“My own knowledge is nil,” she answered. “Mr. Castle woke me about half-past one, I don’t know exactly when but about then, and told me, well, what had happened, and I then told Miss Penterton and Lady Penterton. I’m afraid I’m not much help. There was nothing whatever out of the way during the evening.” “No,” he conceded, “that isn’t much help. Well,” he changed his tone and became brisk, professional, “let’s examine these marks.” He bent down and saw that beyond possibility of doubt some one had at any rate stood beneath that window; the marks inside would speak as to the actual entrance. He took out his pocket-book and a measuring tape with a sense of relief; this at any rate was plain sailing. Evelyn watched him with breathless interest as, taking the greatest care not to disturb the earth which had grown hard and crumbling under the recent sun, he measured and noted the one footprint which showed clear in the midst of the trampled soil. “I think he made that mark getting in,” she said. “See, here’s where he rested the other foot.” She pointed to a spot on the little ledge below the window, where a slight newly-made scratch showed on the brick, and the bark of a tendril of ivy was badly bruised. “You have quick eyes, Miss Temple,” remarked Humblethorne, appreciatively. “I have no doubt you are right. By the marks he stood here some little time, too, waiting——” The moment he had spoken the last word he longed to recall it. He stopped abruptly; but it was too late: she caught him up at once. “Waiting?” she cried, “for what?” He did not answer, and her eyes dilated and into them came a sudden, chilling fear. “For whom,” she added in a low voice; not as one asking a question, but as a slow sinking of fact into her own brain. “Let me see the inside,” he said, rising and shooting a glance of keenest inquiry at her. She did not seem at first to hear him; interest had died in her; she was turning away and all her vivacity had been struck from her face. “I have seen it,” she said in a dull voice: “I do not wish to see it again.” Without another word she left him. Humblethorne stood looking after her, moved less by interest than by sympathy. “She doesn’t know who came in or she’d never have pointed anything out,” he thought, “but she thinks she knows who helped him in.”