A great change had come over Henry Cross. His step was no longer elastic, the peculiar smile that lighted up his face so often was gone, and he appeared old and haggard. “Must be going into hasty consumption,” said some, and several replied, with knowing winks: “Oh, he’s in love, and his girl has gone back on him.”

He had made an engagement with Maud Willowby to call the next day, but had sent word excusing himself, stating that his business demanded all his attention for the next few days.

The night following the terrible discovery had been a fearful one. He had slept only a part of the time, and then his mind was disturbed by such horrible things that he was glad enough when consciousness returned. And yet the awakening was equally painful.

It had been his intention to spend the morning at the office looking over a number of legal documents. Now he was in no condition to do this. He breakfasted early, and then went around to the livery stable for his horse.

“I will take a ride, and that may do me some good,” he reasoned.

The storm of the previous day had cleared away, leaving the sky bright with sunshine. The roads were somewhat muddy, but this he did not mind, and once out of Lakeview he dashed off at a mad gallop.

Once or twice he was half inclined to visit again the lonely stone cottage in the woods, with the hope of learning more of the mystery surrounding the little boy. But each time something induced him to change his intention, and he passed by the hillside road and rode on to Cherrytown.

Here he was seen by a foreman of the railroad gang, and hailed. More difficulties were on hand, and in straightening them out Cross temporarily forgot that which was driving him crazy.

Noon found him riding rapidly toward Oakdale. As he neared the village he came up alongside of an empty coach, driven by a rigid figure in blue cloth and silver buttons. He was about to pass on when a familiar voice hailed him:

“Mr. Cross!”

He looked back. The figure was that of Jimmie Neirney. He slackened his speed, for he had not seen the faithful Irishman since the days of the inquest.

“Well, Jimmie, so you have a job as coachman, eh?” he said pleasantly.

“I have a job doin’ most everything, sir,” replied the man. “I’m valet, coachman, butler, and gineral man all in wan, sir.”

“Indeed! I hope the pay is good, to recompense you for your numerous duties,” and Cross managed to utter a feeble laugh.

“Pretty good, sir; I wouldn’t kape my situation otherwise, not me. But seein’ you, sir, put me in mind to ax you a question. Have the police learned anything yet about poor Mr. Chesterbrook? I don’t hear much news up here.”

“As far as I know, they have learned nothing. I am inclined to think they have dropped the case.”

“Bad luck to ’em, sir, for that. Mr. Chesterbrook was too good a man to let his murderer git off so easy.”

“They had no clew, so knew not in what direction to look for the guilty person.”

“I reckon they didn’t work very hard—seein’ there was no reward,” replied Jimmie, with a shrewd shake of his fiery head.

“Do you think you could find the murderer if a big reward was offered?”

“The reward wouldn’t make no difference to me, sir, not a mite. If I knew who killed poor Mr. Chesterbrook, I would hand him over to the hangman at wanst, sir, an’ ax not a penny for it.”

“I believe you, Jimmie. Now I must be on my way. My horse is faster than your team.”

“He’s faster than I dare drive this old coach, sir, that’s true for you. But hold on a bit, please, sir. I want to spake of something else.”

Henry Cross drew up again.

“All right; what is it?”

“Something has been on me mind, sir, for some time. I didn’t think of it at all before—at the inquest. But, perhaps, it’s of no importance, anyway.”

“Something you forgot to tell about the case?” asked Henry Cross quickly.

“Not that exactly, but something I might have mentioned, if I had thought of it, which I didn’t, I was that excited.”

“And what was that?”

“It was about a woman, sir—a woman I saw leave the house by the back door on that morning. I forgot all about her until after I left Lakeview and came here.”

The young man became interested at once.

“You saw a woman leave the building in which Mr. Chesterbrook lived on the morning of the murder?”

“I did, sir—that is, I’m almost sure I did. I didn’t give her much attention at the time, you see.”

“And she left by the back door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When was this?”

“It runs in my mind it was when I went downstairs to Jackson’s sitting room.”

“And what time was that?”

Jimmie Neirney thought for a moment.

“It must have been a little after nine o’clock, sir. I went down an’ talked to Jackson some little while before the machine came up for Mr. Chesterbrook. I couldn’t say to the minute, sir.”

“Did you see the woman’s face?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you remember anything of her looks?”

“She had a veil over her face; I remember that, sir.”

“Was she tall or short?”

“Rather tall, sir.”

“And how was she dressed?”

Jimmie shook his head.

“I couldn’t tell you, sir.”

“Try to think. This clew may be of importance.”

Little did the driver of the coach dream of what was passing in his questioner’s mind.

“If I should make a guess, I should say she wore a red shawl, sir,” returned Jimmie slowly. “But it would be only a guess.”

“She had on a shawl. You are sure of that?”

“I should say so, sir.”

“And was her dress dark or light? You ought to remember that?”

“It was dark—black or brown, or something like that. But do you really believe she had anything to do with it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Where did she come from?”

“I can’t say that, sir. As I remember it, I was just goin’ down the stairs when I heard a rustle of a skirt, an’ I looked around to see her goin’ out of the back door and down the stairs into the yard, where some clothes was dhryin’.”

“And you didn’t see where she went?”

“Not at all, indade; I forgot her the next minit, so I did, an’ didn’t think of her again, as I told you, until I was up here an’ settled down in my new place.”

Henry Cross drew a long breath. Was this news really of importance? If given to the police, would it lead to anything?

“What do you think of it, sir?” asked Jimmie, after waiting some time for a reply.

“I don’t know what to think, Jimmie. That woman might know something of the murder, but——”

“It’s not likely, sir—that’s what you was going to say, is it not? I thought as much, an’ I might as well not go to the throuble of telling the officers.”

“Do as you think best. The woman might have been only a book agent or something like that.”

By this time Oakdale had been reached, and Jimmie brought the coach to a halt in front of a store on the main street. A lady came forth to enter the turn-out, and Henry Cross rode on his way.

The young man had been greatly stirred by what the Irishman had related. He knew that women visited his house but rarely. It was such a typical bachelor’s home he had never seen a woman upon the floor he occupied in all the time he had been there.

He remembered how Maud Willowby had been dressed the day before—that faded brown skirt, the red shawl, and the veil, and he remembered, too, that she was tall. But he refused to think further.

“Bah! The discovery of yesterday has turned my head completely,” he muttered. “It is ridiculous to think that she was even near the place on the morning of the murder. She was at home, being dressed for the wedding—surrounded, no doubt, by one or two friends, and attended by servants. I must be getting foolish!”

He rode through Oakdale, and it was not until the middle of the afternoon that he turned homeward. But he could not dismiss the veiled lady from his mind, and, after putting up his horse, he paid a visit to the back yard.

This was a very ordinary place. In the center was a grass plot, with four wash-line posts at the corners; on one side was a large ash box, and on the other a pile of packing cases, left there by various people who lived in the house. The yard was surrounded by a high board fence, with a gate in a far corner, through which the tradesmen who supplied Jackson with goods came and went. The gate led to an alley which opened on the street in the rear, next to a lumber yard.

Henry Cross looked around the yard and into the alleyway, but nothing of interest caught his eye. He looked at the various houses in the neighborhood, and noted that none of the windows looked directly down on the place. He looked over the grass plot and along the brick wall to the gate, and even went out to the street beyond, but failed to make any discovery.

“A fool’s errand, as I thought,” he mused, and went to his rooms, innocent of the knowledge that Jack Hull’s eyes were on him and had taken in every detail of his movements.

Then his thoughts went back to Maud Willowby and to what he had seen during the storm. His heart was full of bitterness, and he was in a state of deep perplexity. What should he do—remain silent a while longer, or go to Maud at once and frankly ask for an explanation?

He dreaded to do the latter, but it seemed the only proper course, disagreeable as it was. He wanted to be open with her—he disliked secrecy—in a case of this kind. And his heart was burning with anxiety to know the truth—hoping that there must be some terrible mistake—that she was still all he had fancied her.

His thoughts became unendurable, and a sense of suffocation warned him that his rooms were close. He felt that he needed air and exercise. In a few moments he put on his hat and overcoat once more and sallied forth. He would run down to his office, late as it was, and see if he could not forget himself in looking over those law papers which were awaiting his attention.

It was drawing toward sundown, and, as the atmosphere was quite cold now, few people loitered upon the streets, and these hurried by quickly, bent upon reaching their destinations. A dozen folks passed Cross, and then a colored woman, whom he recognized as Nancy Motley, the old family servant at Colonel Willowby’s mansion.

She was well beyond him before he appeared to remember her, so preoccupied was he with his own thoughts. Then, taken by a sudden notion, he wheeled about and followed her.

She carried a pair of well-worn shoes under her arm, and was bound for a cobbler’s shop. She had almost reached the door of the establishment when he overtook her.

“Where are you going, Nancy?”

“Oh, Mr. Cross, it dat yo’, sah? I’se gwine ter leab dis pair ob shoes in Tom Quigg’s shop, sah.”

“Oh, all right. When you come out I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, sah.”

The colored woman smiled and passed into the place. She anticipated some message for Maud, with a liberal tip for carrying the same. In two minutes she was outside again.

“Come over to my office,” went on Henry Cross. “It is too cold to talk in the street,” and he led the way.

The office was not far off. The boy in charge was just closing up for the day, and looked in surprise at his employer as he entered.

“It’s all right, Mark,” said Cross. “You can go. I’ll lock up myself when I am through. Has any one called?”

“Only Mr. Pardue, sir, and he said he would come again to-morrow at noon.”

The boy was anxious to get away, and in another minute he was ready for departure. He said good night politely, and went off whistling cheerfully.

“Sit down, Nancy,” said Cross, motioning the colored woman to a chair by the little cylinder stove. “You must be tired. You are not in a hurry?”

“Not exactly, sah—no, sah,” and down she plumped, for she tipped the scales at two hundred. She had always been fat, happy, and good-natured, because she believed in taking life easy. “I was gwine ter buy me a new wrapper at Salter’s, but dat kin wait, sah.”

“I want to ask you a few questions, Nancy,” he went on uneasily. “They really don’t amount to much, but I just happened to think of them.”

“Yes, sah.”

“You have been with the colonel’s family a good many years, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sah.”

“I thought so. I want to ask a few questions about them. Perhaps you know why.”

“Yo’ is in lub wid Miss Maud, dat’s why,” responded Nancy, and her fat form shook with laughter. “Go on, Mistah Cross; I’se yo’ friend in dis mattah, cos I always liked yo’; yo’ knows dat, don’t yo’?”