The old man shot his questioner a crafty glance. “’E didn’t say nuthin’ about _’er_!” “How long was he up there?” “Not above a minute or so, Mister. ’E’s a spry one for the stairs, is our postman!” Desmond made a movement of impatience. “Did you tell Inspector Farandol about the postman calling?” “No!” “Why not?” “’Cos ’e never arst me!” “And now, old boy,” said Desmond to his brother when, with some difficulty, they had got rid of the ancient janitor, “let’s look at the facts. We’ve advanced things by half an hour. Hollingway is eliminated; the postman is eliminated, for we know that he was in the building only for a minute or two altogether. No one crossed the front hall downstairs after the postman’s departure, and at midnight the front door was shut. We therefore come back to our only other indication . . .” “The heavy footstep that Miss Bardale heard on the back stairs on the previous evening?” “Just so. I was wondering whether that point had struck you. We cannot assume that the murderer was hidden in the flat waiting for Miss Bardale’s arrival. He evidently followed the couple back from dinner, for he was sufficiently acquainted with their movements to make this rather able attempt to fix the guilt on Hollingway. You have seen the front staircase: there is nowhere to hide even a cat. And the floors below are untenanted after six o’clock. We return, therefore, to the back stairs. “Back doors are usually kept locked. Not only is the back door in this flat, tenanted by a girl living alone, open, but the key is missing. There are no marks of violence on the lock outside: consequently, if the murderer entered by that way, he must have used a key; therefore he must be familiar with his surroundings. “Did Miss Bardale open in person the last letter she was destined to receive in this life, or did the murderer, his ghastly job accomplished, do so? I think that Miss Bardale opened it, for I found it placed on the top of a neat pile of correspondence in the drawer of her typewriting table, where she was obviously accustomed to keep her letters. Therefore, at nine o’clock, or thereabouts, she was alive. When was she murdered? I will tell you . . .” So saying, he lifted from the table the little travelling-clock in its case of morocco leather, lifted it out of the case, a dainty thing of glass and gilding, and handed it to Francis. In the panel at the top was a small metal knob. “This is not the original case of the clock,” said Desmond. “You see, it is a little too large for it. The new case does not contain the spring usually found to actuate the knob of the repeater . . .” “The repeater?” exclaimed Francis. “The repeater, Des.?” And he pressed the knob. There was a little whirr and a clear bell chimed nine times, then, on another note, the clock struck thrice.