Some days later, rather to Tanner’s surprise, he received from a sergeant of police in the north of England an answer to his circular about the photograph. It read: ‘Sir: We have found the churchyard illustrated in your view attached. It belongs to the Parish Church of Tynwick, a village six miles south-east of Gateshead. The headstone is still standing. It bears the inscription—“Sacred to the memory of John Dale, aged 53, who departed this life on 4th September 1871, and of Eleanor, his beloved wife, who entered into rest on 25th March 1890, at the age of 67.”’ ‘Gateshead? Dale?’ thought the Inspector. ‘Those names sound familiar.’ He turned to his notes of the case. And then he got rather a thrill. Gateshead was the place from which Sir William had come to Luce Manor. It was there the deceased gentleman had been born and had spent his life, and where the ironworks he had owned was situated. And Dale? This was more interesting still. Dale was the name of his wife’s first husband! He had married a Mrs Ethel Dale. Here at last was a connection between the manufacturer and William Douglas. But after all was it not a very slender one? What exactly did it amount to? That Douglas had in his possession a photograph of the grave of a man and woman of the same name as Lady Ponson’s first husband, and who lived somewhere in the same locality. Not much to go upon, and yet it was suggestive, and where there had been nothing before, Tanner welcomed it eagerly. Who knew what it mightn’t lead to? He determined he must go to Tynwick and make inquiries. CHAPTER XIV. A Dramatic Discovery The shades of evening were falling when Inspector Tanner reached Newcastle. He had not been favoured with his usual travelling weather. For the first time since he started work on the Ponson case, the skies had remained all day grey and leaden, and the rain had poured ceaselessly and hopelessly down. It had not been possible to open the carriage windows, and he was tired from so long breathing the stuffy atmosphere of the train. It was too late to do anything that night, but the next morning, which fortunately was fine, he took the train to Tynwick. It was a village of about five hundred inhabitants, an attractive little place, with pleasant creeper-covered cottages, separated from the road by narrow gardens, all ablaze with colour. In the centre was the church, and strolling slowly into the churchyard, Tanner had no difficulty in identifying the spot from which the photograph had been taken. As the sergeant had said, the headstone was still standing, and Tanner paused and re-read the inscription of which he already had received a copy. Close by the churchyard and connected with it by a gate in the dividing wall, stood an old, grey stone house—evidently the vicarage. Tanner pushed open the gate, and walking slowly up to the door, knocked. ‘Could I see the vicar for a few moments?’ he asked courteously, as the door was opened by a trim maid.