"I don't know. The fact, that Sir Dace did go out that night," continued Chandler, "was confirmed by one of the maids in the Marylebone Road--Maria; a smart girl with curled hair. She says Sir Dace had not been many minutes in the library that night, to which he went straight from the dinner-table in a passion, when she saw him leave it again, catch up his hat with a jerk as he passed through the hall, and go out at the front-door. It was just after Ozias had been to ask him whether he would take some coffee, and got sent away with a flea in his ear. Whether or not Sir Dace came in during the evening, Maria does not know; he may, or may not, have done so, but she did see him come home in a cab at ten o'clock, or soon after it. She was gossipping with the maids at a house some few doors off, when a cab stopped near to them, Sir Dace got out of it, paid the man, and walked on to his own door. Maria supposed the driver had made a mistake in the number. So you see there can be no doubt that Sir Dace was out that night." "He was certainly in soon after ten," I remarked. "Verena came home about that time, and she saw him downstairs." "Don't you bring _her_ name up, Johnny," corrected the Squire. "That young woman led to all the mischief. Running away, as she did--and sending us off to that wax-work show in search of her! Fine figures they cut, some of those dumb things!" "I found also," resumed Chandler, turning over his papers, on which he had looked from time to time, "that Sir Dace met with one or two slight personal mishaps that night. He sprained his wrist, accounting for it the next morning by saying he had slipped in getting into bed; and he lost a little piece out of his shirt-front." "Out of his shirt front!" "Just here," and Chandler touched the middle button of his shirt. "The button-hole and a portion of the linen round it had been torn away. Nothing would have been known of that but for the laundress. She brought the shirt back before putting it into water, lest it should be said she had done it in the washing. Maria remembered this, and told me. A remarkably intelligent girl, that." "Did Maria--I remember the girl--suspect anything?" asked the Squire. "Nothing whatever. She does not now; I accounted otherwise for my inquiries. Altogether, what with these facts I have told you, and a few minor items, and Ferrar's evidence, I can draw but one conclusion--that Sir Dace Fontaine killed Pym." "I never heard such a strange thing!" cried the pater. "And what's to be done?" "That's the question," said Chandler. "What _is_ to be done?" And he left us with the doubt. * * * * * Well, it turned out to be quite true; but I have not space here to go more into detail. Sir Dace Fontaine was guilty, and the dream was a true dream. "Did you suspect him?" the Squire asked privately of Jack, who was taken into counsel the next day.