“Out of his shirt front!”
“Just here,” and Chandler touched the middle button of his shirt. “The button-hole and a portion of the linen round it had been torn away. Nothing would have been known of that but for the laundress. She brought the shirt back before putting it into water, lest it should be said she had done it in the washing. Maria remembered this, and told me. A remarkably intelligent girl, that.”
“Did Maria—I remember the girl—suspect anything?” asked the Squire.
“Nothing whatever. She does not now; I accounted otherwise for my inquiries. Altogether, what with these facts I have told you, and a few minor items, and Ferrar’s evidence, I can draw but one conclusion—that Sir Dace Fontaine killed Pym.”
“I never heard such a strange thing!” cried the pater. “And what’s to be done?”
“That’s the question,” said Chandler. “What is to be done?” And he left us with the doubt.
Well, it turned out to be quite true; but I have not space here to go more into detail. Sir Dace Fontaine was guilty, and the dream was a true dream.
“Did you suspect him?” the Squire asked privately of Jack, who was taken into counsel the next day.
“No, I never suspected Sir Dace,” Jack answered. “I suspected some one else—Verena.”
“No!”