"Why, how on earth did you do that?" I cried, thunderstruck at the
discovery.

But Minnie only laughed again, a bright girlish laugh.

"Climbing over that beastly wall at The Grange," she said with a
merry look. "Oh, what fun we did have! We climbed it together. We
were dreadful tomboys in those days, dear, you and I: but you were
luckier than I was, and didn't cut yourself with the bottle-glass."

This was too surprising to be passed over unnoticed. When Minnie was
gone, I lay awake and pondered about it. Had all the Moores got
scars on their hands, I wondered? And how many people, I asked
myself, had cut themselves time and again in climbing over that
barricaded garden-wall of my father's?

The Moore hand might be hereditary, but not surely the scars. Was
the murderer, then, a Moore, and was that the meaning of Dr.
Marten's warning?






CHAPTER XIII.

DR. IVOR OF BABBICOMBE