"A lancet! And why mine? Warrender was a doctor; he took away the body--why should the lancet not belong to him? If he had intended to dissect the body--which he might have, for all I know--he would want one." "No doubt," Mr. Phelps said dryly. "But this lancet had your initials on the ivory handle. It is your lancet, Alan, and it is now in Cicero's possession." "H'm! that's queer. Initials?--yes, it might be mine. But how did it get there?" "Did you ever lend a lancet to Dr. Warrender?" "No, not that I can remember." "Then there was the other man, his accomplice, Brown the----" "Ha!" cried Alan, starting up and pacing the room. "I see, I see!" "See what?" cried Sophy eagerly. "How the lancet came to be found in the hut. The Quiet Gentleman stole it." "Stole it?" "Of course. Did he not steal the key of the vault from my desk? There was a case of lancets in the same drawer; he took one. Ha! this proves to me that Brown stole the body and murdered Warrender. A clever scoundrel! He stole my lancet to throw suspicion on me." Alan clenched his hands and looked upward. "In God's name, what does this roguery mean?" It was indeed a perplexing case. They were all in the dark, and such gleams of light as came served only to confuse them the more. Lestrange could not be the Quiet Gentleman, for, as had been proved by Alan, he had landed in England only the week before. Brown was the _deus ex machina_ who could put matters right, and Brown had vanished. He could reappear only at the risk of being charged with murder. Why had the body been removed? If it were a case of blackmailing, the claim would have been made long since. The police were apparently as much at a loss as Alan himself. And Blair---- "Does Blair know of this accusation?" asked Mr. Thorold suddenly. "I am certain he does not," answered the Rector emphatically. "In the first place, it was only made to-day. Lestrange, I am sure, wants money, and would come to us before going to the police." "If he does not want money, Cicero does," put in Sophy scornfully. "In the second place," resumed Mr. Phelps, "Blair is away." "Where has he gone?" "I can't say, but he will be back in a fortnight." "Well," said Alan moodily, "I don't know if he will be much good when he does come. I shall see this firm of scoundrels at the Good Samaritan, and threaten them with the police, unless they tell all they know. Lestrange is as bad as Cicero, and I know _him_ to be a scoundrel. What's that?" This exclamation was drawn from him by the violent ringing of the door-bell. Before the sounds had ceased, Miss Vicky, red, hot and agitated, rushed in a most unladylike manner into the room. "Oh, Sophy! Mr. Phelps! Mr. Alan! I really never! Joseph Brill--oh, that Joseph Brill! He's back again!" CHAPTER XVII. JOE'S EVIDENCE