or for some time did he mention
his tobacco-box labours--indeed, I don't remember that he mentioned
them directly at all. But, about the time that the inquests on the two
murdered men came to an end, I observed that Mr. Cazalette, most of
whose time was devoted to his numismatic work, was spending his
leisure in turning over whatever books he could come across at
Ravensdene Court which related to local history and topography; he was
also studying old maps, charts and the like. Also, he got from London
the latest Ordnance Map. I saw him studying that with deep attention.
Yet he said nothing until one day, coming across me in the library,
alone, he suddenly plumped me with a question.

"Middlebrook!" said he, "the name which that poor man mentioned to you
as you talked with him on the cliff was--Netherfield?"

"Netherfield," said I. "That was it--Netherfield."

"He said there were Netherfields buried hereabouts?" he asked.

"Just so--in some churchyard or other," I answered. "What of it, Mr.
Cazalette?"

He helped himself to a pinch of snuff, as if to assist his thoughts.

"Well," said he presently, "and it's a queer thing that at the time of
the inquest nobody ever thought of inquiring if there is such a
churchyard and such graves."

"Why didn't you suggest it?" I asked.

"I'd rather find it out for myself," said he, with a knowing look.
"And if you want to know, I've been trying to do so. But I've looked
through every local history there is--and I think the late John
Christopher Raven collected every scrap of printed stuff relating to
this corner of the country that's ever left a press--and I can't find
any reference to such a name."

"Parish registers?" I suggested.

"Aye, I thought of that," he said. "Some of 'em have been printed, and
I've consulted those that have, without result. And, Middlebrook, I'm
more than ever convinced that yon dead man knew what he was talking
about, and that there's dead and gone Netherfields lying somewhere in
this quarter, and that the secret of his murder is, somehow, to be
found in their ancient tombs! Aye!"

He took another big pinch of snuff, and looked at me as if to find out
whether or no I agreed with him. Then I let out a question.

"Mr. Cazalette, have you found out anything from your photographic
work on that tobacco-box lid?" I asked. "You thought you might."

Much to my astonishment, he turned and shuffled away.

"I'm not through with that matter, yet," he an