“What seems strange to me,” I remarked “is that for all she knew, Mrs. William Yule might have committed only a silly and purposeless theft. If Mrs. Yule had not died suddenly and accidentally the next morning, she would, no doubt, have executed a fresh deed of gift, and all would have been _in statu quo_.” “Exactly,” he replied drily, whilst his fingers fidgeted nervously with his bit of string. “Of course,” I suggested, for I felt that the funny creature wanted to be drawn out; “she may have reckoned on the old lady’s weak heart, and the shock to her generally, but it was, after all, very problematical.” “Very,” he said, “and surely you are not still under the impression that Mrs. Yule’s death was purely the result of an accident?” “What else could it be?” I urged. “The result of a slight push from the top of the stairs,” he remarked placidly, whilst a complicated knot went to join a row of its fellows. “But Mrs. William Yule had left the house before midnight—or, at any rate, some one had. Do you think she had an accomplice?” “I think,” he said excitedly, “that the mysterious visitor who left the house that night had an instigator whose name was William Bloggs.” “I don’t understand,” I gasped in amazement. “Point No. 1,” he shrieked, while the row of knots followed each other in rapid succession, “young Bloggs swore a lie when he swore that it was Mrs. William Yule who called at Dartmoor Terrace that night.” “What makes you say that,” I retorted. “One very simple fact,” he replied, “so simple that it was, of course, overlooked. Do you remember that one of the things which Annie overheard was old Mrs. Yule’s irate words, ‘Very well, you may sleep here; but, remember, I do not wish to see your face again. You can leave my house before I return from church; you can get plenty of trains after seven o’clock.’ Now what do you make of that?” he added triumphantly. “Nothing in particular,” I rejoined; “it was an awfully wet night, and——” “And High Street, Kensington Station, within two minutes’ walk of Dartmoor Terrace, with plenty of trains to West Hampstead, and Sheriff Road within two minutes of this latter station,” he shrieked, getting more and more excited, “and the hour only about ten o’clock, when there _are_ plenty of trains from one part of London to another? Old Mrs. Yule, with her irascible temper and obstinate ways, would have said: ‘There’s the station, not two minutes’ walk, get out of my house, and don’t ever let me see your face again,’ wouldn’t she now?” “It certainly seems more likely.” “Of course it does. She only allowed the woman to stay because the woman had either a very long way to go to get a train, or perhaps had missed her last train—a connection on a branch line presumably—and could not possibly get home at all that night.” “Yes, that sounds logical,” I admitted.