newspapers. And I knew now if I wanted to keep it out, I must first
be silent.

Aunt Emma drew nearer and took my hand in hers. At the same time,
she held up the other scarred and lacerated palm.

"Do you know when I got that, Una?" she asked with a sudden burst.
"Well, I'll tell you, my child.... It was the night of your father's
death. And I got it climbing over the wall at The Grange, to escape
detection."

My blood ran cold once more. What on earth could this mean? Had
Auntie--? But no. I had the evidence of my own senses that it was
Courtenay Ivor. I'd tracked him down now. There was no room for
doubt. The man on the wagon was the man who fired the shot. I could
have sworn to that bent back, of my own knowledge, among a thousand.

I hadn't long to wait, however. Auntie went on after a short pause.

"I was there," she said, "by accident, trying for once to see you."

I looked at her fixedly still, and still I said nothing.

"I was stopping with friends at the time, ten miles off from
Woodbury," Aunt Emma went on, smoothing my hand with hers, "and I
longed so to see you. I came over by train that day, and stopped
late about the town in hopes I might meet you in the street. But I
was disappointed. Towards evening I ventured even to go into the
grounds of The Grange, and look about everywhere on the chance that
I might see you. Perhaps your father might be out. I went round