"Yes, sir. But this is the kind of thing as a valet gets to know about more than a butler--letters left about, or in pockets, you know, sir. But his lordship never could keep a valet long enough for him to learn anything. He was worse with valets than with any one." "I see," said Mr. Flexen in a vexed tone. "But still, I should have thought you'd have heard something from some one, even if the matter had not come under your own eyes. Gossip moves pretty widely about the countryside." "Oh, this didn't happen in the country, sir--not in this part of the country, anyhow. It must have been a London woman," said Hutchings with conviction. "If she'd lived about here, I must have heard about it." "It was a lady, you must know. The papers do not bring that fact out. My informant is quite sure that it was a lady," said Mr. Flexen. "That's no 'elp, sir," said Hutchings despondently. "She must have come down by train and gone away by train." "She would have probably been noticed at the station. But she wasn't. Besides, she could not have walked back to the station in time to catch the last train. I'm sure of it." "Then she must have come in a car, sir." "That is always possible," said Mr. Flexen. There was a pause. Then Hutchings burst out: "You may depend on it that she did it, sir. There isn't a shadow of a doubt. You get her and you'll get the murderess." He spoke with the feverish, unbalanced vehemence of a man whose nerves are on edge. "You think so, do you?" said Mr. Flexen. "I'm sure of it--dead certain," cried Hutchings. "It's a long way from visiting a gentleman late at night and quarrelling with him to murdering him," said Mr. Flexen. "And she went it. You mark my words, sir. She went it. I don't say that she came to do it. But she saw that knife lying handy on the library table and she did it," said Hutchings with the same vehemence. "Any one who passed through the library would see that knife," said Mr. Flexen carelessly, but his eyes were very keen on Hutchings' face. Hutchings was pale, and he went paler. He tried to stammer something, but his voice died in his throat. "Well, I'm sorry you can't give me any information about this lady. Good afternoon," said Mr. Flexen, and he turned on his heel and went back to the car. He was impressed by Hutchings' air and manner. Of course, believing himself to be suspected, the man was under a strain. But would the strain on him be so heavy as it plainly was, if he knew himself to be innocent? And then his eagerness to fasten the crime on the mysterious woman. It had been astonishingly intense, almost hysterical. When he reached the Castle he found Inspector Perkins awaiting him with a small package which had come by special messenger from Scotland Yard. It contained enlarged photographs of the fingerprints on the handle of the knife. They were all curiously blurred. _The murderer had worn a glove._ CHAPTER XIII