This, according to the evidence given at the inquests and to the facts collected by the police at the places concerned, was all that came out. There was not the slightest clue in either case. No one could say what became of Salter Quick after he left me outside the Mariner's Joy; no one knew where Noah Quick went when he walked out of the Saltash inn into the darkness. At each inquest a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown was returned, and the respective coroners uttered some platitudes about coincidence and mystery and all the rest of it. But from all that had transpired it seemed to me that there were certain things to be deduced, and I find that I tabulated them at the time, writing them down at the end of the newspaper clippings, as follows: 1. Salter and Noah Quick were in possession of some secret. 2. They were murdered by men who wished to get possession of it for themselves. 3. The actual murderers were probably two members of a gang. 4. Gang--if a gang--and murderers were at large, and, if they had secured possession of the secret would be sure to make use of it. Out of this arose the question--what was the secret? Something, I had no doubt whatever, that related to money. But what, and how? I exercised my speculative faculties a good deal at the time over this matter, and I could not avoid wondering about Mr. Cazalette and the yew-hedge affair. He never mentioned it; I was afraid and nervous about telling him what I had seen. Nor for some time did he mention his tobacco-box labours--indeed, I don't remember that he mentioned them directly at all. But, about the time that the inquests on the two murdered men came to an end, I observed that Mr. Cazalette, most of whose time was devoted to his numismatic work, was spending his leisure in turning over whatever books he could come across at Ravensdene Court which related to local history and topography; he was also studying old maps, charts and the like. Also, he got from London the latest Ordnance Map. I saw him studying that with deep attention. Yet he said nothing until one day, coming across me in the library, alone, he suddenly plumped me with a question. "Middlebrook!" said he, "the name which that poor man mentioned to you as you talked with him on the cliff was--Netherfield?" "Netherfield," said I. "That was it--Netherfield." "He said there were Netherfields buried hereabouts?" he asked. "Just so--in some churchyard or other," I answered. "What of it, Mr. Cazalette?" He helped himself to a pinch of snuff, as if to assist his thoughts. "Well," said he presently, "and it's a queer thing that at the time of the inquest nobody ever thought of inquiring if there is such a churchyard and such graves." "Why didn't you suggest it?" I asked.