"All the same, I'm afraid I must go a little farther, sir," Drake said. "That box is yours and it was found in the ashes of the fire. It appears that some time before the fire broke out one of the servants at the Hall was called up to take a message to Mr. Mayfield, who is staying in a farmhouse not far from here. The servant's name is Walters. He went back to his quarters over the stables, and as it was a fine night and he did not feel in the least sleepy, he sat by the open window and smoked a cigarette. He says that a little before two--close to the time when the fire broke out--he saw somebody come from the direction of the house and cross the lawn. The figure was moving rapidly, and apparently desired to escape observation. When Walters was asked if he could recognise the figure in question, he said positively that he could. I asked him to give it a name, and, to make a long story short, he said it was you, sir." There was no mistaking the dry suggestiveness in Drake's manner. He was not in the least apologetic now, he made his statement with the air of a man who is sure of his ground. Dashwood changed colour slightly. "This is ridiculous," he cried. "The idea that I should have any motive for destroying the old house is out of the question. If you knew who I really am----" "That is not the point, sir. The question is were you there?" "Yes, I was," Dashwood said in a kind of sullen desperation. "I was out at that hour. The best thing I can do is to come as far as the Hall and have it out with Walters. I see that the time has come when I must tell the truth." CHAPTER XXX. THE HEIR OF THE HOUSE Sir George Dashwood sat in the Gothic library at Dashwood Hall bewailing his hard fate in a manner which would have been called peevish in a less distinguished man. He wanted to know when he was going to get back the full possession of his house again; he desired to be informed why Horace Mayfield had not been to see him. He did not appear to be listening to what Mary had to say. Also he was full of the fact that the more or less mysterious Vincent Dashwood had made a dastardly attempt to reduce the old house to ashes. "You don't seem to understand," Mary said with some impatience. She was standing in the window of the library with the sunshine full on her face. Through the great mullion, with its crested devices, she could see the deer in the park beyond. "You do not seem to comprehend that this is a blessing in disguise. So far as I can see, the house is not a bit the worse for what might have been a terrible disaster. I am bound to confess that I don't like Mr. Dashwood, but at the same time I am quite sure that he had nothing to do with the fire--the fire which prevented anybody from knowing of the disgrace that had fallen upon us."