Three or four times in the course of my narrative I happened to thrust my hands into my breeches-pocket, and was reminded of the gold eyeglass concealed there.  I had managed very artfully to keep Captain Branscome entirely out of the story, but twice under examination I was forced to mention him—­and each time, curiously enough, in answer to a question of Miss Belcher’s.

“You are sure this Captain Coffin showed the chart to no one but yourself?” she asked.

“I am pretty sure, ma’am.”

“There was always a tale about Falmouth that Cap’n Danny had struck a buried treasure,” said Mr. Goodfellow. “’Twas a joke in the publics, and with the street boys; but I never heard tell till now that any one took it serious.”

“He was learning navigation,” mused Miss Belcher.  “What was the name of his teacher?”

“A Captain Branscome, ma’am.  He’s a teacher at Stimcoe’s.”

“Lives in the house, does he?”

“No, ma’am.”

“A Captain Branscome, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am.  He’s a retired packet captain, and lame of one leg.  Every one in Falmouth knows Captain Branscome.”

“H’m!  Wouldn’t this Captain Branscome wonder a little that a man of your friend’s age, and (we’ll say) a bit wrong in his head, should want to learn navigation?”

“He might, ma’am.”

“He certainly would,” snapped Miss Belcher.  “And wouldn’t this Captain Branscome know it was perfectly useless to teach such a man?”

“I dare say he would, ma’am,” I answered, guiltily recalling Captain Branscome’s own words to me on this subject.

“Then why did he take the man’s money, eh?  Well, go on with your story.”

I breathed more easily for a while, but by-and-by, when I came to tell of the discussion by the old windmill, I felt her eyes upon me again.

“Wait a moment.  Captain Coffin gave you a key, and this key was to open the corner cupboard in his lodgings.  Wasn’t it rather foolish of him to send you, seeing that this Aaron Glass had seen you in his company, and would recognize you if he were watching the premises, which was just what you both feared?”

“He didn’t count on me to go,” I admitted; “at least, not first along.”

“On whom, then?”

“On Captain Branscome, ma’am.”

“Oh!  Did he send you with that message to Captain Branscome?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then why didn’t you tell us so?  Well, when you took the message, what did Captain Branscome say?  And why didn’t he go?”

“He was not at home, ma’am.  Mr. Stimcoe had given us a holiday in honour of the prisoners.”

“I see.  So Captain Branscome was off on an outing?  When did he return?”

“I didn’t see him that evening, ma’am.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.  I asked, When did he return?”

“Not until yesterday afternoon.”

I had to think before giving this answer, so long a stretch of time seemed to lie between me and yesterday afternoon.