"Sure. The guilty one is naturally all wrought up, and the innocent one is so scared at the whole thing that she is all in, too. I think the little peach was in love with the artist; I'm not sure of this, but it doesn't matter, anyway. Also, and incidentally, I think that Courtenay man is very much in love with Mrs. Stannard. Now, all these things are none of our business, unless they help us to form conclusions that are our business. And so, we must be rather more tactful and diplomatic than usual, because of dealing with highstrung and fine-calibred natures." "A murder doesn't connote a high-calibred nature!" "It may well do so. A strong impulse of revenge or jealousy could, on occasion, sway the highest mind to the basest deed. Murderers are made, not born, Lombroso to the contrary, notwithstanding. And it is the coincidence of opportunity and motive that makes crime possible to an otherwise great and noble nature." "I'm not sure I agree to all that, but if the argument is helpful let's use it by all means." "It is. Now, here's the situation. As near as I can make out, Mr. Stannard was alone in his studio after the Truxton people had gone; the Faulkner lady and her admirer had gone to the Drawing Room, the model was on the Terrace with Barry, and Mrs. Joyce was in the Billiard Room with Courtenay. The trouble is, we don't know how long this interval was. Blake says the Truxtons went at eleven. Well, from eleven, then, till eleven-thirty covers the whole time in question. Between those two moments the crime was led up to and committed." "Must it have been led up to?" "Not necessarily, I admit. But suppose, let us say, that soon after eleven, one or other of the two women we're considering, was left alone. Say she came into the studio and had some sort of session with Mr. Stannard that led to the stabbing. Then, say, she turned off the lights, and quickly returned to her post, either in the Billiard Room or on the Terrace, and a moment later, entered again, just as she says she did." "All right, that goes. Now, which?" "That's what we must discover by studying the two women, not by hunting clues of a material nature." "Whichever did it, or whoever did it, had to cross to the other end of the room to turn off the lights, didn't she?" Captain Steele remembered the switch was near the hall door, and the armchair where Stannard died was at the South end of the room. "Yes," he agreed, "but that's only a few seconds' work." "But when she did it, the man was not dead. You know he groaned after the light went out, and later, he spoke." "Well?" "Well, can you imagine that little girl having nerve enough for all that? Mrs. Stannard is a much older woman, and a self-possessed one. My opinion leans toward her." "What about the dying words of the man, and also, what about that letter to the model?"