notice already one hopeful symptom: Miss Callingham speaks of going
back to Woodbury."

Aunt Emma looked up at him, horrified. All her firmness was gone
now.

"It's YOU who've put this into her head!" she exclaimed, in a
ferment of horror. "She'd never thought of it herself. You've made
her do it!"

"On the contrary, auntie," I answered, feeling my ground grow surer
under me every moment as I spoke, "this gentleman has never even by
the merest hint suggested such an idea to my mind. It occurred to me
quite spontaneously. I MUST find out now who was my father's
murderer! All the Inspector has told me seems to arouse in my brain
some vague, forgotten chords. It brings back to me faint shadows. I
feel sure if I went to Woodbury I should remember much more. And
then, you must see for yourself, there's another reason, dear, that
ought to make me go. Nobody but I ever saw the murderer's face. It's
a duty imposed upon me from without, as it were, never to rest again
in peace till I've recognised him."

Aunt Emma collapsed into an easy-chair. Her face was deadly pale.
Her ringers trembled.

"If you go, Una," she cried, playing nervously with her gloves, "I
must go with you too! I must take care of you: I must watch over
you!"

I took her quivering hand in mine and stroked it gently. It was a