again."
The consequence of this conversation was that Mary Armstrong went veryfrequently down to the mill, and induced Ruth Powlett, sometimes, tocome up and sit with her.
"I am very glad, Mr. Armstrong," Hiram Powlett said, one evening, whenthey happened to be the first two to arrive in the snuggery, "that myRuth seems to take to your daughter. It's a real comfort to Hesba andme. You would have thought that she would have taken to some of thegirls she went to school with, but she hasn't. I suppose she is tooquiet for them, and they are too noisy for her. Anyhow, until now, shehas never had a friend, and I think it will do her a world of good. It'sbad for a girl to be alone, and especially a girl like Ruth. I don'tmind telling you, Mr. Armstrong, that Hesba and I have an idea that shehas got something on her mind, she has been so changed altogether sinceMiss Carne's murder. I might have thought that she had fretted aboutthat scamp Forester going away, for at one time the girl was very fondof him, but before it happened she told me that she had found out hewould never make her a good husband, and would break it off altogetherwith him; so you see I don't think his going away had anything to dowith it. Once or twice I thought she was going to say somethingparticular to me, but she has never said it, and she sits there andbroods and broods till it makes my heart ache to see her. Now she hasgot your daughter to be friends with, perhaps she may shake it off."
"I hope she may, Mr. Powlett. It's a bad thing for a girl to mope. Iknow Mary likes your daughter very much; perhaps, if she has anything onher mind, she will tell Mary one of these days. You see, when g
irls getto be friends, they open their hearts to each other as they won't do toany one else."
"I don't see what she can have on her mind," the miller said, shakinghis head. "It may only be a fancy of mine. Hesba and I have talked itover a score of times."
"Very likely it's nothing, after all," Mr. Armstrong said. "Girls getstrange fancies into their heads, and make mountains out of molehills.It may be nothing, after all; still, perhaps she would be all the betterfor the telling of it."
Hiram Powlett shook his head decidedly. "Ruth isn't a girl to havefancies. If she is fretting, she is fretting over something serious. Idon't know why I am talking so to you, Mr. Armstrong, for I have neverspoken to any one else about it; but your daughter seems to have takenso kindly to Ruth that it seems natural for me to speak to you."
"I am glad you have done so, Mr. Powlett, and I hope that good may comefrom our talk."
It was not until a fortnight after this chat that Mary had anything tocommunicate to her father, for she found that whenever she turned theconversation upon the topic of the murder of Miss Carne, Ruth evidentlyshrank so much from it that she was obliged to change the subject.
"To-day, father, I took the bull by the horns. Ruth had been sittingthere for some time working without saying a word, when I asked hersuddenly, as if it was what I had been thinking over while we weresilent: 'What is your opinion, Ruth? Do you think that Captain Mervynreally murdered his cousin?' She turned pale. She has never much colour,you know, but she went as white as a sheet, and then said, 'I am quitesure that he did not do it, but I don't like talking about it.' 'No, ofcourse not,' I said. 'I can quite understand that after the terribleshock you had. Still, it is awful to think that this Captain Mervynshould have been driven away from his home and made an outcast of if heis innocent.' 'It serves him right,' Ruth said, passionately. 'How darehe insult and threaten my dear Miss Margaret? Nothing is too bad forhim.' 'I can't quite agree with you there,' I said. 'No doubt hedeserved to be punished, and he must have been punished by being triedfor his cousin's murder; but to think of a man spending all his life,branded unjustly with the crime of murder, is something too terrible tothink of.' 'I dare say he is doing very well,' she said, after a pause.'Doing well,' I said, 'doing well! What can you be thinking of, Ruth?What sort of doing well can there be for a man who knows that at anymoment he may be recognised, that his story may be whispered about, andthat his neighbours may shrink away from him; that his wife, if he evermarries, may come to believe that her husband is a murderer, that hischildren may bear the curse of Cain upon them? It is too terrible tothink of. If Captain Mervyn is guilty, he ought to have been hung; if heis innocent, he is one of the most unfortunate men in the world.' Ruthdidn't say anything, but she was so terribly white that I thought shewas going to faint. She tried to get up, but I could see she couldn't,and I ran and got her a glass of water. Her hand shook so that she couldhardly hold it to her lips. After she drank some she sat for a minute ortwo quiet, then she murmured something about a sudden faintness, andthat she would go home. I persuaded her to stay a few minutes longer. Atlast she got up. 'I am subject to fainting fits,' she said; 'it is verysilly, but I cannot help it. Yes, perhaps what you say about CaptainMervyn is right, but I never quite saw it so before. Good-bye,' and thenshe went off, though I could see she was scarcely able to walksteadily. Oh, father, I feel quite sure that she knows something; thatshe can prove that Ronald is innocent if she chooses; and I think thatsooner or later she will choose. First of all she was so decided in herassertion that Ronald was innocent; she did not say 'I think,' or 'Ibelieve,' she said 'I am quite sure.' She would never have said thatunless she knew something quite positive. Then the way that she burstout that it served him right, seems to me, and I have been thinkingabout it ever since she went away an hour ago, as if she had been tryingto convince herself that it was right that he should suffer, and tosoothe her own conscience for not saying what would prove him innocent."
"It looks like it, Mary; it certainly looks like it. We are on the righttrail, my girl, I am sure. That was a very heavy blow you struck herto-day, and she evidently felt it so. Two or three more such blows, andthe victory will be won. I have no doubt now that Ruth Powlett somehowholds the key of this strange mystery in her hand, and I think that whatyou have said to her to-day will go a long way towards inducing her tounlock it. Forester was the murderer of Miss Carne, I have not a shadowof doubt, though how she knows it for certain is more than I can evenguess."