"No," I said. "Anybody except yourselves know where the watch was kept?" "No." "Yes," mother put in; "Mary Russell knew." Mother gave a little laugh. "But she is one of ourselves." The policeman wanted to know all about Mary— who she was, where she lived, how long she had been with us, when she had left. Mother answered these questions; and the name of Walter came in too. I wouldn't say a word. "Then the watch was missed two days after she left?" says the policeman. Mother smiled. "Oh, you needn't think anything of that," says she. "I'd as soon suspect myself as Mary Russell—if not sooner. We know her well." The policeman didn't look quite so certain, but he only asked— "What about the young fellow, her brother?" "A schoolmaster: clever young fellow, and most respectable every way," father declared. "Didn't know where the watch was, of course?" says the policeman. Mother said "No," and so did I; but I could see the policeman's mind to be hankering after Mr. Russell. "When was he here last?" says he. I wanted mother to answer, but neither she nor father spoke, and I had to say— "He went away a whole month before his sister." "Never been to the place since?" "Not to my knowledge," said mother; but the policeman kept looking at me, and I couldn't help my colour getting up. "Never been since?" said he. "He meant to come and fetch his sister—but he—didn't!" I said, almost whispering. In a sort of way that was true, for sure enough he hadn't been to fetch Mary. But, on the other hand, it was not true, for I was trying to make the policeman think that he had not been at all, when he had been. The policeman made an odd sort of a click with his tongue. "When did you see your watch last?" says he. "Not long—" I said. "How long ago?" "Just a few days." "How many days?" says he, as determined as he could be. "The day Mary Russell went," I said. "That's three days ago," says father. "Why, Kitty, you didn't tell us that," says he. "I thought it was ever so much longer." "Did you see the watch last before that young woman left, or after she was gone?" says the policeman. "After," I said; and I heard mother give a sort of sigh of relief. "Sure?" "Yes," I said. "What hour did the young woman leave?" says he. "Two-fifty-five train," mother said. "We saw her off ourselves." "And you saw the watch—when?" says the policeman to me. "A good deal later," I told him. "After I came in from a walk." "What hour?" says he again. "I don't know—exactly," I said, though I could have told pretty near. I was frightened at all this questioning. "When you went to take off your hat?" says mother. I said "Yes." "Then it couldn't have been before six," says she. "I know it wasn't long after you were in before it got dark, for you didn't sit many minutes over your work, before you took a turn in the garden, and it was dark then." "Took a turn in the garden after dark!" says the policeman, and he had his eyes on me.