“But—­Gertrude’s story,” I stammered.

“Miss Gertrude only brought forward her explanation the following morning.  I do not believe it, Miss Innes.  It is the story of a loving and ingenious woman.”

“And—­this thing to-night?”

“May upset my whole view of the case.  We must give the benefit of every doubt, after all.  We may, for instance, come back to the figure on the porch:  if it was a woman you saw that night through the window, we might start with other premises.  Or Mr. Innes’ explanation may turn us in a new direction.  It is possible that he shot Arnold Armstrong as a burglar and then fled, frightened at what he had done.  In any case, however, I feel confident that the body was here when he left.  Mr. Armstrong left the club ostensibly for a moonlight saunter, about half after eleven o’clock.  It was three when the shot was fired.”

I leaned back bewildered.  It seemed to me that the evening had been full of significant happenings, had I only held the key.  Had Gertrude been the fugitive in the clothes chute?  Who was the man on the drive near the lodge, and whose gold-mounted dressing-bag had I seen in the lodge sitting-room?

It was late when Mr. Jamieson finally got up to go.  I went with him to the door, and together we stood looking out over the valley.  Below lay the village of Casanova, with its Old World houses, its blossoming trees and its peace.  Above on the hill across the valley were the lights of the Greenwood Club.  It was even possible to see the curving row of parallel lights that marked the carriage road.  Rumors that I had heard about the club came back—­of drinking, of high play, and once, a year ago, of a suicide under those very lights.

Mr. Jamieson left, taking a short cut to the village, and I still stood there.  It must have been after eleven, and the monotonous tick of the big clock on the stairs behind me was the only sound.

Then I was conscious that some one was running up the drive.  In a minute a woman darted into the area of light made by the open door, and caught me by the arm.  It was Rosie—­Rosie in a state of collapse from terror, and, not the least important, clutching one of my Coalport plates and a silver spoon.

She stood staring into the darkness behind, still holding the plate.  I got her into the house and secured the plate; then I stood and looked down at her where she crouched tremblingly against the doorway.

“Well,” I asked, “didn’t your young man enjoy his meal?”

She couldn’t speak.  She looked at the spoon she still held—­I wasn’t so anxious about it:  thank Heaven, it wouldn’t chip—­and then she stared at me.

“I appreciate your desire to have everything nice for him,” I went on, “but the next time, you might take the Limoges china It’s more easily duplicated and less expensive.”

“I haven’t a young man—­not here.”  She had got her breath now, as I had guessed she would.  “I—­I have been chased by a thief, Miss Innes.”