I internally blessed Mr. Monk and his confounded portmanteau, then took my departure, as I had entered, by the middle window. As I passed out I could not help glancing again at the table whereon I had seen the glass eye. Miss Monk saw my inquiring gaze and came forward. "Have you lost anything?" I was more confounded than ever. "No--nothing," I said hurriedly. "Good-day," and I departed at top speed, entirely at sea as regards the true state of affairs. And yet, apart from the evidence of the cloak, the presence of the glass eye at The Lodge seemed conclusively to prove the guilt of Gertrude. On my way back to the inn I wondered if by any chance Miss Destiny had seen the eye. On reaching the house, it was not impossible that after my capture by Mr. Monk, she might have entered the drawing-room; in which case, being--as I had frequently found--of an inquisitive turn of mind, it was certain that she had caught sight of the object. It was even possible that she had taken the eye in order to find the secret hiding-place of the fortune. Miss Destiny was a miser; Miss Destiny had no great love for her niece, so the theft of the eye would appeal to her avarice and love of making herself disagreeable. And of course, she would know very well, that her niece could say nothing without getting herself into trouble. No sooner had this idea entered my mind, than I wheeled about and took the road to Miss Destiny's hovel, with the intention of asking questions. But these were not easy to formulate. If she possessed the eye, she certainly would not acknowledge the theft: if she did not, I might reveal my suspicions of Gertrude and thus would place a weapon in the little old lady's hand, which she would undoubtedly make use of. But in my hurried walk to my destination, there was no time to arrange what to say, so I determined to trust more or less to chance. And in this doubtful state of mind I arrived at the tin house. Miss Destiny herself opened the door, and explained that Lucinda was shopping in the village. She appeared to be her usual mincing self, and betrayed no uneasiness. I was invited into her sordid, shabby sitting-room, and she entered into a long complaint about her brother-in-law's treatment. "Walter is so very mean," lamented Miss Destiny, sitting down, "I believe he grudges Joseph coming to work for me." "Mr. Monk has engaged Joseph to attend to his own garden," I reminded her. "The Lodge garden is in good order," she snapped, "whereas mine needs a lot of attention. Walter might send the man along." "If you pay Joseph, Miss Destiny----" "Pay him," she interrupted with a shriek, and throwing up her hands, "my dear Mr. Vance, it is as much as I can do to keep bread in my mouth. I am reduced to this"--she glanced round--"which is by no means the abode of a gentlewoman. But Gertrude and her father would let me starve sooner than behave as relatives should." "Oh, no, no," I protested. "Miss Monk is extremely kind."