mething-or-other, over
there and have quite forgotten all about it. Quite possible, I think."

"I agree with you as to the possibility, but certainly not as to the
probability," said Mrs. Greyle, dryly. "Bassett Oliver was the sort of
man whom nobody would forget. But here we are at our cottage--you'll come
in, Mr. Dennie?"

"It will only have to be for a little time, my dear lady," said the old
actor, pulling out his watch. "Our people are going back very soon, and I
must join them at the station."

"I'll give you a glass of good old wine," said Mrs. Greyle as they went
into the cottage. "I have some that belonged to my father-in-law, the old
Squire. You must taste it--for old times' sake."

Mr. Dennie followed Audrey into the little parlour as Mrs. Greyle
disappeared to another part of the house. And the instant they were
alone, he tapped the girl's arm and gave her a curiously warning look.

"Hush, my dear!" he whispered. "Not a word--don't want your mother to
know! Listen--have you a specimen--letter--anything--of your cousin, the
Squire's handwriting? Anything so long as it's his. You have? Give it to
me--say nothing to your mother. Wait until tomorrow morning. I'll run
over to see you again--about noon. It's important--but silence!"

Audrey, scarcely understanding the old man's meaning, opened a desk and
drew out one or two letters. She selected one and handed it to Mr.
Dennie, who made haste to put it away before Mrs. Greyle returned. He
gave Audrey another warning look.

"That was what I wanted!" he said mysteriously. "I thought of it during
the inquest. Never mind why, just now--you shall know tomorrow."

He lingered a few minutes, chatting to his hostess about old times as he
sipped the old Squire's famous port; then he went off to the little
station, joined Stafford and his fellow actors and actresses, and
returned with them to Norcaster. And at Norcaster Mr. Dennie separated
himself from the rest and repaired to his quiet lodgings--rooms which he
had occupied for many years in succession whenever he went that way on
tour--and once safely bestowed in them he pulled out a certain
old-fashioned trunk, which he had owned since boyhood and lugged about
wherever he went in two continents, and from it, after much methodical
unpacking, he disinterred a brown paper parcel, neatly tied up with green
ribbon. From this parcel he drew a thin packet of typed matter and a
couple of letters--the type script he laid