"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 curiosity as to matters which did not concern her. But, clever as she was, it seemed that she had nothing to tell about Mr. Brown. With many curtsies and much talk she conducted Rector and inspector into a gimcrack parlor full of gaudy furniture, Berlin wool mats, antimacassars, and wax flowers.
"When Jeremiah died," explained the widow with pride, "I spent the nest-egg he left me on that elegant set of chairs and sofa, also on the curtains, table, and glass lusters, which are considered very fine. It was my intent, gentlemen, as a lone widder, to take in single gentlemen, and they likes something to tickle the eye."
"A most inviting room, Mrs. Marry," said the Rector, perching himself carefully on a fragile chair, all varnish and design, but entirely wanting in solidity; "but Mr. Brown----"