"You mean that Mr. Thorold stole the body for scientific purposes?" "For dissection--yes. Mr. Thorold is, I understand, an enthusiast in surgery. Marlow--or, rather, I should say, Beauchamp--died of an obscure disease, and Warrender and Thorold removed the body to hold a post-mortem on it. They were the men seen by Cicero Gramp--you see, I know all about it. They probably carried the body to the moor hut to dissect it. Whether they quarreled or not, I do not know, nor do I know if it was Thorold who killed the doctor. All I say is, that those two stole the body." "Oh, indeed!" remarked Mr. Phelps ironically, "and Thorold put the remains of Dr. Warrender back in the vault, I suppose? And what did he do with Marlow's body?" "I don't know. Buried it on the moor, very likely." "Mr. Thorold had not the key of the vault," cried Sophy indignantly. "It had been stolen by the Quiet Gentleman." "So I understand," retorted Lestrange sharply. "And who says so? Mr. Thorold himself. Believe me, sir," he turned to the Rector, "that key was never stolen. Thorold had it in his pocket. He lied about that for his own safety." "I don't believe it," said Mr. Phelps decisively. "Thorold was at Bournemouth on the night the crime was committed." "I know he was!" cried Sophy, with emphasis. "He was with me and Miss Parsh." "You are wrong, both of you. He came back to Heathton on that night, and returned to Bournemouth before dawn. I understand it is only an hour's journey from here." "It is not true," insisted Sophy uneasily. "I saw Mr. Thorold at eight o'clock that night at the Soudan Hotel." "I dare say. But at ten o'clock he was at Heathton." "How can you prove that?" "If you will permit me," said Lestrange, and rising, he left the room. Before Mr. Phelps and Sophy could exchange a remark, he was back again with a man who had evidently been waiting. "Jarks!" cried the Rector, much annoyed. "And what has Jarks to do with this preposterous story?" "If you ask him he will tell you," said Lestrange politely, and resumed his seat. The Rector looked indignantly at his sexton, who, as minor official in the church, should have quailed before his superior. But there was no quailing or cringing about Jarks. The old fellow was as malicious as a magpie, and as garrulous. Looking more rusty than ever, he stood twisting his greasy old hat, and shifting from one leg to the other. "Oh, I seed Muster Alan; yes, I seed un. On the night o' the funeral I were in the yard, a lookin' at 'em as I'd tucked away, an' I clapped eyes on Muster Alan. He wor' lookin' at the vault where I'd put away the last of 'em, he wor." "About what time was that?" asked Mr. Phelps, with severity. "Well, it might be about ten, Muster Phelps, sir." "And what were you doing out of bed at that hour?"