"I dare say he will furnish you with one." Wilfred forgot his sprained ankle now, and sat up filled with indignation. "And let me tell you, Mr. Woke," he went on, "the explanation will be such as to clear my brother wholly from all suspicion. He is the best fellow in the world, and I would as soon believe myself guilty of this thing as him. Suspect whom you please, but not my brother." But the phlegmatic officer was quite unmoved by this outburst. "Natural enough," he said. "Oh, I don't blame you for standing up for the captain, sir; and I dare say, for that matter, he may be able to furnish an _alibi_, as he was at the Rectory waiting for her ladyship. All the same, I am bound to inquire further into this quarrel. I don't accuse him, mind"--Mr. Woke shook his forefinger--"but I can't help having my suspicions." He paused, and asked suddenly, "Who is Miss Scarse, sir? "The daughter of Mr. Scarse, M.P., and the lady to whom my brother is engaged to be married. Mr. Malet disapproved of the marriage. That was the reason he and Captain Burton quarrelled." "Scarse--Scarse," repeated the inspector, rising. "I've heard of him. He's the gentleman that's always writing and talking tall about the Boers, isn't he?" "I believe he is what is called a Little Englander." "An unpopular part at present, Mr. Burton. I am an Imperialist myself. H'm! so Miss Scarse is engaged to Captain Burton, is she? She called here at nine last night and asked for Lady Jenny, Roberts tells me." "Perhaps you'll accuse her of the murder next!" said Wilfred, contemptuously. "I accuse no one as yet, sir. But I must have my facts quite clear, and I go to get them. Good-day, sir," and Mr. Woke departed to call in at "The Chequers," with Captain Burton still the central figure in his mind. But Harold was not at the inn. Late in the morning he had called at the cottage to see Brenda, and discuss with her the very stirring events of the previous might. She received him in the drawing-room, and, thankful to find that he was alive and well, embraced him more than ever affectionately. The poor girl looked ill and pale, for all this trouble had shaken her nerves more than she cared to confess. And in truth Harold himself did not feel much better, although he showed it less markedly. Mr. Scarse being shut up as usual in his study, they had the room to themselves. Van Zwieten had gone out. "I had no chance, dear, of speaking to you last night," said Harold. "Tell me how you came to hear about this murder?" "Harold, dear, I saw it committed!" The man turned pale. "You saw it committed?" he repeated. "Why, Brenda, who did it?"