“Yes, I am right,” replied Cyprian.  “And your mystic is still as mysterious as a mystic.”

There was a long silence.  Ashe laid down the bone, picked up the ax and studied it more closely.  Beyond the dull stain at the corner of the steel there was nothing unusual about it save a broad white rag wrapped round the handle, perhaps to give a better grip.  The lawyer thought it worth noting, however, that the rag was certainly newer and cleaner than the chopper.  But both were quite dry.

“Mr. Paynter,” he said at last, “I admit you have scored, in the spirit if not in the letter.  In strict logic, this greater puzzle is not a reply to my case.  If this ax has not been dipped in water, it has been dipped in blood; and the water jumping out of the well is not an explanation of the poet jumping out of the wood.  But I admit that morally and practically it does make a vital difference.  We are not faced with a colossal contradiction, and we don’t know how far it extends.  The body might have been broken up or boiled down to its bones by the murderer, though it may be hard to connect it with the conditions of the murder.  It might conceivably have been so reduced by some property in the water and soil, for decomposition varies vastly with these things.  I should not dismiss my strong prima facie case against the likely person because of these difficulties.  But here we have something entirely different.  That the bones themselves should remain dry in a well full of water, or a well that yesterday was full of water—­that brings us to the edge of something beyond which we can make no guess.  There is a new factor, enormous and quite unknown.  While we can’t fit together such prodigious facts, we can’t fit together a case against Treherne or against anybody.  No; there is only one thing to be done now.  Since we can’t accuse Treherne, we must appeal to him.  We must put the case against him frankly before him, and trust he has an explanation—­and will give it.  I suggest we go back and do it now.”

Paynter, beginning to follow, hesitated a moment, and then said:  “Forgive me for a kind of liberty; as you say, you are an older friend of the family.  I entirely agree with your suggestion, but before you act on your present suspicions, do you know, I think Miss Vane ought to be warned a little?  I rather fear all this will be a new shock to her.”

“Very well,” said Ashe, after looking at him steadily for an instant.  “Let us go across to her first.”

From the opening of the wood they could see Barbara Vane writing at the garden table, which was littered with correspondence, and the butler with his yellow face waiting behind her chair.  As the lengths of grass lessened between them, and the little group at the table grew larger and clearer in the sunlight, Paynter had a painful sense of being part of an embassy of doom.  It sharpened when the girl looked up from the table and smiled on seeing them.