Beresford considered the question. “No. He seemed in a great hurry, said Miss Ogden had telephoned him, and asked me to drive him over.” “Why did you come up to the house?” “We-el,” said Beresford with seeming candor, “I thought it was putting rather a premium on friendship to keep me sitting out in the rain all night, so I came up the drive—and, by the way!” He snapped his fingers irritatedly, as if recalling some significant incident that had slipped his memory, and drew a battered object from his pocket. “I picked this up, about a hundred feet from the house,” he explained. “A man’s watch. It was partly crushed into the ground, and, as you see, it’s stopped running.” The detective took the object and examined it carefully. A man’s open-face gold watch, crushed and battered in as if it had been trampled upon by a heavy heel. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Stopped running at ten-thirty.” Beresford went on, with mounting excitement. “I was using my pocket-flash to find my way and what first attracted my attention was the ground—torn up, you know, all around it. Then I saw the watch itself. Anybody here recognize it?” The detective silently held up the watch so that all present could examine it. He waited. But if anyone in the party recognized the watch—no one moved forward to claim it. “You didn’t hear any evidence of a struggle, did you?” went on Beresford. “The ground looked as if a fight had taken place. Of course it might have been a dozen other things.” Miss Cornelia started. “Just about ten-thirty Lizzie heard somebody cry out, in the grounds,” she said. The detective looked Beresford over till the latter grew a little uncomfortable. “I don’t suppose it has any bearing on the case,” admitted the latter uneasily. “But it’s interesting.” The detective seemed to agree. At least he slipped the watch in his pocket. “Do you always carry a flashlight, Mr. Beresford?” asked Miss Cornelia a trifle suspiciously. “Always at night, in the car.” His reply was prompt and certain. “This is all you found?” queried the detective, a curious note in his voice. “Yes.” Beresford sat down, relieved. Miss Cornelia followed his example. Another clue had led into a blind alley, leaving the mystery of the night’s affairs as impenetrable as ever. “Some day I hope to meet the real estate agent who promised me that I would sleep here as I never slept before!” she murmured acridly. “He’s right! I’ve slept with my clothes on every night since I came!” As she ended, Billy darted in from the hall, his beady little black eyes gleaming with excitement, a long, wicked-looking butcher knife in his hand. “Key, kitchen door, please!” he said, addressing his mistress. “Key?” said Miss Cornelia, startled. “What for?” For once Billy’s polite little grin was absent from his countenance. “Somebody outside trying to get in,” he chattered. “I see knob turn, so,” he illustrated with the butcher knife, “and so—three times.”