“The large window of Mr. Grant’s study was open, and we both heard a clock in the hall chime the half-hour. I said, ‘Goodness me, is that half past ten?’ and started for home at once. Mr. Grant came with me as far as the bridge. When I reached my room, in exactly five minutes after leaving _The Hollies_, I stood at the open window—that window”—and she pointed to a dormer casement above the sitting-room—“and looked out. It was a particularly fine night, mild, but not very clear, as a slight mist often rises from the river after a hot day in summer. I may have been there about ten minutes, no longer, when I saw the study window of _The Hollies_ thrown open, and Mr. Grant’s figure was silhouetted by the lamp behind him. He seemed to be listening for something, so I, who must have heard any unusual sound, listened too. There was nothing. I could hear the ripple of the river beneath the bridge, so everything was very still. After a minute, or two, perhaps—no longer—Mr. Grant went in, and closed the window. Then I went to bed.” “Did Mr. Grant draw any blind or curtains?” “There are muslin curtains attached to each side of the window. One cannot see into the room from a distance.” Furneaux measured an imaginary line drawn from Doris’s bedroom to the edge of the cliff, and prolonged it. “Nor can you see the river or foot of the lawn from your room,” he commented. “No. In winter I can just make out the edge of the lawn. When the trees are in leaf, all the lower part is hidden.” “You had actually retired to rest about eleven, I suppose?” “Yes.” “So if Mr. Grant came out again you would not know?” Doris blushed furiously, but her reply was unfaltering. “I would have known during the next half-hour, at least,” she said. “An inclined mirror hangs in my room. I use it sometimes for adjusting a hat. The square of light from Mr. Grant’s room is reflected in it, and any sudden increase in the illumination caused by opening the window or pulling the curtains aside would certainly have caught my eye.” “You have an unshakable witness in Miss Martin,” said Furneaux, stabbing a finger at Grant. “Now, I’ll hurry off. You and I, Mr. Grant, meet at Philippi, otherwise known as the crowner’s quest.” Any benevolent intent he may have had in leaving these young people together was, however, frustrated by Doris, whose composure seemed to have fled since her statement about the mirror. She resolutely accompanied the detective, and Grant had to follow. All three passed into the post office, Doris using the private door. Mr. Martin looked up from his desk when they appeared, and requested his daughter to check a bundle of postal orders. The pretext was painfully obvious, but Grant was not so wishful now to clear up matters with Doris’s father, as the girl herself might be trusted to pass on an accurate account of the affair from beginning to end. He was about to reach the street quick on Furneaux’s heels when the little man turned suddenly.