“On the contrary, my dear fellow, go on.”

“The landlady’s testimony excluded the face, made it a figment of an imagination, disordered by drink!” Captain Forsythe waved his hand airily as he stepped back and forth.

“You went to see this woman?”

“Out of curiosity, and found she was, indeed, the same person.  She seemed quite ill and feeble; I talked with her about an hour that day.  Tried in every way to get her to remember she had possibly let in some other person that night, but—­”

“But?”

“Bless you, she stuck to her story,” laughed Captain Forsythe.  “Couldn’t move her an iota.”  One of the listener’s arms fell to his side; his hand closed hard.  “Quite bowled over my little theory, don’t you know!  Of course I told myself it didn’t matter; the man convicted was gone, drowned.  However,—­” he broke off.  A swish of silk was heard in the hallway; Forsythe stopped before the door.

“Ah, Miss Jocelyn!  Haven’t you a word in passing?”

She paused, looked in.  Amid neutral shades the girl’s slender figure shone most insistent; her gown, of a color between rose and pink, was warm-hued rather than bright, like the tints in an ancient embroidery.  Around her neck gleamed a band of old cloth of silver but the warmth of tone did not cease at the argent edge, but leaped over to kiss the fair cheeks and soft, smiling lips.  “Is this the way you men amuse yourselves?” she asked with a laugh.  “Talking shop, no doubt?”

“Afraid we must plead guilty,” said Captain Forsythe.

“And that is why,” with a quick sidelong glance, drawing her skirts around her as she stood gracefully poised, “Mr. Steele appears so interested?”

“Interested?” The subject of her comment seemed to pull himself together with a start, regarded her.  Was he, in the surprise of the moment, just in the least disconcerted by that bright presence, the beautiful clear eyes, straight, direct, though laughing?  “Perhaps appearances are—­” he found himself saying.

“Deceptive!” she completed lightly.  “Well, if you weren’t interested, Captain Forsythe was.  He, I know, is quite incorrigible when you get him on his hobby.”

“Oh, I say, Miss Jocelyn!”

She came forward; light and brightness entered the room with her.  “Quite!” The slender figure stood between the two men.  “We expect any time he’ll be looking around here next, to find something to investigate!”

“Here?” John Steele smiled.  “What should he find here?”

“In sleepy Strathorn?  True!”

A shrill whistle smote the air; Steele’s glance turned to the window.  The boy, having delivered his message, had left the door; with lips puckered to the loud and imperfect rendition of a popular street melody, he was making his way through the grounds.  Involuntarily the man’s look lingered on him.  “A telegram from London?  For whom?”

“I’m afraid it’s hopeless, Captain Forsythe.  Nothing ever happens at Strathorn.”  At the instant the girl’s laughing voice seemed a little farther off.  “If something only would—­to help pass the time.  Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Steele?”