Most of them frankly admitted that as far as they knew there was no clue. But one halfpenny daily with an enormous circulation, whose consistent unveracity seemed a matter of supreme indifference to its readers, declared that there was a clue, and stated that someone had come forward to show that Lord Gascoyne had been in the habit of purchasing arsenic, that he was a confirmed arsenic eater, and that everything he ate was impregnated with it. It was very unpleasant to have the searchlight of the entire press turned on the case so soon. It would put Scotland Yard on its mettle, and detective forces are apt to strain matters somewhat when their credit is publicly involved. That evening I was walking up and down the terrace smoking a cigar with no very comfortable feelings, when I caught sight of the gleam of a white dress in the shadow of the battlements some way off. I guessed at once who it was. Esther Lane was watching me. Why was she doing so? Was it possible that some suspicion of the truth had entered her brain? It dawned on me that, creature of instinct as she was, she might have arrived at the truth by the clear light of intuition. I went swiftly towards her. There was no time for her to evade me, but she shrank back into the shadow as I approached her. “Why are you watching me?” I said as gently as I could, putting out my hands nervously. She shrank back, thrusting me from her. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.” Her voice was low, tense with a latent hysteria, which must have caused her an immense effort to control. “Why are you watching me?” I asked again. She looked at me silently, the terror in her eyes growing. She began to give me a strangely uneasy feeling. “Oh, it’s horrible, horrible,” she murmured, and then stole away, moving along the parapet like a ghost. I was afraid of her, and of what she might do. She was evidently losing her self-control fast. That she had guessed the truth was obvious. I went towards her rooms. They were dark. Perhaps she was still wandering on the battlements with her unquiet thoughts. I found my wife sitting up when I returned. She had been with Lady Gascoyne. “Such an utter loneliness, Israel. It is terrible. She seems to have lost all interest in life. I have never seen such desolation.” People have a way of being superlative when talking of those in grief. I, too, was very sorry for Lady Gascoyne, but though she had no children, she had everything else in the world to console her. I comforted my wife and took her in my arms, wondering curiously whether this would be the last night we should spend together, which, indeed, it turned out to be. The next day the inquest was resumed. None of the ladies of the castle were present. Mr. Gascoyne—or Lord Gascoyne, as he was now called—looked haggard and worn, and, as I thought, avoided my eye. His manner, however, was extraordinarily kindly. The servants were recalled and closely re-examined. They were still quite consistent.