Whilst Alan Thorold was dealing with Cicero and his sister in London, Inspector Blair was co-operating with the Rector in obtaining evidence relating to the murder. The inspector was a dry, dour, silent man, born in England, but of Scotch descent. He was cautious to a fault, and never expressed an opinion without having well considered what he was going to say. It was now a common sight in Heathton for his long, lean figure and the Rector's short, plump one to be seen constantly together.

He was now in the Rectory dining-room with a good glass of port beside him, and Mr. Phelps, standing on the hearthrug, was supplying him with all the details he had collected in connection with the mystery. The case was getting so much more interesting than Blair, the sad and silent, had expected that he was becoming, for him, quite vivacious. He asked the Rector one question after another.

"Mr. Thorold has gone to Dixon's Rents, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Inspector; I expect he'll have some news for us when he returns to-night."

"He seems a clever young gentleman," Blair said musingly. "I dare say he will bring this man Gramp with him."

"Do you think that Gramp can point out the guilty person?"

"That, sir, I am not prepared to say offhand. If convenient, I should like to take a look round."

"Certainly. Where shall we go, Mr. Inspector?" and Mr. Phelps rose briskly.

"To the vault, if you please, sir. Afterwards we will call on Mrs. Marry."

The Rector paused at the door.

"I told you all Mrs. Marry had to say about Brown."

"Quite so, sir. But I wish to have a look at the rooms occupied by the man. Also, I think it would be as well to examine his luggage."

"Can you do that without a warrant?"

"I'll take the risk," said Blair coolly. "An examination may not be quite legal under the circumstances, but as Brown undoubtedly procured the key of the vault by that forged letter, I am entitled to look upon him as a suspicious character. Should he come back, sir--of which I have my doubts--I can account for my action."

"Humph! I think you are right. Come, then, and look at the vault."

To the vault they went, and found Jarks showing the outside of it to a crowd of morbid sightseers. Indeed, the tragedy had drawn people from far and near to Heathton, and the usually quiet place buzzed like a hive. Mrs. Timber was making her fortune, and blessed the day she had turned Cicero the tramp out of her house. To him alone did Mrs. Timber ascribe the theft of the body. As to his connection with the murder of Dr. Warrender, she was not so certain.

"Come, come!" cried Mr. Phelps, in his fussy manner, on finding Jarks haranguing the crowd. "This is most ridiculous--most out of place. Jarks, I am astonished at your desecrating the graveyard in this way."

"No desecration, reverend sir," said Jarks, in his rusty voice, "I wos only showing 'em where I laid Muster Marlow by, comfortable. Go----"

"Go away--go away, all of you!"

"Come on to the right!" shouted Jarks. "I'll show 'ee where a soocide as they brought in crazy is tucked away. A lovely grave with a good view, an' as nice a stone as I iver seed. In my young days he'd have been buried in cross-roads with a stake, but they do trate 'em kindly nowadays. Ah yis. This way to the soocide, neighbors!" And Jarks headed the crowd to the other side of the graveyard. The keen, cold eye of Inspector Blair cleared them out more quickly than Jarks' invitation.

"Dear me! most indiscreet of Jarks!" said the Rector, opening the door of the vault. "Come in, Mr. Inspector. Here's a candle. Tut, tut! I've burnt my fingers. Deuce take---- Hum--God forgive me for bad language! This is the niche, Mr. Inspector; yonder the coffin--a very handsome one. The lead is cut, you perceive. Ah, poor soul! And we meant it to last till the Great Day."

While the Rector ran on in this fashion, Blair the silent examined the empty coffin. He noted that the lead casing had been cut with a sharp instrument, and very neatly done--so neatly that the inspector became thoughtful.

"That wasn't done by a man in a hurry," he mused. But he said nothing, and merely turned to Mr. Phelps with a question: "Who screwed down the coffin?"

"Who?--bless me, let me think! Yes, yes. Dr. Warrender--poor soul!--and Joe Brill. Faithful fellow, Joe! Would see the last of his master."

"Wasn't the undertaker present?"

"Crank? Well, yes, he was. But I am sorry to say, Mr. Inspector"--here the face of the Rector became severe--"that on that day Crank was intoxicated."

"H'm! Who made him drunk?"

"Himself, I suppose," rejoined Mr. Phelps, a trifle tartly. "Crank requires no one to tempt him."

"Few men do, sir," said Blair, and again examined the coffin. He passed his long, delicate hand over every inch of it, particularly fingering the lid; then he looked round the niche where it rested, peered into the others, and considered well all that he saw, while Mr. Phelps chattered. "Quite so," said the detective at length; "let us go outside."

He examined the graveyard as carefully as he had done the vault. In the angle formed by the Lady Chapel he found the long grass crushed down, and part of it torn up to make a pillow.

"Humph! a squatting-place," said Blair, who had read a good deal about prehistoric man. "A tramp has been sleeping here."

"A tramp!" repeated the Rector. "Of course that was Cicero Gramp, who wrote the letter."

"No doubt. I dare say he saw the whole business." Blair continued his researches, and came to a halt at the wall which divided church, yard from pine-wood. He pointed to a loose stone which had been knocked off. "Did you observe this before, sir?"

"No," replied Mr. Phelps, raising his pince-nez. "But that's nothing. You see, the wall has been put together without mortar--simply stones piled one on top of the other. A high wind, now----"

"I don't think a high wind knocked this stone off. You will notice, sir, that it has fallen on the other side. Excuse me," and Blair, active as a deer, leaped over the wall and disappeared into the pine-belt. Phelps rubbed his nose, not understanding these Red Indian methods. In ten minutes the inspector returned. "I can't find the trail," said he, "but from the evidence of that wall, I suspect the body was carried over it."

"Where to, Mr. Inspector?"

"Probably to a cart waiting on the highroad, which runs across the moor. But, of course, I'm in the dark as to that. Let me see the keyhole of the vault-door." He went back and had a good look at it. There were no scratches to be seen. "Humph!" said the inspector; "this was opened quietly enough, and by a man who knew what he was about. There was no hurry or fumbling in putting in the key."

"Ah!" said the Rector, looking wise. "What key? Not this one?"

"No, Mr. Phelps, I don't suspect you. Probably the key was that stolen from Mr. Thorold's desk by the Quiet Gentleman."

"You speak as though you were not quite sure."

"There might have been a third key," Blair said cautiously.

"If so, why should Brown have stolen Thorold's key?"

"That's one of the things I have to find out. Let us call on Mrs. Marry."

Mrs. Marry was a voluble, buxom woman, with rosy cheeks, and a great amount of cur............