We went down to the boathouse, and the man there was still glum and unsmiling. Nor did our substantial _douceur_ give him any apparent pleasure. He pocketed it without a word, and pushed off our boat with a jerk that had the effect of his being glad to be rid of us. March was unperturbed by all this and of course it mattered little to me. I was consumed with curiosity to know if March had learned anything indicative. “I found a few trifles,” he vouchsafed to tell me, “but I can’t describe them at the moment.” “Being a detective, you have to be mysterious,” I growled. “Yes, just that,” he agreed, cheerfully, and we proceeded in silence. “They’re just leaving the burying ground,” he said, at last. “Shall we go and pay our final respects?” “If you like,” I said, indifferently. So we landed at Pleasure Dome, and then betook ourselves to the tiny graveyard, which was down beyond the orchard. It was a lovely spot, shaded by the long branches of weeping willows and brightened by beds of carefully tended flowers. Lilies abounded, and there were patches of the lovely California poppies and screens covered with sweet peas. I became interested in the graves, and March pointed out those of Alma’s parents and her little sister. “The child was eight years old when she died,” I commented. “I thought it was an infant.” “No, a girl. Alma remembers her, of course. But it was all before my day. I’ve only lived here seven years. Flowers enough on Tracy’s grave, in all conscience.” The mound of the new grave was heaped with flowers, indeed an impressive sight. The growing flowers and the cut blossoms vied with each other in beauty, and harmonized into one glorious whole of gorgeous bloom. All had left but two or three workmen, and they withdrew to a respectful distance while March and I stood there. “Tell me, March, did you find anything? I can’t bear this suspense!” “Please believe I don’t want to keep you on tenterhooks,” he said, with real regret in his tone. “But what I did discover is so contradictory, so impossible of solution, at present, that I can’t divulge it until I find some meaning to it. What did you make of the girl, Dora?” “Nothing. She seemed to me just an ordinary servant——” “Don’t you believe it! She’s far from being an ordinary servant! That girl knows all there is to know.” “What do you mean?” “Just what I say. And we’ve got to get that knowledge.” “Of course, then, if she knows anything, it’s to do with Alma. She couldn’t know anything about any other suspect.” “Look here, Norris, you’ll have to remember that I’m out to find the murderer of Sampson Tracy. I’m not considering whether the evidence I collect is going to implicate this one or that one, or whether it isn’t. I want only the truth.” “Well, I don’t,” I told him. “I want to clear Alma Remsen, and I’d perjure myself straight into perdition if it would do her any good.”