safe, and----"

"And," interrupted Morley, "there you have the long arm of coincidence,
Ware. That cross belonged to Lady Summersdale, and was one of the
trinkets left behind. If you want proof on this point, you have only to
ask Lady----no, I forgot, she is dead. However, I daresay her son or
daughter will be able to prove that the cross was hers."

Giles was much disappointed by this explanation, which seemed clear
enough. And if any one should know the truth, it would be the man who
had taken charge of the case. Failing on this point, Giles shifted his
ground.

"Well, Morley," he said, "I am not very anxious to prove this man Wilson
a burglar. He is a murderer, I am sure, and the greater crime swallows
up the lesser."

"That sounds law," said Morley, lighting a cigar.

"Well, Ware, I don't see how I can help you. This man Wilson, whether he
is innocent or guilty, has vanished; and, moreover, his connection, if
any, with the Summersdale robbery of ten years ago won't prove him
guilty of my poor ward's death."

"I only mentioned that to show his connection with the yacht at
Gravesend. But as to this Wilson, I know where he is."

Morley wheeled round with an eager light in his eyes. "The devil you do.
Where is he?"

"At the Priory."

"Is this a joke?" cried Morley angrily. "If so, it is a very poor one,
Ware. The man who lives at the Priory is my friend Franklin----"

"He is also the man who was in the church on New Year's Eve--the man who
killed Daisy, as I truly believe."

Giles went on to state what his reasons were for this belief. All at
once Morley started to his feet. "Ah! I know now why something about him
seemed to be familiar to me. What a fool I am! I believe you are right,
Ware."

"What? That he is this man Wilson?"

"I don't know what his former name was," replied Morley, with a shrug,
"but now you mention it I fancy he is the man who served the summons on
me."

"You ought to know," said Ware dryly; "you saw him in this room, and in
a good light."

"True enough, Ware; but all the time he kept his collar up and that
white scarf round his throat. His chin was quite buried in it. And then
he had a rough red--wig, shall we say? and a red beard. I didn't trouble
to ask him to make himself comfortable. All I wanted was to get him out
of the way. But I remember his black eyes. Franklin has eyes like that,
and sometimes I catch myself wondering where I have seen him before. He
tells me he has l