“Mr. Ducaine,” she said, “I mean it, really.  There is some one in the village making inquiries—­about—­the man who was found dead.”

“Well,” I said, “that is not very surprising, is it?  His friends were almost certain to turn up sooner or later.”

“His friends!  But do you know who it is?” she asked.

I sank resignedly into one of Mrs. Moyat’s wool-work covered chairs.  An absurd little canary was singing itself hoarse almost over my head.  I half closed my eyes.  How many more problems was I to be confronted with during these long-drawn-out days of mystery?

“Oh, I do not know,” I declared.  “I am sure I do not care.  I am sorry that I ever asked you for one moment to keep your counsel about the fellow.  I never saw him, I do not know who he was, I know nothing about him.  And I don’t want to, Miss Moyat.  He may have been prince or pedlar for anything I care.”

“Well, he wasn’t an ordinary person, after all,” she declared, with an air of mystery.  “Have you heard of the lady who’s taken Braster Grange?  She’s a friend of Lord Blenavon’s.  He’s always there.”

“I have heard that there is such a person,” I answered wearily.

“She’s been making inquiries right and left—­everywhere.  There’s a notice in yesterday’s Wells Gazette, and a reward of fifty pounds for any one who can give any information about him sufficient to lead to identification.”

“If you think,” I said, “that you can earn the pounds, pray do not let me stand in your way.”

She looked at me with a fixed intentness which I found peculiarly irritating.

“You don’t think that I care about the fifty pounds,” she said, coming over and standing by my chair.

“Then why take any notice of the matter at all?” I said.  “All that you can disclose is that he came from the land and not from the sea, and that he asked where I lived.  Why trouble yourself or me about the matter at all?  There really isn’t any necessity.  Some one else probably saw him besides you, and they will soon find their way to this woman.”

“It was only to me,” she murmured, “that he spoke of you.”

“Do you believe,” I asked, “that I murdered him?”

She shuddered.

“No, of course I don’t,” she declared.

“Then why all this nervousness and mystery?” I asked.  “I have no fear of anything which might happen.  Why should you be afraid?”

“I am not afraid,” she said slowly, “but there is something about it which I do not understand.  Ever since that morning you have avoided me.”

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed.

“It is not nonsense,” she answered.  “It is the truth.  You used to come sometimes to see father—­and now you never come near the place.  It is—­too bad of you,” she went on, with a little sob.  “I thought that after that morning, and my promising to do what you asked, that we should be greater friends than ever.  Instead of that you have never been near us since.  And I don’t care who knows it.  I am miserable.”