"Find him not responsible for his actions, most likely. You ought to have spoken, Mrs. Gilson. An innocent man is in prison. They are likely to be severe with you." "I don't care what happens to me; it's Jim I care about." Later in the day I tried to get Jim to show me where Simon Judd was buried. He only laughed. "And the money, Jim--what has become of it?" Still his only answer was a laugh. "By sitting at the gate you kept watch over it, I suppose? Had it somewhere close by, where you could get at it to play with; and when this tramp came you thought he would rob you. Is that the story?" "It's all right now," he said solemnly. My course was clear. Jim Gilson must be arrested, and a court of justice would have to say whether he was responsible for his actions or not. Personally, I was not sure that he was as mad as he pretended to be. The curious disposal of the shreds of pajamas showed cunning, a desire to mislead, or it may be there had been a struggle. Perhaps Simon Judd had fought desperately for his life, and the madman had buried him, entirely forgetting the dead body of Peter Judd, who had given him no trouble. Possibly he had left it with a purpose; certainly it had helped to convict an innocent man. Who can explain either the cunning or forgetfulness of a madman? On the evening of the day following the arrest of Jim Gilson I received a telegram from Christopher Quarles, asking me to go to him without delay. He was in the empty room, his granddaughter with him. "Wigan, this Sussex affair?" were the words with which he greeted me. "All over. The murderer was arrested yesterday," I answered. I had not seen Quarles for some days, and the case had not been mentioned between us. His theories would probably have hindered rather than helped me. "You're wrong, all wrong," he said. "My dear professor, nobody knows your ability better than I do, but you haven't had anything to do with this affair. I assure you----" "You may tell me the whole story, if you like, but you're wrong. You haven't caught your man." "Nonsense," I said angrily. "Tell me the story." "The newspaper resume of the affair is quite correct," I said. "I'd rather hear it from you." And, in spite of my annoyance, I told it in answer to an appealing glance from Zena. There was nothing I would not have done to please her. "I'll tell you the story in a different way," said Quarles, when I had finished, "and you can pull me up if I go outside reason. At the beginning of this mystery, four or five years ago, I felt no interest in it; now I am impelled to interfere. True, I have taken no active part in the affair, but with me that is not always necessary. Into my empty brain something has come from outside." I smiled. There was something of the charlatan in him.