Hearing that the woman whom they had just left had been landlady of an inn, and that a murder had been committed under her roof, he was led to ask himself if any explanation might be found, in these circumstances, of the otherwise incomprehensible effect produced on Mrs. Rook by the inscription on the locket. In the pursuit of this inquiry there had arisen in his mind a monstrous suspicion, which pointed to Mrs. Rook. It impelled him to ascertain the date at which the murder had been committed, and (if the discovery encouraged further investigation) to find out next the manner in which Mr. Brown had died. Thus far, what progress had he made? He had discovered that the date of Mr. Brown’s death, inscribed on the locket, and the date of the crime committed at the inn, approached each other nearly enough to justify further investigation. In the meantime, had he succeeded in keeping his object concealed from Emily? He had perfectly succeeded. Hearing him declare that her interests only had occupied his mind, the poor girl innocently entreated him to forgive her little outbreak of temper. “If you have any more questions to ask me, Mr. Morris, pray go on. I promise never to think unjustly of you again.” He went on with an uneasy conscience--for it seemed cruel to deceive her, even in the interests of truth--but still he went on. “Suppose we assume that this woman had injured your father in some way,” he said. “Am I right in believing that it was in his character to forgive injuries?” “Entirely right.” “In that case, his death may have left Mrs. Rook in a position to be called to account, by those who owe a duty to his memory--I mean the surviving members of his family.” “There are but two of us, Mr. Morris. My aunt and myself.” “There are his executors.” “My aunt is his only executor.” “Your father’s sister--I presume?” “Yes.” “He may have left instructions with her, which might be of the greatest use to us.” “I will write to-day, and find out,” Emily replied. “I had already planned to consult my aunt,” she added, thinking again of Miss Jethro. “If your aunt has not received any positive instructions,” Alban continued, “she may remember some allusion to Mrs. Rook, on your father’s part, at the time of his last illness--” Emily stopped him. “You don’t know how my dear father died,” she said. “He was struck down--apparently in perfect health--by disease of the heart.” “Struck down in his own house?” “Yes--in his own house.” Those words closed Alban’s lips. The investigation so carefully and so delicately conducted had failed to serve any useful purpose. He had now ascertained the manner of Mr. Brown’s death and the place of Mr. Brown’s death--and he was as far from confirming his suspicions of Mrs. Rook as ever. CHAPTER XI. THE DRAWING-MASTER’S CONFESSION. “Is there nothing else you can suggest?” Emily asked. “Nothing--at present.” “If my aunt fails us, have we no other hope?”