"Dear me." Mr. Monk sat up briskly, and then rose to his feet, "have you any grounds for this strange belief?" "None that would satisfy you, Mr. Monk." "What do you think, my child?" "There may be something in the idea," admitted Gertrude cautiously, "it may be worth Mr. Vance's while to search the matter out. I admit that I should be glad if he could find the money." If she was the woman who had taken the car, this speech was strangely daring, and while she made it, her eyes were fixed very straightly on mine. In fact, it was my eyes that fell first before hers. I must say that she puzzled me, in the face of what I knew, and more than ever I regretted the inopportune entrance of Mr. Monk, when she had been on the eve of making an explanation, which might have solved the mystery of her behavior. "Yes, yes," said Mr. Monk, trotting up and down the room, "I should be glad of the money myself," and again I noted that in his selfishness he did not appear to remember that his daughter owned the missing fortune, "well, well, well, well, well, it is a strange theory, and--if you will pardon my saying so, Mr. Vance--somewhat incredible." "Theories are usually more or less incredible," said I, dryly. "However, if the glass eye can be found, we may prove the improbable to be the possible." "The glass eye: h'm, the glass eye of Anne Caldershaw," Mr. Monk halted near my chair, and placed me--so to speak--in the witness-box. He questioned me most precisely concerning my theory, weighed my replies, made suggestion of his own, and appealed several times to Gertrude, to learn what she thought about the matter. Finally he concluded that there might be something in the matter, although he confessed that he saw no chance of recovering the missing eye, which was the clue to the missing money. "Always presuming," was Mr. Monk's final remark, "that you are correct, there is no doubt that the fortune is missing, and that we--my daughter and I--would be glad to obtain it. But the chances of finding the key--if it be the key--to the mystery of the hiding-place are very, very remote. Never mind, go on." "I have explained everything I know, Mr. Monk." "I don't mean that, sir. What I mean is, that I desire you to go on with the search for the glass eye, and for the criminal who slaughtered Anne. How do you propose to proceed, may I ask?" "I haven't the least idea," I replied, despondently. "No matter; do not despair. _Nil desperandum_ is a most excellent motto for the young and ambitious. It has been my motto through life--" This came excellently from a man, who had done nothing but indulge himself throughout his fifty years of existence. But he made the statement in a light and airy manner, then turned to his daughter: "My dear, don't you think that after this very criminal conversation, we might have a little music to soothe and charm our weary souls?"