ouble
meaning, for, indeed, what name was it by which he ought to call her?

But she seemed to notice nothing as she answered "My name is Cayley
--Ella Cayley. You can call me Miss Cayley. Do you know anything of
motoring?"

"Yes," he answered. "Though I never cared much for motoring at night."

She gave him a quick glance, but said no more, and they came almost
immediately to the back door.

Ella opened it and entered, nodding to him to follow, and crossing a
narrow, stone-floored passage, she entered the kitchen where a tall
gaunt elderly woman in a black bonnet and, a course apron was at work.

"This is Dunn, Mrs. Barker," she called, raising her voice. "He is the
new gardener. Will you give him some breakfast, please?" She added to
Dunn:

"When you've finished, you can go to the garage and wash the car, and
when you speak to Mrs. Barker you must shout. She is quite deaf, that is
why my stepfather engaged her, because he was sorry for her and wanted
to give her a chance, you know..."

CHAPTER XI. THE PROBLEM

When he had finished his breakfast, and after he had had the wash of
which he certainly stood in considerable need, Dunn made his way to the
garage and there occupied himself cleaning the car. He noticed that the
mud with which it was liberally covered was of a light sandy sort, and
he discovered on one of the tyres a small shell.

Apparently, therefore, last night's wild journey had been to the coast,
and it was a natural inference that the sea had provided a secure
hiding-place for the packing-case and its dreadful contents.

But then that meant that there was no evidence left on which he could
take action.

As he busied himself with his task, he tried to think out as clearly as
he could the position in which he found himself and to decide what he
ought to do next.

To his quick and hasty nature the swiftest action was always the most
congenial, and had he followed his instinct, he would have lost no time
in denouncing Deede Dawson. But his cooler thoughts told him that he
dared not do that, since it would be to involve risks, not for himself,
but for others, that he simply dared not contemplate.

He felt that the police, even if they credited his story, which he
also felt that very likely they would not do, could not act on his sole
evidence.

And even if they did act and did arrest Deede Dawson, it was certain no
jury would convict on so strange a story, so entirely uncorroborated.