“Truth lies at the bottom of a well,” cried the American, with lift in his voice.  “The woodman’s ax.”

It lay, indeed, flat and gleaming in the grasses by the well in the wood, just as it had lain in the thicket where the woodman threw it in the beginning of all these things.  But on one corner of the bright blade was a dull brown stain.

“I see,” said Ashe, “the woodman’s ax, and therefore the Woodman.  Your deductions are rapid.”

“My deductions are reasonable,” said Paynter, “Look here, Mr. Ashe; I know what you’re thinking.  I know you distrust Treherne; but I’m sure you will be just for all that.  To begin with, surely the first assumption is that the woodman’s ax is used by the Woodman.  What have you to say to it?”

“I say ‘No’ to it,” replied the lawyer.  “The last weapon a woodman would use would be a woodman’s ax; that is if he is a sane man.”

“He isn’t,” said Paynter quietly; “you said you wanted the doctor’s opinion just now.  The doctor’s opinion on this point is the same as my own.  We both found him meandering about outside there; it’s obvious this business has gone to his head, at any rate.  If the murderer were a man of business like yourself, what you say might be sound.  But this murderer is a mystic.  He was driven by some fanatical fad about the trees.  It’s quite likely he thought there was something solemn and sacrificial about the ax, and would have liked to cut off Vane’s head before a crowd, like Charles I’s.  He’s looking for the ax still, and probably thinks it a holy relic.”

“For which reason,” said Ashe, smiling, “he instantly chucked it down a well.”

Paynter laughed.

“You have me there certainly,” he said.  “But I think you have something else in your mind.  You’ll say, I suppose, that we were all watching the wood; but were we?  Frankly, I could almost fancy the peacock trees did strike me with a sort of sickness—­ a sleeping sickness.”

“Well,” admitted Ashe, “you have me there too.  I’m afraid I couldn’t swear I was awake all the time; but I don’t put it down to magic trees—­only to a private hobby of going to bed at night.  But look here, Mr. Paynter; there’s another and better argument against any outsider from the village or countryside having committed the crime.  Granted he might have slipped past us somehow, and gone for the Squire.  But why should he go for him in the wood?  How did he know he was in the wood?  You remember how suddenly the poor old boy bolted into it, on what a momentary impulse.  It’s the last place where one would normally look for such a man, in the middle of the night.  No, it’s an ugly thing to say, but we, the group round that garden table, were the only people who knew.  Which brings me back to the one point in your remarks which I happen to think perfectly true.”

“What was that?” inquired the other.

“That the murderer was a mystic,” said Ashe.  “But a cleverer mystic than poor old Martin.”