Bobby remembered that Jenkins hadn’t been aroused by the discovery of Howells’s murder.

“You’d know in a few minutes anyway,” he said.  “Howells has been killed as my grandfather was.”

Jenkins moved back, a look of unbelief and awe in his wrinkled face.

“He boasted he was going to sleep in that room,” he whispered.

Bobby studied Jenkins, not knowing what to make of the old man, for into the awe of the wrinkled face had stolen a positive relief, an emotion that bordered on the triumphant.

“It’s terrible,” Jenkins whispered.

Graham grasped his shoulder.

“What’s the matter with you, Jenkins?  One would say you were glad.”

“No.  Oh, no, sir.  It is terrible.  I was only wondering about the policeman’s report.”

“What do you know about his report?” Bobby cried.

“Only that—­that he gave it to me to mail just before he went up to the old room.”

“You mailed it?” Graham snapped.

Jenkins hesitated.  When he answered his voice was self-accusing.

“I’m an old coward, Mr. Robert.  The policeman told me the letter was very important, and if anything happened to it I would get in trouble.  He couldn’t afford to leave the house himself, he said.  But, as I say, I’m a coward, and I didn’t want to walk through the woods to the box by the gate.  I figured it all out.  It wouldn’t be taken up until early in the morning, and if I waited until daylight it would only be delayed one collection.  So I made up my mind I’d sleep on it, because I knew he had it in for you, Mr. Robert.  I supposed I’d mail it in the morning, but I decided I’d think it over anyway and not harrow myself walking through the woods.”

“You’ve done a good job,” Graham said excitedly.  “Where is the report now?”

“In my room.  Shall I fetch it, sir?”

Graham nodded, and Jenkins shuffled up the stairs.

“What luck!” Graham said.  “Howells must have telephoned his suspicions to the district attorney.  He must have mentioned the evidence, but what does that amount to since it’s disappeared along with the duplicate of the report, if Howells made one?”

“I can fight with a clear conscience,” Bobby cried.  “I wasn’t asleep when Howells’s body altered its position.  Do you realize what that means to me?  For once I was wide awake when the old room was at its tricks.”

“If Howells were alive,” Graham answered shortly, “he would look on the fact that you were awake and alone with the body as the worst possible evidence against you.”

Bobby’s elation died.

“There is always something to tangle me in the eyes of the law with these mysteries.  But I know, and I’ll fight.  Can you find any trace of a conspiracy against me in this last ghastly adventure?”

“It complicates everything,” Graham admitted.

“It’s beyond sounding,” Bobby said, “for my grandfather’s death last night and the disturbance of his body this afternoon seemed calculated to condemn me absolutely, yet Howells’s murder and the movement of his body, with the disappearance of the cast and the handkerchief, seem designed to save me.  Are there two influences at work in this house—­one for me, one against me?”