t night about going out that way?" he
answered. "But, there, I don't see the good of it. Between you and me,
Crone was a bit of a night-bird--I've suspected him of poaching, time and
again. Well, he'll do no more of that! You'll be on your way to the
office, likely?"

"Straight there," said I. "I'll tell Mr. Lindsey of this."

But when I reached the office, Mr. Lindsey, who had been out to get his
lunch, knew all about it. He was standing outside the door, talking to
Mr. Murray, and as I went up the superintendent turned away to the police
station, and Mr. Lindsey took a step or two towards me.

"Have you heard this about that man Crone?" he asked.

"I've heard just now," I answered. "Chisholm told me."

He looked at me, and I at him; there were questions in the eyes of both
of us. But between parting from the police-sergeant and meeting Mr.
Lindsey, I had made up my mind, by a bit of sharp thinking and
reflection, on what my own plan of action was going to be about all this,
once and for all, and I spoke before he could ask anything.

"Chisholm," said I, "was down that way, wondering could he hear word of
Crone's being seen with anybody last night. I saw Crone last night. I
went to his shop, buying some bits of old stuff. He was all right then--I
saw nothing. Chisholm--he says Crone was a poacher. That would account,
likely, for his being out there."

"Aye!" said Mr. Lindsey. "But--they say there's marks of violence on the
body. And--the long and short of it is, my lad!" he went on, first
interrupting himself, and then giving me an odd look; "the long and short
of it is, it's a queer thing that Crone should have come by his death
close to the spot where you found yon man Phillips! There may be nothing
but coincidence in it--but there's no denying it's a queer thing. Go and
order a conveyance, and we'll drive out yonder."

In pursuance of the determination I had come to, I said no more about
Crone to Mr. Lindsey. I had made up my mind on a certain course, and
until it was taken I could not let out a word of what was by that time
nobody's secret but mine to him, nor to any one--not even to Maisie
Dunlop, to whom, purposely, I had not as yet said anything about my
seeing Sir Gilbert Carstairs on the night of Phillips's murder. And all
the way out to the inn there was silence between Mr. Lindsey and me, and
the event of the morning, about Gilverthwaite's will, and the odd
circumstance of its attestation by Michael