But Cranford told his story and admitted a good deal. He had offered his discovery of copper to Lunt Brothers, and been sent out to Mozambique with a party of their men. On the way up country he had gone out of camp to shoot for the pot. Out of the bush came a native spear and broke in his thigh. By the time he struggled back to camp, there was no camp. The party had gone on with the food and the baggage, his baggage too, in which was the map of his copper belt. He was left wounded and alone in the bush. After some desperate days he struggled into a native village, and lay there a month before he could travel. When he came back to Mozambique he found that Lunt Brothers were enrolled as the owners of all the copper belt. He sailed for England. There was in him, he confessed--no, proclaimed--the single purpose of getting his own back from Sir Albert Lunt. And so his first day in England took him to the office of Lunt Brothers. Victor Lunt received him. Victor Lunt had been civil, even sympathetic, but had nothing to offer. Victor Lunt admitted that they had jumped his claim, did not conceal that the trick had been planned by Sir Albert Lunt, agreed that Cranford had been damnably swindled; but gave him no hope that Sir Albert Lunt would do anything. “You didn’t kill Victor, anyway?” Reggie said. “Victor? Poor beast, there’s nothing to him. He’s all talk,” said Cranford. “Albert ran that show. Victor as good as told me so. Said he was just a clerk in Albert’s office. So I told him a few things about Albert. Poor devil, he was in a funk. He got cold feet. Said I had better go right on to Albert. Albert was down at Prior’s Colney. Would I go to Albert? I would so. And I did.” “Yes. By train. You got to Colney Road Station 12.20,” Reggie said. “You came back by the 2.5.” “That’s so.” Cranford stared at him. “You know something, doctor. I walked up to Prior’s Colney. Flunkey said Albert was out. I walked back and caught the 2.5.” There was silence for a moment. Then the little Jew said, “That’s the story. You’ll have to tell it in the witness-box, you know.” “Can do,” said Cranford. “That’s nice,” the little Jew lisped. “Now you know some fellow will ask you--don’t you tell me if you don’t want--did you murder Albert Lunt?” “I did not, sir.” The little Jew rubbed his hands. “That’s nice, ain’t it, doctor? That gives us a free hand.” He got up. “Well, doctor, any questions?” “I wonder what coat you were wearing, Mr. Cranford?” Reggie said. “Coat? Brown raincoat. Devilish cold it was too. Only coat I’ve got. I’ve not had time to fit out for an English spring.” “Quite. We’ll carry on, then.” Reggie got up too. “It’s shaping all right, Mr. Cranford. Shouldn’t worry.” “Not me. Tell Miss Dauntsey,” Cranford said. Outside in their car, “What’s the verdict, doctor?” Gordon said. “He’s telling the truth,” Reggie said. “Fancy!” And they became technical.