essing-room and bedroom, threw it
open, and after a search of but a few moments drew forth a pair of boots
damp and covered with mud, and a brown tweed walking skirt, the lower
edge of which was still damp and mud stained. He looked at the Major
significantly. "Major Temple," he said, "your daughter left the house,
in these shoes and this skirt, some time close to daybreak. The murder
occurred about that time. If you will induce her to tell fully and
frankly why she did so, and why she seems so anxious to conceal the
fact, I am sure that it will spare her and all of us a great deal of
annoyance and trouble, and assist us materially in arriving at the
truth." As he concluded, sounds below announced the arrival of the
police and the divisional surgeon from the town, and, with a curt nod,
he left us and descended to the hall.

CHAPTER IV

I ADVISE MISS TEMPLE

I left the room and went down to the main hall. The divisional surgeon,
with McQuade and his men had already proceeded to the scene of the
tragedy, and as I did not suppose that I would be wanted there, I left
the house and started out across the beautiful lawns, now partially
covered with the fallen leaves of oak and elm, my mind filled with
conflicting thoughts and emotions. As I passed out, I met Miss Temple
coming along the porch, wearing a long cloak, and evidently prepared for
a walk, so I suggested, rather awkwardly, remembering her look of
annoyance during the examination by Sergeant McQuade, that I should be
happy to accompany her. Somewhat to my surprise she accepted my offer
at once, and we started briskly off along the main driveway leading to
the highroad. Miss Temple, of lithe and slender build, was, I soon
found, an enthusiastic walker, and set the pace with a free and swinging
stride that rejoiced my heart. I dislike walking with most women, whose
short and halting steps make accompanying them but an irritation. I did
not say anything as we walked along, except to comment upon the change
of weather and the beauty of the day, for I felt sure that she would
prefer to be left to her own thoughts after the trying ordeal through
which she had just passed. She was silent all the way down to the
entrance to the grounds, and seemed to feel oppressed by the house and
its proximity, but as soon as we set out along the main road toward
Pinhoe over which Ashton and I had traveled the evening before, she
seemed to brighten up, and, turning to me, said,