"I really don't understand you, Mr. Vance. Why should it matter to me whether we are strangers or not?" "Your aunt's words when she introduced me----" Miss Monk flushed and cut me short. "That is my aunt's nonsense," she said hastily. "You don't expect me to believe that you followed me here because you admired my photograph." That was exactly what I had done, but it did not do to tell her so, for she looked more like an offended goddess than ever. "I came here about the eye," was my cautious answer. "You think that a true knowledge of why Anne Caldershaw attached a value to that eye would enable you to trace her assassin?" "Yes, I do think so. Do you, Miss Monk?" I spoke with the cloak in my mind. "Do you wish me to trace her assassin?" "Why not. She should certainly be captured and punished and the eye recovered, especially, as you seem to think it can indicate where the money left to me by Uncle Gabriel is hidden." "She! she! she!" I positively gasped. "Of course." Again she looked surprised. "I understand from the report in the papers, that the woman who ran off with your motor car is the assassin." It was with some difficulty that I commanded my voice. Miss Monk, I thought, must be very sure that she had hidden her trail successfully, else she would scarcely dare to speak in this way. But, of course, as I remembered, she did not yet know that I had found her cloak. "You would like to have the woman traced?" "Yes," she said coolly, "and the eye recovered, if it means the recovery of my money. I inherit fifty thousand pounds by----" "I know: I know," said I hastily, "Mrs. Gilfin told me." Miss Monk's face clouded. "I daresay," she remarked bitterly, "the story of the missing money is common property. No doubt Mrs. Gilfin told you that my uncle Gabriel was a miser." "Yes. She told me a good deal." "You asked her?" questioned the girl, suddenly. "I admit it: in the interests of the case." "Of course," she said, whether ironically or not I could not determine, and then walked on in silence. Shortly we were abreast of a mouldering red-brick wall on the outskirts of the village. Beyond could be seen the mellow-tiled roofs of a large mansion. Miss Monk stopped abruptly. "I live here," she said, with some coldness, "and must go in. Good-day, Mr. Vance." She vanished through a heavy green gate, and left me staring down the deserted road. To me, the sun seemed to have vanished from the sky. CHAPTER IX. GERTRUDE'S FATHER