for a glass of wine, and she immediately disappeared, jingling a bunch of keys, to reappear a few minutes later in charge of the parlour-maid carrying decanters and glasses.
"A very comfortable suggestion, that, ma'am," observed Mr. Carless, bowing to his hostess over a glass of old sherry. "Your intuition does you credit! But now, gentlemen, and Miss Penkridge, straight to business! Mr. Cave, the first question I want to put to you is this: on what date did you receive the letter which you exhibited in court this morning?"
Mr. Cave produced a small pocket diary and turned over its pages.
"I can tell you that," he answered. "I made a note of it at the time. It was—yes, here we are—on the twenty-first of November."
"And you received these papers, I think you said, two days later?"
"Yes—on the twenty-third. Here is the entry."
Mr. Carless looked round at the assembled faces.
"John Ashton was murdered on the night of the twenty-second of November," he remarked significantly. "Therefore he had not been murdered when the veiled woman first met Mr. Cave for the first time, and he had been murdered when she met Mr. Cave the second time!"
There was a silence as significant as Mr. Carless' tone upon this—broken at last by Mr. Cave.
"If I may say a word or two," he remarked diffidently. "I don't understand matters about this John Ashton. The barrister who asked me questions—Mr. Millington-Bywater, is it—said that he, or somebody, had positive proof that Mr. Ashton had my
