"I did not take it, madam, although I am credited with the theft, but it is assuredly lost. But why--at last?"
Miss Destiny moved her hands in the shabby black cotton gloves nervously and swallowed something--possibly the truth, although I had, on the face of it, no reason to suspect her of lying. "I was on my way to see Anne Caldershaw," she said timidly.
"What?" Mrs. Faith's dark countenance lighted up with curiosity. "You knew her--you knew her."
"Intimately," replied Miss Destiny, somewhat primly. "She was my brother's housekeeper at Burwain for years. Then he died, and Anne came here. Burwain, which is between Gattlingsands and Tarhaven, is subject to fogs," explained the little lady, "and Anne believed that clear inland air would suit her chest better."
I knew Burwain as a somnolent hamlet set in a flat country and muffled with woods and tall hedges. This very day had I passed it in the Rippler, when conveying Cannington to Murchester. It was odd that this little woman should mention it of all places.
"You know that Mrs. Caldershaw is dead," I ventured to remark.
Miss Destiny threw up her hands. "The shock of it," she whimpered. "I was coming to see her and remain for the night. My servant, Lucinda, drove me from Burwain in my trap."
"Cart," struck in Mrs. Faith vehemently, while Giles and his wife, standing near the fire, held their peace.
"It is a cart," admitted Miss Destiny, "which I have turned into a trap, as I am very, very, very poor." Her voice ascended to the last word. "Yesterday morning I started, and stayed last night with a friend at Saxham, which is half way to Murchester. This morning we drove on again, and were approaching Mootley when the motor car nearly smashed my trap."
"My motor car?" I asked quickly.