"Was he here at quarter past eight?" I questioned. "He was heah at twenty-fahv minutes past eight, Ah knows, cause Ah done brought him a drink." "You're sure of that?" "Yas, suh! Positive!" the negro answered. "'Cause Ah looked at de clock raght den an' der." As near as I could figure, the accident had happened about eight-ten or eight-fifteen and the bridge was six miles away from the club. Woods couldn't have been at the bridge at the time of the tragedy and got back to the club by eighty twenty-five. Still, he might have had an accomplice. "Thank you, Jackson," I said, giving him the money. "Just forget that I asked you any questions!" The darky chuckled. "Ah done fohgot 'em befoh you evah asted 'em, suh. Thank you, suh!" As I passed into the big, central living-room, Paisley came in. "What was this I saw in _The Sun_?" he asked. "The sort of rot that nasty sheet always prints," I said. "Nothing to it of course. I thought not. You don't feel like golfing?" I shook my head. "Not to-day, old chap. By the way, were you with Frank Woods when the news of Jim's death reached the club?" "Yes--why?" he asked. "You won't think it too strange if I ask you how he appeared to take it?" I said, trying to make my remark seem as casual as possible. Seeing the puzzled expression on his face, I added: "I know it is a peculiar thing to ask, but please don't think any more about it than you can help, and just answer." "Why--" Paisley began, a little flustered, "why he took it just the way the rest of us took it, I suppose. I don't remember exactly." "Did he seem surprised?" I questioned. "Of course," Paisley answered, "He didn't seem relieved?" "Say, what the devil are you driving at, Thompson?" Paisley burst out. I saw I could get nothing from him so I left him looking after me with a perplexed and somewhat indignant gaze. As a detective it seemed I might make a good plumber. I knew very well he would not repeat my questions, but it would be just like good old Paisley to worry himself to death trying to solve them. I drove back to the bridge, determined to find the revolver, if possible, and then hunt up Inspector Robinson to learn what he had to report. Apparently, my suspicions of Frank Woods were groundless. He had had dinner at the club and then waited around for Jim to keep his appointment. He had been seen by Jackson at eight twenty-five; Jackson was positive of that fact. Ten or fifteen minutes at the most in which to go six miles to the bridge and back to the club, put up his car and ask Jackson for a drink. The thing couldn't be done. He had heard of Jim's death with surprise and had heard of Helen's injury with the greatest horror. There seemed to be no doubt of one thing: no matter how much he wished for Jim's death, no matter how much he benefited by the murder, Frank Woods, himself, didn't do the killing.