Father Dobbins--for that is the name by which this old codger was known to the boys--was, as might be expected, very proud of his new acquisition and quite blind to the contrast it offered to his fringed-out trouser-legs. He had a smile on his face which broadened as he caught Sweetwater's sympathetic glance. "Fine day," he mumbled. "Are ye wantin' somethin' of me that ye're comin' this way?" "Perhaps and perhaps," answered Sweetwater, "--if that fine coat I see you wearing is the one given you by Mrs. Weston up the road." "'Deed, sir, and what's amiss? She gave it to me, yes. Came all the way into the village to find me and give it to me. Too small for her master, she said; and would I take it to oblige him. Does she want it back?" "Oh, no--not she. She's not that kind. It's only that she has since remembered that one of the pockets has a hole in it--an inside one, I believe. She's afraid it might lose you a dime some day. Will you let me see if she is right? If so, I was to take you to the tailor's and have it fixed immediately. I am to pay for it." The old man stared in slow comprehension; then with the deliberation which evidently marked all his movements, he slowly put down his basket. "I warrant ye it's all right," he said. "But look, an ye will. I don't want to lose no dimes." Sweetwater threw back one side of the coat, then the other, felt in the pockets and smiled. But Gryce, and not ignorant Father Dobbins, should have seen that smile. There was comedy in it, and there was the deepest tragedy also; for the marks of stitches forcibly cut were to be seen under one of the pockets--stitches which must have held something as narrow as an umbrella-band and no longer than the little strip at which Mr. Gryce had been looking one night in a melancholy little short of prophetic. XVIII MRS. DAVIS' STRANGE LODGER "If you will look carefully at this chart, and note where the various persons then in the museum were standing at the moment Correy shouted his alarm, you will see that of all upon whom suspicion can with any probability be attached there is but one who could have fulfilled the conditions of escape as just explained to you." Stretching forth an impressive finger, Mr. Gryce pointed to a certain number on the chart outspread between him and the Chief Inspector. He looked--saw the number "3" and glanced anxiously down at the name it prefigured. "Roberts--the director! Impossible! Not to be considered for a moment. I'm afraid you're getting old, Gryce." And he looked about to be sure that the door was quite shut. Mr. Gryce smiled, a little drearily perhaps, as he acknowledged this self-evident fact. "You are right, Chief: I am getting old--but not so old as to venture upon so shocking an insinuation against a man of Mr. Roberts' repute and seeming honor, if I had not some very substantial proofs to offer in its support."