“I always meant to put you wise,” Cranford said. “You’ll pardon me. I couldn’t afford to give anything away. And I told you no lies. I didn’t murder Albert Lunt. But I killed him. Fair and clean, sir. On my soul it’s as good a bit of work as ever I did. He was a yellow dog. It was up to me to wipe him out. This is the way of it, doctor. When they said he wasn’t at Prior’s Colney I laid to wait for him, and then I saw him coming across the park. I met him and I told him off. I had it all cut out. He had to have his chance, though he gave me none. I had two guns. One for him, one for me. I offered him the pick, and he snatched and fired at me while I had the other gun by the muzzle. He was sure trash. Then he put in another miss and I stretched him. That’s my tale, sir.” “And it’s just as well you didn’t try it on a jury,” Reggie said. Cranford started up. “Mr. Fortune, sir, I’m considerably in your debt. But if you call me a liar----” “Oh, no, no.” “D’you call me a coward, then? I would have it all out if Victor had come to trial.” “You’ve run straight,” Reggie said. “I sure have,” Cranford fumed. “Do sit down, dear,” said Nurse Dauntsey in her nice, gentle voice. On her Reggie turned. “And you knew all the time!” He shook his head at her. “Yes, of course, Mr. Fortune.” She looked surprised. “Cranford, my congratulations,” said Reggie. “Never trust a really nice girl unless you’re marrying her. Perhaps you knew that.” CASE IV THE EFFICIENT ASSASSIN There was a silence that might be felt. The judge put on the black cap. The prisoner gave a queer cackle of laughter. And Mr. Reginald Fortune, the surgeon whose evidence had convicted him, yawned and stole out of court. The Sunday School murder, one of the most popular crimes of our generation, had bored Mr. Fortune excessively, and now that the Sunday School Superintendent was safely on his way to the hangman Mr. Fortune desired to forget all about it at once. He stood on the steps of the Shire Hall, lighting a cigar. A large young man, who had been struggling to get in, detached himself from the guardian policeman and ran at him. “Fortune! My God!” he said emotionally. “I thought I’d never get at you. I say, come somewhere where we can talk.” Mr. Fortune looked down through his smoke with sleepy eyes. “One moment. One moment,” he murmured. “Oh, ah. You’re Charlecote--Beaver Charlecote. Well, and what’s the best with you, Beaver?” “It’s murder, old man,” Charlecote muttered. “Everybody’s doing it.” Mr. Fortune frowned at him. “Who’s slain now?” “It’s my father.” “My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!” Mr. Fortune was startled into sympathy. “I say Fortune--for God’s sake----” Charlecote gasped. “Quite. Quite,” said Mr. Fortune, linked arms with him, and marched him off.