Yet this time I had secured one significant-looking starting point. The coincidence of Jock's appearance out at that lonely place more or less about the time when the murder must have taken place, and his leading me away in another direction from that in which I was heading, was certainly suggestive. The creature had exhibited more appearance of intelligence than I had given him credit for, and might he not then be used by some one who knew him well and had strong influence over him, to play such a simple part as he had acted? Supposing he were with such a person and that person saw me coming and did not wish me to spy him, how easy it would be to say, "Go, Jock, and show that gentleman stones over there!" As to whom to suspect of having such influence over him, that was easy enough. I recalled young Peter Scollay's stare and laugh when I suggested that they were going to look at the ship, and it sounded to me now a very sinister laugh. And yet the more I thought over all this, the more objections I saw. In the first place the body was not found where I had seen Jock. True, it might have been moved if the murderer had been wily and suspicious enough to think that the simple Mr. Hobhouse was capable of connecting the harmless episode of the stones with his gruesome work, though even that seemed to imply more than was likely; but a more formidable difficulty was the evidence of educated cunning in every crime committed or attempted by that hand. For "that hand" I decided I must certainly substitute "those hands." I had always thought there was more than one in it, and now I felt surer of this than ever. With the back of my head, as they say, I heard Dr. Rendall go into dinner and then come out again into the hall, and then I heard him, instead of coming into the smoking room, open and shut the front door. He had evidently gone out again and I was not sorry to be left alone. A little later, in the same absent-minded way, I heard the front door bell faintly ring and I only woke out of my reverie when the smoking room door opened. "Dr. Rendall is out, I hear," said a voice that made me jump up very hurriedly. It was Jean Rendall, delightful to look at as ever, but with a new expression on her face. If she was not anxious, and very keenly anxious too, about something, I was much mistaken. Unwillingly I resumed the role of Thomas Hobhouse and informed her nervously that the doctor had gone out, I knew not where. She said nothing for a moment, but still lingered. Then she said, "What a dreadful thing about poor Mr. Bolton!" "Dreadful!" agreed Mr. Hobhouse. "Terrible! Dreadful! Terrible!" "Did my cousin tell you much about it?" "Oh, no, not much, very little. He was upset, very much upset, I could see." "Everybody is," she said, and then added, "I should think you must be, Mr. Hobhouse." There seemed to be an odd note in her voice set up a vague chain of disquieting emotions, but Mr. Hobhouse answered in the same tone as before: