Victor Nevill
crawled out of bed after a troubled night; with haggard face and dull
eyes he looked down into Jermyn street, wondering, as he recalled the
events of the previous night, what another day would bring forth.

At the same hour, or a little later, Jimmie Drexell was at Hastings.
Having to wait some time for another train, he walked through the pretty
town to the sea, and the sight of its glorious beauty--the embodiment of
untrammeled freedom--made him think sadly of poor Jack in a prison cell.

"Never mind, I'll have him out soon!" he vowed.

He returned to the station, and was whirled on through the flat, green
country to the charming Sussex village of Pevensey, with its ruined old
castle and rambling street, and the blue line of the Channel flashing in
the distance. His journey did not end here, and he was impatient to
continue it. He procured a horse and trap at the Railway Arms, gleaned
careful instructions from the landlord, and drove back a few miles along
the hedge-lined roads, while the sea faded behind him.

It was eleven o'clock when he reached the retired little hamlet of
Dunwold. He put up his vehicle at a quaint old inn, and refreshed
himself with a simple lunch. Then he sought the vicarage, hard by the
ancient church with its Norman tower, and, on inquiring for Mr.
Chalfont, he was shown into a sunny library full of books and
Chippendale furniture, with flowers on the deep window-seats and
a litter of papers on the carved oak writing-desk.

The vicar entered shortly--an elderly gentleman of benevolent aspect and
snowy beard, but sturdy and lithe-limbed for his years, clearly one of
those persons who seemed predestined for the placidity of clerical life.
After a penetrating glance he greeted his visitor most graciously, and
expressed pleasure at seeing him.

"I am sure that you are a stranger to the neighborhood," he continued.
"Our fine old church draws many such hither. If you wish to go over it,
I can show you many things of interest--"

"At another time," Jimmie interrupted, "I should be only too delighted.
I regret to say that it is quite a different matter that brings me
here--hardly a pleasant one. This will partly explain, Mr. Chalfont."

He presented the letter Sir Lucius had given him, and when it had been
opened and read he poured out the whole story of Diane's life and end,
of the charge against Jack Vernon, and the clew that the murdered woman
had revealed to her landlady.