"I don't know. I have not read the will." "Come now," said Carrington contemptuously, "you don't expect us to believe that. You must have read the will before you buried it." "I didn't bury it." The barrister heaved a weary sigh and glanced at Rupert as if to invite his attention to the way in which the woman was lying. "I don't know why you are wasting our time in this fashion," said Carrington sharply. "Why can't you speak straightforwardly? Twisting and turning won't help you now. You are in a corner, and however you may fight you will not get out of it. Be frank, Mrs. Beatson, and tell us how you killed the vicar." Mrs. Beatson rose white-faced and trembling, holding on to the back of the chair as she replied. "I did not kill the vicar," she insisted. "I would not do such a thing. I haven't the nerve, and I'm honest enough as people go. Only the sudden temptation to make money easily made me tell Mr. Mallien about the will. But I did no more. I wasn't near the vicarage, and no one was more astonished than I was when I heard of the murder." "Listen to me," said Carrington, making a sign to Rupert that he should hold his tongue and leave the examination to him. "The police could not find out any reason why the vicar should have been killed, because they knew nothing about this will. Kensit unconsciously hinted at the truth when he said that the papers and books in the vicarage study were all in disorder, as if some search had been made. I believe that such a search was made, and by you, for this will, after you murdered the poor man." "It's a lie!" screamed Mrs. Beatson savagely. "How dare you sit there and tell lies about me?" "If it is a lie," said Carrington, quite unmoved by her sudden fury, "how comes it that the will is in your possession?" "I dug it up." "And how did you know the spot where it was buried?" "The letter told me." "The letter!" Rupert looked up surprised. "What letter?" Mrs. Beatson fumbled in her breast, and pulling out a torn envelope threw it across the room into Hendle's lap. "I got that this morning," she declared in sullen tones, "and acted as it advised. As there is no name to it, I don't know who wrote it. Don't let Mr. Carrington get it; I trust you, sir, not him." Rupert picked up the envelope and examined it, while the barrister looked over his shoulder. It was directed to "Mrs. Beatson, The Big House, Barship, Essex," and had evidently, judging from the postmark, been sent through the General Post Office of the metropolis. Having ascertained this, the young man took out a double sheet of tolerably good notepaper, upon which in a backward sloping hand probably disguised, were written a few lines, to which no signature was appended. These intimated abruptly that the will of John Hendle was to be found buried at the foot of the sundial in the vicarage garden, and that Mrs. Beatson could find it by searching. While the two men read and reread this anonymous letter, the housekeeper went rambling on.