As may be guessed, I passed a very perturbed four and twenty hours until my arranged interview with Miss Monk. Miss Destiny had not seen the glass eye in the drawing-room, and so far could prove nothing against her niece. I believe that, so far, she was speaking the truth, as if she had seen the eye, she would have only been too pleased to adduce its presence as a proof of Gertrude's guilt. But, as things were, what she knew was damning enough. She could swear to the girl's presence at Mootley on the evening of the murder, and to the ownership of the white cloak, worn by the lady who had stolen my motor car. Fortunately, from sheer shame, since Miss Monk was her niece, Miss Destiny promised to hold her tongue. In the face of what the old woman had said and that I already knew, it seemed certain that Gertrude was guilty. Miss Destiny could even declare that her niece had possessed certain blue glass-headed hat-pins, with one of which the crime had been committed. Then again Gertrude wished to get the money, which, after all, was rightfully her own. It seemed probable--on the face of it--that while waiting with Anne Caldershaw for Miss Destiny's arrival, she had tried to learn what the ex-housekeeper knew as to the whereabouts of the money. Anne may have boasted that the secret was locked up in her glass eye, and then--well, I shuddered to think of what took place. Nine people out of ten would have pronounced Gertrude guilty with the greatest promptitude: but I happened to be the tenth, and I hesitated to give an opinion. But then I was in love, and my decision was biassed. But I really could not believe that so lovely a girl was guilty. Besides, her demeanor was not that of a brazen criminal, and she had seemed really puzzled by my over-attentive gaze. Tossing and turning on my bed, I tried to see some ray of light, but all was utter darkness. The evidence was dead against Gertrude Monk, and her fate was in the hands of her vindictive aunt. Miss Destiny might hold her tongue for the time being, but it would take very little to set it wagging. And being a miser, she might try to blackmail her niece. My brain ached with trying to get at the truth. To Inspector Dredge it would have have been readily apparent; but in the face of stern facts I refused to believe the girl to be guilty. Then there was Giles. During the night I thought a good deal of Giles, whom I had met that very evening when I returned to the Robin Redbreast. He was remaining there for the night, and informed me that he had come over to Burwain that day in order to see Striver about the lease of the corner shop. "You see, Mr. Vance," said Giles, shortly before I retired to bed, and while we were in the bar, "my wife wants to have a shop of her own, so I thought I would get Mr. Striver to make over the lease of Mrs. Caldershaw's shop to me. My wife is set on having it, and I think Mr. Striver will agree to the terms I propose." "You have seen him, then?"