This was the trifling addition.  Not very much in itself, but it served to bear out the doubts Mr. Verner already entertained.  Was it John or was it Frederick who had come in?  Or was it—­Lionel?  There appeared to be no more certainty that it was one than another.  Mr. Verner had minutely inquired into the proceedings of John and Frederick Massingbird that night, and he had come to the conclusion that both could have been in the lane at that particular hour.  Frederick, previously to entering the house for his dinner, after he had left the veterinary surgeon’s, Poynton; John, before he paid his visit to the Royal Oak.  John appeared to have called in at several places, and his account was not particularly clear.  Lionel, Mr. Verner had not thought it necessary to question.  He sent for him as soon as his dinner-tray was cleared away:  it was as well to be indisputably sure of him before fastening the charge on either of the others.

“Sit down, Lionel,” said Mr. Verner.  “I want to talk to you.  Had you finished your dinner?”

“Quite, thank you.  You look very ill to-night,” Lionel added, as he drew a chair to the fire; and his tone insensibly became gentle, as he gazed on his uncle’s pale face.

“How can I look otherwise?  This trouble is worrying me to death.  Lionel, I have discovered, beyond doubt, that it was one of you young men who was in the lane that night.”

Lionel, who was then leaning over the fire, turned his head with a quick, surprised gesture towards Mr. Verner.  The latter proceeded to tell Lionel the substance of the communication made to him by Mrs. Tynn.  Lionel sat, bending forward, his elbow on his knee, and his fingers unconsciously running amidst the curls of his dark chestnut hair, as he listened to it.  He did not interrupt the narrative, or speak at its conclusion.

“You see, Lionel, it appears certain to have been some one belonging to this house.”

“Yes, sir.  Unless Dolly was mistaken.”

“Mistaken as to what?” sharply asked Mr. Verner, who, when he made up his own mind that a thing was so-and-so, could not bear to be opposed.  “Mistaken that some one came in at the gate?”

“I do not see how she could be mistaken in that,” replied Lionel.  “I meant mistaken as to its being any one belonging to the house.”

"Is it likely that any one would come in at that gate at night, unless they belonged to the house, or were coming to the house?” retorted Mr. Verner.  “Would a stranger drop from the clouds to come in at it?  Or was it Di Roy’s ‘ghost,’ think you?” he sarcastically added.

Lionel did not answer.  He vacantly ran his fingers through his hair, apparently in deep thought.

“I have abstained from asking you the explicit details of your movements on that evening,” continued Mr. Verner, “but I must demand them of you now.”

Lionel started up, his cheek on fire.  “Sir,” he uttered, with emotion, “you cannot suspect me of having had act or part in it!  I declare, before Heaven, that Rachel was as sacred for me—­”