Berry stopped reading, and laid the book down.

“The dower-house?” cried Daphne blankly.

Her husband nodded.

“But I never knew there was one.  Besides——­”

“Better known to-day as ‘The Lawn, Bilberry.’”

“Quite right,” said Jonah.  “A hundred years ago that stood inside the park.”

“The Lawn?” cried Jill.  “Why, that’s where the fire was.  Years and years ago.  I remember old Nanny taking me down to see it the next day.  And it’s never been rebuilt.”

“To my knowledge,” said I, “it’s had a board up, saying it’s for sale, for the last fifteen years.  Shall we go in for it?  They can’t want much.  The house is gutted, the garden’s a wilderness, and——­”

A cry from Adele interrupted me.  While we were talking, she had picked up the volume.

“Listen to this,” she said. “’ William Pleydell died unmarried and intestate in 1667, and was succeeded by his cousin Anthony.  Except that during the former’s tenure a good deal of timber was cut, White Ladies had been well cared for.  The one blot upon his stewardship was the disappearance of the greater part of the family plate, which Nicholas Pleydell’s will proves to have been unusually rare and valuable. There used to exist a legend, for which the author can trace no foundation, that William had brought it from London during the Great Plague and buried it, for want of a strong-room, at White Ladies. A far more probable explanation is that its graceless inheritor surreptitiously disposed of the treasure for the same reason as he committed waste, viz., to spend the proceeds upon riotous living.’”

Dumbly we stared at the reader....

The murder was out.

Berry whipped out his watch.

“Nine o’clock,” he announced.  “We can do nothing to-night.  And that sweep Vandy’s got a long lead.  We haven’t a moment to lose.  Who are the agents for The Lawn?”

“It’s on the board,” said I, “and I’ve read it a thousand times, but I’m hanged if I can remember whether it’s Miller of Brooch, or a London firm.”

“Slip over there the first thing in the morning,” said Jonah.  “If it’s Miller, so much the better.  You can go straight on to Brooch.  If it’s a London man—­well, there’s always the telephone.”

“I hope to heaven,” said Daphne, “it’s—­it’s still for sale.”

“Vandy’s got Scotch blood in him,” said Berry.  “He won’t lay out fifteen hundred or so without looking round.”

“More like three thousand,” said Jonah.

“It’s a lot of money to risk,” said Daphne slowly.

“Yes,” said Adele anxiously.  “I feel that.  I know it’s your affair, but, if it hadn’t been for my dream, this would never have happened.  And supposing there’s nothing in it....  I mean, it would be dreadful to think you’d thrown away all that money and gotten nothing in exchange.  And they always say that dreams are contrary.”