"Well, then, these things have drawn you into wrongdoing. You love Miss Monk. Prove your love by preventing her from getting into trouble about this murder. Until the truth is discovered, she is in danger of arrest because of her unfortunate visit to Mootley and because of the cloak left behind." "Perhaps! perhaps. But her father will say nothing, he dare not." "No, but Miss Destiny might. She knows that her niece was at Mootley on that night, and threatens to betray her unless she receives half the fifty thousand pounds when it is found." "Miss Destiny threatens," said Striver rising, "and for the sake of money. Ah! that old lady always was a miser. Well?" "Well, can't you show your love for Miss Monk and thwart the aunt by telling the truth." "Why, do you think I know the truth?" "You were in the house all the time. I feel certain that you can unravel the mystery." Striver looked away, and became very silent. At this moment Monk entered, and began to bustle about. "Hunter," this was his valet, I afterwards heard, "says that there is a magnifying glass in the desk here." I paid no attention to him as I was looking at Striver. After a long silence the gardener spoke. "I do know the truth," he said slowly, "and I shall save Gertrude's good name. Marry her, and may you be happy." "But----" I cried, following him as he was walking towards the door. "I have nothing more to say," said Striver, and disappeared. I wondered if he was guilty after all, and whether he intended to confess. Before I could think out the matter, Monk touched my elbow. "I can't find the magnifying glass," he said, handing me the case, which he had picked up off the table; "better go to a jeweller and borrow one." "Thanks," I said, slipping the case into my pocket and reaching for my hat and coat. "Good-day, Mr. Monk." "Don't go," he urged me. "I have much to say, and much to thank you for." I put on my coat and made for the door. "I decline to remain in your company, Mr. Monk," I said, "because you are a scoundrel, and if you were not Gertrude's father I would thrash you willingly, old as you are. For her sake only have I saved you." "How dare you speak to me in this way!" he cried furiously, and followed me into the hall, plucking at my sleeve. "Because it is just as well someone should tell you the truth," I retorted heatedly; "you have acted in the most cruel manner towards your daughter." "I have not. I deny it," he panted, looking white and wicked. "You have lived in luxury in London while she has been practically starving down at Burwain. She knows that you are Marr." "You told her?" he cried, falling back a pace. "Yes, I was forced to tell her, because Lady Mabel recognized your photograph in the drawing-room. I warned you that Lady Mabel was going down to Burwain to see Mr. Weston's airship." "You had no right to tell; you promised, if I went away, to hold your tongue." "So I did for a fortnight."