p," said Plinny, who had been waiting for me on
the landing.

I told her that she might get my bed ready, but I would first take a
turn in the garden. I tiptoed downstairs. The floor of the
summer-house had been washed. The vane on its conical roof sparkled
in the sunlight. I stood before it, attempting to picture the
tragedy of which, here in the clear morning, it told nothing to help
me. My thoughts were still running on Captain Coffin and the French
prisoner. Plinny--for I had questioned her cautiously--plainly knew
nothing of any such man. They might, however, have entered by the
side-gate. I stepped back under the apple-tree by the flagstaff,
measuring with my eye the distance between this side-gate and the
summer-house. As I did so, my foot struck against something in the
tall grass under the tree, and I stooped and picked it up--a pair of
gold-rimmed eyeglasses!

CHAPTER XII.

THE BLOODSTAIN ON THE STILE.

My father, in erecting a flagstaff before his summer-house, had
chosen to plant it on a granite millstone, or rather, had sunk its
base through the stone's central hole, which Miss Plinlimmon
regularly filled with salt to keep the wood from rotting. Upon this
mossed and weather-worn bench I sat myself down to examine my find.

Yet it needed no examination to tell me that the eyeglasses were
Captain Branscome's. I recognized the delicate cable pattern of
their gold rims, glinting in the sunlight. I recognized the ring and
the frayed scrap of black ribbon attached to it. I remembered the
guinea with which Captain Branscome had paid my fare on the coach.
I remembered Miss Plinlimmon's account of the stolen cashbox.

The more my suspicions grew, the more they were incredible.
That Captain Branscome, of all men in the world, should be guilty of
such a crime! And yet, with this damning evidence in my hand, I
could not but recall a dozen trifles--mere straws, to be sure--all
pointing towards him. He had been here in my father's garden: that I
might take as proven. With what object? And if that object were an
innocent one, why had he not told me of his intention to visit Minden
Cottage? I remembered how straitly he had cross-examined me, a while
ago, on the topography of the cottage, on my father's household and
his habits. Again, if his visit had been an innocent one, why, last
evening, had he said nothing of it? Why, when I questioned him about
his holiday, had he answered me so conf