Fifthly, Simon Jennings—­butler in doors, bailiff out of doors, and general factotum every where to the Vincent interest—­for he had managed to monopolize every place worth having, from the agent’s book to the cellar-man’s key—­the said Simon deposed, that on the night in question, he heard the house-dog barking furiously, and went out to quiet him; but found no thieves, nor knew any reason why the dog should have barked so much.

Now, the awkward matter in this deposition (if Mr. Jennings had not been entirely above suspicion—­the idea was quite absurd—­not to mention that he was nephew to the deceased, a great favourite with her, and a man altogether of the very strictest character), the awkward matters were these:  the nearest way out to the dog, indeed the only way but casement windows on that side of the house, was through Mrs. Quarles’s room:  she had had the dog placed there for her special safety, as she slept on the ground floor; and it was not to be thought that Mr. Jennings could do so incorrect a thing as to pass through her room after bed-time, locked or unlocked—­indeed, when the question was delicately hinted to him, he was quite shocked at it—­quite shocked.  But if he did not go that way, which way did he go?  He deposed, indeed, and his testimony was no ways to be doubted, that he went through the front door, and so round; which, under the circumstances, was at once a very brave and a very foolish thing to do; for it is, first, little wisdom to go round two sides of a square to quiet a dog, when one might have easily called to him from the men-servants’ window; and secondly, albeit Mr. Jennings was a strict man, an upright man, shrewd withal, and calculating, no one had ever thought him capable of that Roman virtue, courage.  Still, he had reluctantly confessed to this one heroic act, and it was a bold one, so let him take the credit of it—­mainly because—­

Sixthly, Jonathan Floyd, footman, after having heard the dog bark at intervals, surely for more than a couple of hours, thought he might as well turn out of his snug berth for a minute, just to see what ailed the dog, or how many thieves were really breaking in.  Well, as he looked, he fancied he saw a boat moving on the lake, but as there was no moon, he might have been mistaken.

By a Juryman. It might be a punt.

By another. He did’nt know how many boats there were on the lake-side:  they had a boat-house at the Hall, by the water’s edge, and therefore he concluded something in it; really did’nt know; might be a boat, might be a punt, might be both—­or neither.

By the Coroner. Could not swear which way it was moving; and, really, if put upon his Bible oath, wouldn’t be positive about a boat at all, it was so dark, and he was so sleepy.

Not long afterwards, as the dog got still more violent, he turned his eyes from straining after shadows on the lake, to look at home, and then all at once noticed Mr. Jennings trying to quiet the noisy animal with the usual blandishments of “Good dog, good dog—­quiet, Don, quiet—­down, good dog—­down, Don, down!”