Next day I was back at the farm, my attention concentrated on the well. I had already heard that this well was not much used, there being another under the scullery, to which a pump had been fixed, and which supplied better water. The windlass over the well in the shed substantiated this statement, for it was evident that it had stood idle for a long time. Peter Judd had left the room to get the money, and had been absent ten minutes; and the door of this shed had been found forced on the morning after the murder. Might the shed not be the treasure chamber? The floor overlapped the mouth of the well considerably, and attached to the under part of this floor, and close to the well wall, I found a chain. Pulling this up, I raised a small but stout iron box fastened to the lower end of it. The box had been wrenched open and was empty. I had discovered the Judds' bank. No doubt it had been robbed on the night of the murder. By whom? By someone who had watched Peter Judd go there for the money. The answer came naturally to the question. That person was not Richard Coleman, unless his story were false from beginning to end, which was unlikely. The next two days I devoted to a closer acquaintance with Mrs. Gilson. I acted intentionally in a manner to make her think I had nearly solved the mystery. I told her that I believed Richard Coleman was an innocent man. The result was exactly what I expected. She became nervous when I plied her with questions, and contradicted herself, growing confused when I pressed home a point. Once I purposely questioned her when her son was present, and her confusion became fear. Jim Gilson said little, but at times looked wonderfully intelligent. It was difficult to suppose that he did not perfectly understand me. "You don't go and sit inside the gateway at Cross Roads Farm now, Jim," I said suddenly. Since this second discovery he had quite forsaken his haunt. "No," he answered. "Why not?" "No one else will come there now. They're afraid." "Of what?" "Spirits." "And of you, Jim--eh?" The suggestion pleased him. He came and stood close to me, and rolled up his sleeve to show me how muscular his arms were. "Splendid! Tell me, Jim, where is Simon Judd?" "Buried!" he said, and slouched out of the room. I looked at his mother. Poor woman! I pitied her. "I didn't know--I didn't guess, not till afterward," she said. "Jim told me next day that he had seen a man go to the farm, told me what he was like, and I knew it was the man I had met. It was more Jim's description than mine that I gave. But I thought this man was the murderer, thought so for months, until Jim began to talk strange about money and that well. It was not until then that I knew he had been at the farm that night. And now this second murder! What will they do?" "Release an innocent man." "But to Jim?" she whispered.