My heart came up into my mouth with mingled horror and triumph. I felt like a bloodhound who gets on the trail of his man. I would track him down now, no doubt—my father’s murderer!
I had no resentment against him, no desire for vengeance. But I had a burning wish to free myself from this environing mystery.
I wouldn’t tell the police or the inspector, however, what clue I had obtained. I’d find it all out for myself without anyone’s help. I remembered what Dr. Marten had said, and determined to be wise. I’d work on my own lines till all was found out: and then, be it who it might, I sternly resolved I’d let justice be done on him.
So I said nothing even to Jane about the discovery I’d just made. I said nothing to anybody till we sat down at dinner. Then, in the course of conversation, I got on the subject of Devonshire.
“Auntie,” I ventured to ask at last, in a very casual way, “did I ever, so far as you know, go anywhere near a place called Berry Pomeroy?”
Aunt Emma gave a start.
“Oh, darling, why do you ask?” she cried.
“You don’t mean to say you remember that, do you? What do you want to know for, Una? You can’t possibly recollect your Torquay visit, surely!”
I trembled all over. Then I was on the right track!
“Was I ever at Torquay?” I asked once more, as firmly as I could. “And when I was there, did I go over one day to Berry Pomeroy?”