A man would have thought of that at once, of course:  but then, I have the misfortune to be only a woman.

I turned to the Index in haste, and looked down it with hurried eyes.  Almost sooner than I could have hoped, the riddle unread itself.  “Ber-, Berb-, Berc-, Berd-,” I read out:  “Berkshire:  Berham:  Berhampore:  that won’t do:  Berlin:  Berling:  Bernina:  Berry—­what’s that?  Oh, great heavens!”—­my brain reeled—­“Berry Pomeroy!”

It was as clear as day.  How could I have missed it before?  There it seemed to stand out almost legible on the flagstaff.  I read it now with ease:  “Berry Pomeroy Athletic Club.”

I looked up the map once more, following the lines with my fingers, till I found the very place where the name was printed.  A village in Devonshire, not far from Torquay.  Yes!  That’s it; Berry Pomeroy.  The murderer was there on the day of that athletic meeting!

My heart came up into my mouth with mingled horror and triumph.  I felt like a bloodhound who gets on the trail of his man.  I would track him down now, no doubt—­my father’s murderer!

I had no resentment against him, no desire for vengeance.  But I had a burning wish to free myself from this environing mystery.

I wouldn’t tell the police or the inspector, however, what clue I had obtained.  I’d find it all out for myself without anyone’s help.  I remembered what Dr. Marten had said, and determined to be wise.  I’d work on my own lines till all was found out:  and then, be it who it might, I sternly resolved I’d let justice be done on him.

So I said nothing even to Jane about the discovery I’d just made.  I said nothing to anybody till we sat down at dinner.  Then, in the course of conversation, I got on the subject of Devonshire.

“Auntie,” I ventured to ask at last, in a very casual way, “did I ever, so far as you know, go anywhere near a place called Berry Pomeroy?”

Aunt Emma gave a start.

“Oh, darling, why do you ask?” she cried.

“You don’t mean to say you remember that, do you?  What do you want to know for, Una?  You can’t possibly recollect your Torquay visit, surely!”

I trembled all over.  Then I was on the right track!

“Was I ever at Torquay?” I asked once more, as firmly as I could.  “And when I was there, did I go over one day to Berry Pomeroy?”

Aunt Emma grew all at once as white as death.

“This is wonderful!” she cried in an agitated voice.  “This is wonderful—­wonderful!  If you can remember that, my child, you can remember anything.”

“I don’t remember it auntie,” I answered, not liking to deceive her.  “To tell you the truth, I simply guessed at it.  But when and why was I at Torquay?  Please tell me.  And did I go to Berry Pomeroy?” For I stuck to my point, and meant to get it out of her.

Aunt Emma gazed at me fixedly.