Inspector Aylesbury uttered an inarticulate, grunting sound, but I, who knew Harley so well, could see that he felt himself to be upon the eve of a signal triumph. What he proposed to do, I had no idea, save that it was designed to clear Colin Camber. I prayed that it might also clear his pathetic girl-wife; and in a sort of gloomy silence I set out with Wessex and Aylesbury, down the drive, past the lodge, which seemed to be deserted to-night, and along the tree-lined high road, cool and sweet in the dusk of evening. Aylesbury was very morose, and Wessex, who had lighted his pipe, did not seem to be in a talkative mood either. He had the utmost faith in Paul Harley, but it was evident enough that he was oppressed by the weight of evidence against Camber. I divined the fact that he was turning over in his mind the idea of the frame-up, and endeavouring to re-adjust the established facts in accordance with this new point of view. We were admitted to the Guest House by Mrs. Powis, a cheery old soul; one of those born optimists whose special task in life seems to be that of a friend in need. As she opened the door, she smiled, shook her head, and raised her finger to her lips. “Be as quiet as you can, sir,” she said. “I have got her to sleep.” She spoke of Mrs. Camber as one refers to a child, and, quite understanding her anxiety: “There will be no occasion to disturb her, Mrs. Powis,” I replied. “We merely wish to walk down to the bottom of the garden to make a few enquiries.” “Yes, gentlemen,” she whispered, quietly closing the door as we all entered the hall. She led us through the rear portion of the house, and past the quarters of Ah Tsong into that neglected garden which I remembered so well. “There you are, sir, and may Heaven help you to find the truth.” “Rest assured that the truth will be found, Mrs. Powis,” I answered. Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat, but Wessex, puffing at his pipe, made no remark whatever until we were all come to the hut overhanging the little ravine. “This is where I found the rifle, Detective-Inspector,” explained Aylesbury. Wessex nodded absently. It was another perfect night, with only a faint tracery of cloud to be seen like lingering smoke over on the western horizon. Everything seemed very still, so that although we were several miles from the railway line, when presently a train sped on its way one might have supposed, from the apparent nearness of the sound, that the track was no farther off than the grounds of Cray’s Folly. Toward those grounds, automatically, our glances were drawn; and we stood there staring down at the ghostly map of the gardens, and all wondering, no doubt, what Harley was doing and when he would be joining us. Very faintly I could hear the water of the little stream bubbling beneath us. Then, just as this awkward silence was becoming intolerable, there came a scraping and scratching from the shadows of the gully, and: