“‘You’ll have your revenge on Norwood,’ he said. ‘And it’s a revenge that will touch him to the quick on his sorest point. Forbes is dead, and we can’t help him. And his wife is dead. But there’s her daughter. If I were to give Norwood into the hands of the law there’d be no recompense for _her_. But, by God, there _shall_ be! As soon as I get back to the old country I shall write to Norwood, tell him what I know, and offer him choice between exposure and ten thousand pounds.’” “That is where the blackmail comes in, sir,” interposed Colson quietly. “And I don’t know that I wouldn’t justify it—but the law wouldn’t.” “Go on, please,” said the Canon to Grice. “Well, sir, he went on to say that if he got this sum out of Norwood he should settle it on Forbes’s daughter—not telling her where it came from, and not letting her know about her father. He said she was only a child at the time—well, I knew that; I’ve often seen her here—and that she had been brought up in ignorance of her father’s crime.” “I think I know who she was,” murmured the Canon. “That accounts for those strange impressions of having been here before—and recognising Norwood. Yes?” Ezra Grice finished the story, and the detective took up the threads. “Now do you see, sir?” he asked. “Mr. Templeton evidently carried out his threat and wrote to Norwood on his return. Then he made an appointment with him. He wrote saying he was prepared to hand over Grice’s confession and proofs in exchange for the money. Norwood must have been in a terrible dilemma. He must get those proofs in any case; it would mean utter ruin to him if he was once exposed. But he hadn’t the money to buy them. Whether or not he meant to bluff your cousin remains to be seen. Anyhow, he made the appointment, and sent his domestics to the performance at the Town Hall that night—I’ve found out that—in order to be alone when Templeton called.” “But why go back to Marsh Quay with him?” asked the Canon. “Don’t you see, sir? I think we can guess. Templeton hadn’t got the confession and proofs on him. He made a mistake by being too careful. You told us he said he was very likely going to spend a few nights here. Very well. That particular night he wasn’t prepared to hand them over. The coroner had probably not committed himself, even by a typewritten, unsigned letter. And he knew he hadn’t the money.” “What _did_ he do, then?” asked the Canon. “Probably pretended that he _had_ got it, and induced Templeton to give him the proofs that night. By this time he had made up his mind that he _must_ have them—in any case. And I think he took that dagger, or whatever it was, with him—ready to take the biggest risk of all. Which we know he did!” Canon Fittleworth sat for a few minutes in silence. Then he said: