“Marsden, do you?”

“No, sir; nothing whatever.  I saw the things and thought I saw Mrs. Brier put them back in the box.”

“Do you know anything, McDonald?”

“I do not, sir.”

“Do you, Pemberton?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you, Morton?”

Digby stammered and hesitated.  The Doctor repeated his question.

“I know nothing for certain, sir.  But I—­I think—­” and he held to the back of a chair with a very determined clutch as he again hesitated, and began to speak.

“What do you think, man?  Speak out,” said the Doctor.

“I think I ought to mention a circumstance, but I shall prefer speaking to you alone.”

“Does it relate to any one present?”

“It does.”

“Then I must have it told here.  But let me first continue my question to each one present.”

The question went round, and the answer in each case was in the negative.

“Now, Morton, I must ask you to state what you know of this matter, or rather what you suspect, and I leave it to your good sense to say only that which you think it absolutely necessary for me to know.”

There was a dead silence.  Every eye was turned toward Digby with intense interest, while he fixed his gaze steadily upon the floor.

“I saw Howard Pemberton putting the miniature in his breast coat-pocket last evening, sir, when we were in your drawing-room.  I said to him, ‘I’ve caught you, have I.’  He made no reply to me, but turned away, very red in the face—­”

“It is false—­wickedly false,” cried Howard, in a passionate burst of feeling.

“He states it is false,” continued Digby, “but I will appeal to Fraser or McDonald, who saw it, or better still, to Martin Venables, who also saw it, and made some remark in apology for him!”

“Do you know of anything else, directly or indirectly, that you think should come to my knowledge?” asked the Doctor.

“Nothing more, sir, except that Pemberton, whose room adjoins mine, seemed to have something on his mind last night, for he was walking about in his room in the middle of the night, and I fancied he got out of the window.  This is all I have to say, sir.  I said I knew nothing for certain, and I hope I have not done wrong in telling you this much.”

And now all eyes turned to Howard Pemberton.  He stood speechless.  He felt as in a horrible nightmare, and could neither move body nor mind to break the spell.  If he could have known that there was not one in the room who believed him to be guilty, he would have easily recovered from the blow; but with his peculiarly nervous temperament, although conscious of perfect innocence in the matter, he felt that the terrible insinuations which had been made against him had separated him from those whom he loved and honored, and he was crushed beneath the weight of implied dishonor.

Happy is the man who has a friend, and Howard had many, but perhaps none greater than Martin Venables.  Martin knew the peculiarities of Howard’s character better than any one present, and seeing the position in which he was placed he came forward to vindicate him.