The voyage across the Atlantic was long and uneventful. No whales, no icebergs, no excitement of any sort. My fellow-passengers said it was as dull as it was calm. But as for me, I had plenty to occupy my mind meanwhile. Strange things had happened in the interval, and were happening to me on the way. Strange things, in part, of my own internal history.

For before I left England, as I sat with Aunt Emma in her little drawing-room at Barton-on-the-Sea, discussing my plans and devising routes westward, she made me, quite suddenly, an unexpected confession.

“Una,” she said, after a long pause, “you haven’t told me, my dear, why you’re going to Canada. And I don’t want to ask you. I know pretty well. We needn’t touch upon that. You’re going to hunt up some supposed clue to the murderer.”

“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.

“‘Have you seen anybody go this way?’ he asked. ‘A young man, running hard? A young man in knickerbockers?’

“‘N—no,’ I answered, trembling; for I was afraid to confess. ‘Not a soul has gone past!’

“Of course, I didn’t know of the murder as yet; and I only wanted to get off unperceived to the station.

“I’d bound up my hand in my handkerchief by that time, and held it tight under my cloak. I went back by train unnoticed, and returned to my friends’ house. I hadn’t even told them I was going to Woodbury at all. I pretended I’d been spending the day at Whittingham. Next morning, I read in the paper of your father’s murder.”

I stared hard at Aunt Emma.

“Why didn’t you tell me this long ago?” I cried, in an agony of suspense. “Why didn’t you give evidence and say so at the inquest?”

“How could I?” Aunt Emma answered, looking back at me appealingly. “The circumstances were too suspicious. As it was, everybody was running after the young man in knickerbockers. Nobody took any notice of a little old lady in a long grey dust-cloak. But if once I’d confessed and shown my wounded hand, who would ever have believed I’d nothing to do with the murder?—except you, perhaps, Una. Oh no: I came back here to my own home as fast as ever I could; for I was really ill. I took to my bed at once. And as nobody called me to give evidence at the inquest, I said nothing to anybody.”

“But the bicycle!” I cried. “The bicycle! You ought to have mentioned that. You were the only one who saw it. It was a clue to the murderer.”

“If I’d told,” Aunt Emma answered, “I should never have been allowed to take charge of you at all. I thought my one clear duty was to my sister’s child: it was to take care of your health in your shattered condition. And even now, Una, I tell you only for this: if you find out anything new, in Canada or here, try not to drag me into it. I couldn’t stand the strain. Cross-examination would kill me.”

“I’ll remember it, auntie,” I said, wearied out with excitement. “But I think you did wrong, all the same. In a case like this, it’s everybody’s first duty to tell all he knows, in the interests of justice.”

However, this confession of Aunt Emma’s rendered one thing more certain to me than ever before. I was sure I was on the right track now, after Courtenay Ivor. The bicycle clinched the proof.

But I said nothing as yet to the police, or to my friendly Inspector. I was determined to hunt the whole thing up on my............