beginning."

He impressed the same obligation of silence on Barleyfield as they went
away, and the florist readily understood.

"No hard work for me to hold my tongue, Mr. Viner," he said. "We
tradespeople are pretty well trained to that, sir! There's things and
secrets I could tell! But upon my word, I don't ever remember quite such
a case as this. And I expect it'll be like most cases of the sort!"

"What do you mean?" asked Viner.

"Oh, there'll be a sudden flash of light on it, sir, all of a sudden,"
replied Barleyfield. "And then--it'll be as clear as noonday."

"I don't know where it's coming from!" muttered Viner. "I don't even see
a rift in the clouds yet."

He had been at work for an hour or two with Miss Wickham and Mr. Pawle
next morning, searching for whatever might be discovered among Ashton's
effects, before he saw any reason to alter this opinion. The bunch of
keys discovered in the murdered man's pocket had been duly delivered to
Miss Wickham by the police, and she handed them over to the old solicitor
with full license to open whatever they secured. But both Mr. Pawle and
Viner saw at once that Ashton had been one of those men who have no habit
of locking up things. In all that roomy house he had but one room which
he kept to himself--a small, twelve-foot-square apartment on the ground
floor, in which, they said, he used to spend an hour or two of a
morning. It contained little in the way of ornament or comfort--a solid
writing-desk with a hard chair, an easy-chair by the fireplace, a sofa