“Perhaps so, Auntie,” I said oracularly:  “and perhaps not.”

For I didn’t want it to get talked about and be put into all the newspapers.  And I knew now if I wanted to keep it out, I must first be silent.

Aunt Emma drew nearer and took my hand in hers.  At the same time, she held up the other scarred and lacerated palm.

“Do you know when I got that, Una?” she asked with a sudden burst.  “Well, I’ll tell you, my child....  It was the night of your father’s death.  And I got it climbing over the wall at The Grange, to escape detection.”

My blood ran cold once more.  What on earth could this mean?  Had Auntie—?  But no.  I had the evidence of my own senses that it was Courtenay Ivor.  I’d tracked him down now.  There was no room for doubt.  The man on the wagon was the man who fired the shot.  I could have sworn to that bent back, of my own knowledge, among a thousand.

I hadn’t long to wait, however.  Auntie went on after a short pause.

“I was there,” she said, “by accident, trying for once to see you.”

I looked at her fixedly still, and still I said nothing.

“I was stopping with friends at the time, ten miles off from Woodbury,” Aunt Emma went on, smoothing my hand with hers, “and I longed so to see you.  I came over by train that day, and stopped late about the town in hopes I might meet you in the street.  But I was disappointed.  Towards evening I ventured even to go into the grounds of The Grange, and look about everywhere on the chance that I might see you.  Perhaps your father might be out.  I went round towards the window, which I now know to be the library.  As I went, I saw a bicycle leaning up against the wall by the window.  I thought that must be some visitor, but still I went on.  But just as I reached the window, I saw a flash of electric light; and by the light, I could make out your father’s head and beard.  He looked as if he were talking angrily and loudly to somebody.  The window was open.  I was afraid to stop longer.  In a sudden access of fear, I ran across the shrubbery towards the garden-wall.  To tell you the truth, I was horribly frightened.  Why, I don’t know; for nothing had happened as yet.  I suppose it was just the dusk and the mean sense of intrusion.”

She paused and wiped her brow.  I sat still, and listened eagerly.

“Presently,” she went on, very low, “as I ran and ran, I heard behind me a loud crash—­a sound as of a pistol-shot.  That terrified me still more.  I thought I was being pursued.  Perhaps they took me for a burglar.  In the agony of my terror, I rushed at the wall in mad haste, and climbed over it anyhow.  In climbing, I tore my hand, as you see, and made myself bleed, oh, terribly!  However, I persevered, and got down on the other side, with my clothes very little the worse for the scramble.  And, fortunately, I was carrying a small light dust-cloak:  I put it on at once, and it covered up everything.  Then I began to walk along the road as fast as I could in the direction of the station.  As I did so, a bicycle shot out from the gate in the opposite direction, going as hard as it could spin, simply flying towards Whittingham.  Three minutes later, a man came up to me, breathless.  It was the gardener at The Grange, I believe.