“I don’t see how I can,” she replied; “I’ve never been here before, so far as I know.” “Well, you see,” said the Canon, with a little pride, “our Cathedral is pretty well known, and I dare say you’ve seen pictures or photographs of it. That might account for it.” “Perhaps,” replied Winnie slowly, “but it doesn’t seem to—it’s that funny sort of feeling that I’ve been here, don’t you know?” “Yes, I know,” said Canon Fittleworth, “it’s a psychological curiosity. I’ve had it myself often. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth—’ eh, Charles?” “True. Possibly,” he went on to the girl, “you’ve heard people describing Frattenbury.” She laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll think me very ignorant,” she said, “but I don’t think I ever heard of Frattenbury till I read about the murder in the paper yesterday morning. I’ve never even been in the South of England.” “We’re not so famous as we thought we were, Miss Cotterill,” said the Canon with a smile. “What do you think of our War Memorial?” They were passing through a little square just at the entry of the city, in the centre of which stood one of those, now familiar, erections which are to remind people that the Great European War was characterised by many atrocities. She looked at it, shrugged her shoulders—it may have been the expression of an opinion—and then, closing her eyes, said slowly: “It looks as if there ought to be a big lamp-post there, instead.” “There was,” replied the Canon dryly. “I don’t know that I didn’t prefer it. Really, Miss Cotterill, you must have considerable psychic powers.” “I never knew it till now.” A minute or two later they entered the Cathedral precincts, and drew up at the Canon’s residence. As they got out Mr. Norwood happened to be passing. He raised his hat and bowed in his stiff, formal manner. Winnie Cotterill looked at him intently. “Who was that?” she asked the Canon as they went into the house. “One of our Frattenbury solicitors—a Mr. Norwood,” replied the Canon. “It’s that queer sensation again,” remarked the girl. “When he took his hat off it seemed to me exactly as if I’d seen him before—only that he’s older or something.” “Well, it’s quite possible. Although he’s lived all his life in Frattenbury he’s often in London. One really meets—quite casually—many people who leave an impression on one.” “I suppose it’s that,” said Winnie. “It must be—of course.” “Is his name familiar to you?” “Not a bit. I never heard it before.” There were several letters for the Canon lying on the hall table. He took them up, saying as he did so: “Tea ought to be ready. I expect you’ll find Mrs. Fittleworth in the drawing-room. Do you mind telling her I’ll be there in a minute?” She hesitated. “Canon Fittleworth?” “Yes.” “If you _can_ find out whether the police have done anything—about Mr. Grayson—before I go, I should be so grateful.” “I will,” he said. “I’ll go round to the police station immediately after tea.” “It’s awfully good of you.”