“Ay, I did. I turned the people at the Marylebone lodgings inside out, so to say; I found out a Mrs. Ball, where Verena Fontaine had hidden herself; and I quite haunted Dame Richenough’s in Ship Street, Tower Hill. There I met with Mark Ferrar. A piece of good fortune, for he told me something that——”
“What was it?” gasped the Squire, eagerly.
“Why this—and a most important piece of evidence it is. That night, not many minutes before the fatal accident must have occurred, Ferrar saw Sir Dace Fontaine in Ship Street, watching Pym’s room. He was standing in an entry on the opposite side of the street, gazing across at Pym’s. This, you perceive, disproves one fact testified to—that Sir Dace spent that evening shut up in his library at home. Instead of that he was absolutely down on the spot.”
The Squire rubbed his face like a helpless man. “Why could not Ferrar have said so at the time?” he asked.
“Ferrar attached no importance to it; he thought Sir Dace was but looking over to see whether his daughter was at Pym’s. But Ferrar had no opportunity of giving testimony: he sailed away the next morning in the ship. Nothing could exceed his astonishment when I told him in London that Captain Tanerton lay under the suspicion. He has taken Crabb on his way to Worcester to support this testimony if needful, and to impart it privately to Tanerton.”
“Well, it all seems a hopeless puzzle to me,” returned the pater. “Why on earth did not Jack speak out more freely, and say he was not guilty?”
“I don’t know. The fact, that Sir Dace did go out that night,” continued Chandler, “was confirmed by one of the maids in the Marylebone Road—Maria; a smart girl with curled hair. She says Sir Dace had not been many minutes in the library that night, to which he went straight from the dinner-table in a passion, when she saw him leave it again, catch up his hat with a jerk as he passed through the hall, and go out at the front-door. It was just after Ozias had been to ask him whether he would take some coffee, and got sent away with a flea in his ear. Whether or not Sir Dace came in during the evening, Maria does not know; he may, or may not, have done so, but she did see him come home in a cab at ten o’clock, or soon after it. She was gossipping with the maids at a house some few doors off, when a cab stopped near to them, Sir Dace got out of it, paid the man, and walked on to his own door. Maria supposed the driver had made a mistake in the number. So you see there can be no doubt that Sir Dace was out that night.”
“He was certainly in soon after ten,” I remarked. “Verena came home about that time, and she saw him downstairs.”
“Don’t you bring her name up, Johnny,” corrected the Squire. “That young woman led to all the mischief. Running away, as she did—and sending us off to that wax-work show in search of her! Fine figures they cut, some of those dumb things!”
“I found also,” resumed Chandler, turning over his papers, on which he had looked from time to time, “that Sir Dace met with one or two slight personal mishaps that night. He sprained his wrist, accounting for it the next morning by saying he had slipped in getting into bed; and he lost a little piece out of his shirt-front.”