"No! no! no! no!" I muttered in drowsy tones; "it's absurd. Giles has nothing to do with the matter. He merely came over to arrange about the shop. He did not place the glass eye there: nor did Striver. If Striver had possessed the eye he would have gained possession of the money. Besides, he was not at Mootley until the funeral took place. Mr. Monk! He's innocent enough, as he was in London when the crime was committed. Moreover, if he possessed the eye, he also would be in possession of the fortune. Gertrude is the only person to whom suspicion points. I shall insist upon a full explanation to-morrow. I alone can save her if she is guilty." And then I fell into a troubled sleep, reproaching myself for daring to doubt my divinity.
Giles departed next morning before I arose, and I did not see him again. Haunted still by undefined suspicions, I regretted his departure, and determined later to look him up at Mootley. Of course, the mere idea of thinking that the respectable sturdy greengrocer was guilty seemed ridiculous, but in my anxiety to save Gertrude from danger I was willing to sacrifice anyone and everyone. To such a state does love bring the most just of mankind.
By the midday post I received an impetuous letter from Cannington, who informed me that he had snaffled--the word is his own--a couple of weeks' leave. For the present he was staying with his aunt, Lady Denham, because Mabel wished it, but proposed, when I came up, to take rooms at a hotel, where he would--as he put it--be less tied by the leg. Then he went on to say that I had remained long enough at Burwain, and that if I did not come to him he would come to me, like Mahomet and the proverbial mountain. Bearing in mind Mr. Monk's aspirations for a titled son-in-law, this was the last thing I desired, so I arranged promptly in my own mind to accept his invitation. Besides, after my interview with Gertrude, in which I hoped to come to an understanding, there would be no need for me to remain at Burwain. Her story might send me farther afield in search of new clues.
Reading between the lines of Cannington's letter, I saw that he was devoured with curiosity concerning Miss Monk. He knew that I had fallen in love with the portrait, and as he had always regarded me as a particularly staid, sedate personage, he naturally doubted if I would carry on so fantastic a romance. However, he evidently had his suspicions, since I chose to linger in a dull country village, and therefore was desperately anxious to see the lady who could thus move my elderly heart. As Cannington was a most pertinacious mortal, I wrote by the next post that I would be in London next week, and then would have much to tell him about the case. And as a matter of fact I did wish to have some safe person with whom to discuss matters. I could always rely on Cannington to hold his tongue, even if his advice did not prove to be particularly good. At all events the boy could always be relied upon to keep silent, which was more than I could say for many people I know. So to Cannington I resolved to confide the full tale of my discoveries, and--in the interests of my wooing--I ended my letter with a repetition of the fact that I was coming to see him. Had I not emphasized this the boy might have appeared the next day to make inquiries.