“And you know you said in your letter that Sarah was always raving about a bad man named James Woodfall, who seemed to have a great influence upon her and to be mixed up in everything evil she talked about. Well, I have brought down among the constables a man who knew James Woodfall, and swears he could identify him. This Woodfall used to be a clever forger, and got caught only once, when he was quite a lad; but he has been lost sight of for years. There is only an off-chance of his having anything at all to do with this; but I mentioned his name to the chief constable, and he thought it worth trying. So now, my darling, you know everything, and you must keep my secrets, every one, like grim death. As for your journey, don’t be alarmed. I shall be in the same train with you; and your mother will really meet you at Liverpool Street Station, for I have told her to do so.” Laurence insisted on seeing me home. We had crept along the high-road until we were close to the cottage nearest to the Alders, when we heard the sounds of hoofs and wheels, and men’s voices halloing through the fog. Laurence opened the gate of the cottage garden and led me inside till they should have passed. It was the dog-cart, with Mr. Rayner on foot leading the horse, and Maynard still in it. “Lucky you are going to stay the night!” Mr. Rayner was saying. “I wouldn’t undertake to find my way to my own gate to-night.” CHAPTER XXVIII. We followed the dog-cart at a safe distance, which was not very far off in the fog, until it stopped at the stable-gate. Then we slipped past quite unseen on the other side of the road, while Mr. Rayner was busy opening the gate; and at the front gate Laurence left me, and I groped my way down the drive as fast as I could, and got in some minutes before Mr. Rayner and his companion. And, as I could rely upon the silence of Mrs. Rayner and the cook, I said nothing to anybody else about my excursion. We were about an hour over dinner, and, when Mr. Rayner had been to the cellar--not the dreadful store-room cellar--himself to get out a bottle of port, he asked Mr. Maynard if he was fond of music. “Well, I’m not much of a dab at it myself, though I used to tootle a little upon the cornet when I was a boy,” replied the detective, whose language had grown a little easier and was less carefully chosen as he knew us better. “But I don’t mind a tune now and then.” “Ah, you are not an enthusiast, I see!” said Mr. Rayner. “Now I can never be happy long without music. Did you ever try the violin?” “Well, no; that is rather a scratchy sort of instrument, to my mind. Give me the concertina,” replied Mr. Maynard genially.