Dick helped in the search, but beyond a stray copy or two of The Prison Walls must Cast no Shadow, there was no publication to be found at all.

“Wait a bit, father,” said Dick suddenly.  “What is Notes and Queries like?  The only notes and queries I read are contained in a pink paper.  They are very amusing but they do not deal with miniatures.”

Mr. Hazlewood described the appearance of the little magazine.

“Well, that’s very extraordinary,” said Dick, “for Aunt Margaret took it away last night.”

Mr. Hazlewood looked at his son in blank astonishment.

“Are you sure, Richard?”

“I saw it in her hand as she stepped into her carriage.”

Mr. Hazlewood banged his fist upon the table.

“It’s extremely annoying of Margaret,” he exclaimed.  “She takes no interest in such matters.  She is not, if I may use the word, a virtuoso.  She did it solely to annoy me.”

“Well, I wonder,” said Dick.  He looked at his watch.  It was eleven o’clock.  He went out into the hall, picked up a straw hat and walked across the meadow to the thatched cottage on the river-bank.  But while he went he was still wondering why in the world Margaret had taken away that harmless little magazine from his father’s writing-table.  “Pettifer’s at the bottom of it,” he concluded.  “There’s a foxy fellow for you.  I’ll keep my eye on Uncle Robert.”  He was near to the cottage.  Only a rail separated its garden from the meadow.  Beyond the garden a window stood open and within the room he saw the flutter of a lilac dress.

From the window of the library Mr. Hazlewood watched his son open the garden gate.  Then he unlocked a drawer of his writing-table and took out a large sealed envelope.  He broke the seal and drew from the envelope a sheaf of press cuttings.  They were the verbatim reports of Stella Ballantyne’s trial, which had been printed day by day in the Times of India.  He had sent for them months ago when he had blithely taken upon himself the defence of Stella Ballantyne.  He had read them with a growing ardour.  So harshly had she lived; so shadowless was her innocence.  He turned to them now in a different spirit.  Pettifer had been left by the English summaries of the trial with a vague feeling of doubt.  Mr. Hazlewood respected Robert Pettifer.  The lawyer was cautious, deliberate, unemotional—­qualities with which Hazlewood had instinctively little sympathy.  But on the other hand he was not bound hand and foot in prejudice.  He could be liberal in his judgments.  He had a mind clear enough to divide what reason had to say and the presumptions of convention.  Suppose that Pettifer was after all right!  The old man’s heart sank within him.  Then indeed this marriage must be prevented—­and the truth must be made known—­yes, widely known.  He himself had been deceived—­like many another man before him.  It was not ridiculous to have been deceived.  He remained at all events consistent to his principles.  There was his pamphlet to be sure, The Prison Walls must Cast no Shadow that gave him an uncomfortable twinge.  But he reassured himself.