He examined the graveyard as carefully as he had done the vault. In the angle formed by the Lady Chapel he found the long grass crushed down, and part of it torn up to make a pillow. "Humph! a squatting-place," said Blair, who had read a good deal about prehistoric man. "A tramp has been sleeping here." "A tramp!" repeated the Rector. "Of course that was Cicero Gramp, who wrote the letter." "No doubt. I dare say he saw the whole business." Blair continued his researches, and came to a halt at the wall which divided church-yard from pine-wood. He pointed to a loose stone which had been knocked off. "Did you observe this before, sir?" "No," replied Mr. Phelps, raising his pince-nez. "But that's nothing. You see, the wall has been put together without mortar--simply stones piled one on top of the other. A high wind, now----" "I don't think a high wind knocked this stone off. You will notice, sir, that it has fallen on the other side. Excuse me," and Blair, active as a deer, leaped over the wall and disappeared into the pine-belt. Phelps rubbed his nose, not understanding these Red Indian methods. In ten minutes the inspector returned. "I can't find the trail," said he, "but from the evidence of that wall, I suspect the body was carried over it." "Where to, Mr. Inspector?" "Probably to a cart waiting on the highroad, which runs across the moor. But, of course, I'm in the dark as to that. Let me see the keyhole of the vault-door." He went back and had a good look at it. There were no scratches to be seen. "Humph!" said the inspector; "this was opened quietly enough, and by a man who knew what he was about. There was no hurry or fumbling in putting in the key." "Ah!" said the Rector, looking wise. "What key? Not this one?" "No, Mr. Phelps, I don't suspect you. Probably the key was that stolen from Mr. Thorold's desk by the Quiet Gentleman." "You speak as though you were not quite sure." "There might have been a third key," Blair said cautiously. "If so, why should Brown have stolen Thorold's key?" "That's one of the things I have to find out. Let us call on Mrs. Marry." Mrs. Marry was a voluble, buxom woman, with rosy cheeks, and a great amount of curiosity as to matters which did not concern her. But, clever as she was, it seemed that she had nothing to tell about Mr. Brown. With many curtsies and much talk she conducted Rector and inspector into a gimcrack parlor full of gaudy furniture, Berlin wool mats, antimacassars, and wax flowers. "When Jeremiah died," explained the widow with pride, "I spent the nest-egg he left me on that elegant set of chairs and sofa, also on the curtains, table, and glass lusters, which are considered very fine. It was my intent, gentlemen, as a lone widder, to take in single gentlemen, and they likes something to tickle the eye."