By his silence, too, the young man had tacitly confessed; and if a man is perceived on the very scene of a crime, both before it has been committed and directly afterwards; if something admittedly belonging to him is found within three yards of where the murderer must have stood; if, added to this, he has had a bitter quarrel with the victim, and can give no account of his actions or whereabouts during the fatal time, it were vain to cling to optimistic beliefs in that same man’s innocence. But now matters had assumed an altogether different aspect. The story told by Mr. Smethick’s lawyer had all the appearance of truth. Margaret Ceely’s character, her callousness on the very day when her late _fiancé_ stood in the dock, her quick transference of her affections to the richer man, all made the account of the events on Christmas night as told by Mr. Grayson extremely plausible. No wonder my dear lady was buried in thought. “I shall have to take the threads up from the beginning, Mary,” she said to me the following morning, when after breakfast she appeared in her neat coat and skirt, with hat and gloves, ready to go out, “so, on the whole, I think I will begin with a visit to the Haggetts.” “I may come with you, I suppose?” I suggested meekly. “Oh, yes!” she rejoined carelessly. Somehow I had an inkling that the carelessness of her mood was only on the surface. It was not likely that she--my sweet, womanly, ultra-feminine, beautiful lady--should feel callously on this absorbing subject. We motored down to Bishopthorpe. It was bitterly cold, raw, damp, and foggy. The chauffeur had some difficulty in finding the cottage, the “home” of the imbecile gardener and his wife. There was certainly not much look of home about the place. When, after much knocking at the door, Mrs. Haggett finally opened it, we saw before us one of the most miserable, slatternly places I think I ever saw. In reply to Lady Molly’s somewhat curt inquiry, the woman said that Haggett was in bed, suffering from one of his “fits.” “That is a great pity,” said my dear lady, rather unsympathetically, I thought, “for I must speak with him at once.” “What is it about?” asked the woman, sullenly. “I can take a message.” “I am afraid not,” rejoined my lady. “I was asked to see Haggett personally.” “By whom, I’d like to know,” she retorted, now almost insolently. “I dare say you would. But you are wasting precious time. Hadn’t you better help your husband on with his clothes? This lady and I will wait in the parlour.” After some hesitation the woman finally complied, looking very sulky the while. We went into the miserable little room wherein not only grinding poverty but also untidiness and dirt were visible all round. We sat down on two of the cleanest-looking chairs, and waited whilst a colloquy in subdued voices went on in the room over our heads.