"But these are not sleeping dogs. They're wide-awake policemen."
"Mebbe, miss. They have a soft job, I'm thinking. Of course——"
The man checked himself, but Sylvia guessed what was passing in his mind.
"You were going to say that the wretch who killed my uncle hid in that wood?" she prompted him.
"Yes, miss, I was."
"He is not there now. He must have run away while we were too terrified to take any steps to capture him. Who in the world could have wished to kill Mr. Fenley?"
"Ah, miss, there's no knowing. Those you'd least suspect are often the worst."
MacBain shook his head over this cryptic remark; he glanced at a clock. It was five minutes to twelve.
"It's rather late, miss," he hinted. Sylvia agreed with him, but she was young enough to be headstrong.
"I sha'n't remain out very long," she said. "I ought to feel tired, but I don't; and I hope the fresh air will make me sleepy."