She burst into a passion of sobbing, and I proceeded to chide her gently.

“You are a silly little woman,” I said, “to take this nonsense to heart as you are doing.  Your aunt is not responsible just now, as you must know; but when we bring the boy home she shall make you a handsome apology.  I will see to that.”

She pressed my hand gratefully, and as the bell now rang for tea, I bade her have courage and went downstairs.

“You need not trouble about the practice,” said Mrs. Hanshaw, as I concluded my lightning repast, and Thorndyke went off to get our bicycles.  “Dr. Symons has heard of our trouble, and has called to say that he will take anything that turns up; so we shall expect you when we see you.”

“How do you like Thorndyke?” I asked.

“He is quite charming,” she replied enthusiastically; “so tactful and kind, and so handsome, too.  You didn’t tell us that.  But here he is.  Good-bye, and good luck.”

She pressed my hand, and I went out into the drive, where Thorndyke and the coachman were standing with three bicycles.

“I see you have brought your outfit,” I said as we turned into the road; for Thorndyke’s machine bore a large canvas-covered case strapped on to a strong bracket.

“Yes; there are many things that we may want on a quest of this kind.  How did you find Miss Haldean?”

“Very miserable, poor girl.  By the way, have you heard anything about her pecuniary interest in the child’s death?”

“Yes,” said Thorndyke.  “It appears that the late Mr. Haldean used up all his brains on his business, and had none left for the making of his will—­as often happens.  He left almost the whole of his property—­about eighty thousand pounds—­to his son, the widow to have a life-interest in it.  He also left to his late brother’s daughter, Lucy, fifty pounds a year, and to his surviving brother Percy, who seems to have been a good-for-nothing, a hundred a year for life.  But—­and here is the utter folly of the thing—­if the son should die, the property was to be equally divided between the brother and the niece, with the exception of five hundred a year for life to the widow.  It was an insane arrangement.”

“Quite,” I agreed, “and a very dangerous one for Lucy Haldean, as things are at present.”

“Very; especially if anything should have happened to the child.”

“What are you going to do now?” I inquired, seeing that Thorndyke rode on as if with a definite purpose.

“There is a footpath through the wood,” he replied.  “I want to examine that.  And there is a house behind the wood which I should like to see.”

“The house of the mysterious stranger,” I suggested.

“Precisely.  Mysterious and solitary strangers invite inquiry.”

We drew up at the entrance to the footpath, leaving Willett the coachman in charge of the three machines, and proceeded up the narrow track.  As we went, Thorndyke looked back at the prints of our feet, and nodded approvingly.