"Aye, and that somebody else wants to know of!" he exclaimed. "But what place, and where?"
"He was asking after a churchyard," said I, suddenly remembering Quick's questions to me and his evident eagerness to acquire knowledge. "This may be a rude drawing of a corner of it."
"Aye, and he wanted the graves of the Netherfields," remarked Mr. Cazalette, dryly. "And I've made myself assured of the fact that there isn't a Netherfield buried anywhere about this region! No, it's my belief that this is a key to some spot in foreign parts, and that there's those who are anxious to get hold of it that they'll not stop—and haven't stopped—at murder. And now—they've got it!"
"They've got—or somebody's got—your pocket-book," I answered. "But really, you know, Mr. Cazalette, this, and the handkerchief, mayn't have been the thief's object. You see, it must be pretty well known that you go down there to bathe every morning, and are in the habit of leaving your clothes about—and, well there may be those who're not particularly honest even in these Arcadian solitudes."
"No—I'm not with you, Middlebrook!" he said. "Somewhere around us there's what I say—crafty and bloody murderers! But ye'll keep all this to yourself for awhile, and———"
Just then the dinner-bell rang, and he put the photographic print away, and we went downstairs together. That was the evening on which Dr. Lorrimore was to dine with us—we found him in the hall, talking to Mr. Raven and his niece. Joining them, we found that their subject of conversation was the same that had just engaged Mr. Cazalette and my-
