"Not particularly."

"You didn't stop and ask her the way?"

"No. I met two or three people on the way to the farm. They didn't interest me, and I had no reason to suppose that I interested them."

"Why did you deny knowing anything about Cross Roads Farm?"

"Well, one way and another there was a good deal against me at the time. It was natural to deny a leading statement like that made by the police, and I knew nothing about the murder then. You see, although I was innocent of murder, I wasn't an innocent man. I was in a hole, and attempted to lie myself out of it."

"Very foolish! It was a weighty argument against you. Did you see anyone else at the farm beside your uncles?"

"It was true what I said at the trial, that one of the workmen had just finished talking to my uncles at the door as I came in. The man gave evidence, said he had parted with the Judds much as I described, but that he had not seen me. I thought he said that to try and help me a bit, because I'm certain he saw me."

"Do you think it was the same man?"

"I didn't doubt that it was, but I couldn't have sworn to him; I was too much engaged in taking stock of the two men I had come to ask for help."

"Did you ask for work?"

"No, money."

"Did you demand any special sum?"

"No; and I didn't demand it, I asked. I was playing the penitent game, the prodigal anxious to reform. Had I demanded I should have got nothing. I had sized up my men all right. I got twenty pounds, which was far more than I expected. I hadn't had such a sum to my name for years."

"Was the money given willingly?"

"Not exactly willingly. My Uncle Peter did most of the talking--lecturing it was--but he seemed more impressed with my tale than Uncle Simon did. Simon Judd had a good many reasons why I should not have the money, but it was evident that Peter usually had the last word and his own way. I should say he took the lead in most things."

"Did he actually give you the money?"

"Yes, counting it into my hand quid by quid, as if he'd been parting with a fortune."

"Where did he get it from? Did he take it out of his pocket?"

"No; he went out of the room, leaving me with Simon, who didn't speak a word the whole time. Peter Judd was away about ten minutes. He came back with the money in his hand."

"And then you left the farm?"

"Yes; they didn't offer me anything to eat or drink. I have an idea that Peter thought of doing so, but Simon made some remark about throwing money away, and suggested my going at once."

"You didn't return to Hanley?"

"No, I went in the opposite direction."

Next day I was back at the farm, my attention concentrated on the well. I had already heard that this well was not much used, there being another under the scullery, to which a pump had been fixed, and which supplied better water. The windla.s.s over the well in the shed substantiated this statement, for it was evident that it had stood idle for a long time.

Peter Judd had left the room to get the money, and had been absent ten minutes; and the door of this shed had been found forced on the morning after the murder. Might the shed not be the treasure chamber?

The floor overlapped the mouth of the well considerably, and attached to the under part of this floor, and close to the well wall, I found a chain. Pulling this up, I raised a small but stout iron box fastened to the lower end of it. The box had been wrenched open and was empty.

I had discovered the Judds' bank. No doubt it had been robbed on the night of the murder. By whom? By someone who had watched Peter Judd go there for the money. The answer came naturally to the question. That person was not Richard Coleman, unless his story were false from beginning to end, which was unlikely.

The next two days I devoted to a closer acquaintance with Mrs. Gilson.

I acted intentionally in a manner to make her think I had nearly solved the mystery. I told her that I believed Richard Coleman was an innocent man. The result was exactly what I expected. She became nervous when I plied her with questions, and contradicted herself, growing confused when I pressed home a point. Once I purposely questioned her when her son was present, and her confusion became fear. Jim Gilson said little, but at times looked wonderfully intelligent. It was difficult to suppose that he did not perfectly understand me.

"You don't go and sit inside the gateway at Cross Roads Farm now, Jim," I said suddenly. Since this second discovery he had quite forsaken his haunt.

"No," he answered.

"Why not?"

"No one else will come there now. They're afraid."

"Of what?"

"Spirits."

"And of you, Jim--eh?"

The suggestion pleased him. He came and stood close to me, and rolled up his sleeve to show me how muscular his arms were.

"Splendid! Tell me, Jim, where is Simon Judd?"

"Buried!" he said, and slouched out of the room.

I looked at his mother. Poor woman! I pitied her.

"I didn't know--I didn't guess, not till afterward," she said. "Jim told me next day that he had seen a man go to the farm, told me what he was like, and I knew it was the man I had met. It was more Jim's description than mine that I gave. But I thought this man was the murderer, thought so for months, until Jim began to talk strange about money and that well. It was not until then that I knew he had been at the farm that night. And now this second murder! What will they do?"

"Release an innocent man."

"But to Jim?" she whispered.

"Find him not responsible for his actions, most likely. You ought to have spoken, Mrs. Gilson. An innocent man is in prison. They are likely to be severe with you."

"I don't care what happens to me; it's Jim I care about."

Later in the day I tried to get Jim to show me where Simon Judd was buried. He only laughed.

"And the money, Jim--what has become of it?"

Still his only answer was a laugh.

"By sitting at the gate you kept watch over it, I suppose? Had it somewhere close by, where you could get at it to play with; and when this tramp came you thought he would rob you. Is that the story?"

"It's all right now," he said solemnly.

My course was clear. Jim Gilson must be arrested, and a court of justice would have to say whether he was responsible for his actions or not. Personally, I was not sure that he was as mad as he pretended to be. The curious disposal of the shreds of pajamas showed cunning, a desire to mislead, or it may be there had been a struggle. Perhaps Simon Judd had fought desperately for his life, and the madman had buried him, entirely forgetting the dead body of Peter Judd, who had given him no trouble. Possibly he had left it with a purpose; certainly it had helped to convict an innocent man. Who can explain either the cunning or forgetfulness of a madman?