"Hush, my dear!" he whispered. "Not a word--don't want your mother to know! Listen--have you a specimen--letter--anything--of your cousin, the Squire's handwriting? Anything so long as it's his. You have? Give it to me--say nothing to your mother. Wait until tomorrow morning. I'll run over to see you again--about noon. It's important--but silence!" Audrey, scarcely understanding the old man's meaning, opened a desk and drew out one or two letters. She selected one and handed it to Mr. Dennie, who made haste to put it away before Mrs. Greyle returned. He gave Audrey another warning look. "That was what I wanted!" he said mysteriously. "I thought of it during the inquest. Never mind why, just now--you shall know tomorrow." He lingered a few minutes, chatting to his hostess about old times as he sipped the old Squire's famous port; then he went off to the little station, joined Stafford and his fellow actors and actresses, and returned with them to Norcaster. And at Norcaster Mr. Dennie separated himself from the rest and repaired to his quiet lodgings--rooms which he had occupied for many years in succession whenever he went that way on tour--and once safely bestowed in them he pulled out a certain old-fashioned trunk, which he had owned since boyhood and lugged about wherever he went in two continents, and from it, after much methodical unpacking, he disinterred a brown paper parcel, neatly tied up with green ribbon. From this parcel he drew a thin packet of typed matter and a couple of letters--the type script he laid aside, the letters he opened out on his table. Then he took from his pocket the letter which Audrey Greyle had given him and put it side by side with those taken from the parcel. And after one brief glance at all three Mr. Dennie made typescript and letters up again into a neat packet, restored them to his trunk, locked them up, and turned to the two hours' rest which he always took before going to the theatre for his evening's work. He was back at Scarhaven by eleven o'clock the next morning, with his neat packet under his arm and he held it up significantly to Audrey who opened the door of the cottage to him. "Something to show you," he said with a quiet smile as he walked in. "To show you and your mother." He stopped short on the threshold of the little parlour, where Copplestone was just then talking to Mrs. Greyle. "Oh!" he said, a little disappointedly, "I hoped to find you alone--I'll wait."