"Yes. Not that I'd advise you to bet on it. Quite often the brilliant deduction falls by the wayside and leaves the obvious conclusion to jog home a winner. You had a good look at the fellow didn't you? You got the impression that he was tall? How tall?"
"Oh, six feet perhaps. It was dusk, you know, and he brushed by me very quickly. I was too scared to do much observing!"
"Uncomfortable experience," said Krech, "having a masked monk pop out at you from a peaceful countryside. What did you think about it? Did you know the fool legend?"
"N-no. I learned about that next day from Sheila Graham. I was telling her my experience and she remembered the story and went and got the book."
"She's the daughter of Billy Graham, the manager whom Varr had decided to get rid of?" Creighton's face was serious.
"How in the world did you know that!" cried Miss Ocky.
"Gossip. I love to listen to it. Ever talk to a chap named Nelson, a watchman at the tannery? He's full of it." It was a trick of Peter Creighton's to sound most flippant when he was soberest inside, and Krech, who knew it, fell to watching him sharply. But the detective's face was inscrutable. "So Graham's daughter had a book containing the legend of the monk, eh? Just what was the trouble between him and Mr. Varr?"
"Well—I suppose I may as well tell you," said Miss Ocky reluctantly. "It wouldn't be right to keep anything back from you, especially as you'd be bound to hear about it anyway. The trouble between them was mostly started by my brother-in-law, who objected to the interest his son was showing in Sheila Graham. They considered themselves engaged—"
"What? Varr had a son?" Creighton broke in on her abruptly, unconsciously raising his voice in his surprise. "Where is he?"
"His father drove him from the house!" cried a hoarse voice from the door. "I don't know where he is. He ought to be with me now—-and I don't know where he is!"