I fancy that he gave almost a sigh of relief. He would never have dared to make such a suggestion himself, and I could see that he was thankful to me for giving him an opening. “To tell you the truth, Israel, it has struck me that in the absence of anyone else being open to suspicion they might hint at such an absurdity.” I laughed, a highly successful laugh. “You see, sir, in my case there is motive.” “I am almost afraid, Israel, that people may say unpleasant things. Reading the bare evidence, they may be tempted to come to ridiculous conclusions.” I saw that it was time to affect a serious view of the matter. I kept a close watch on my tone of voice, however, and was most careful as to the light and shade of any expressions I used. “You don’t mean to say, sir, that you seriously think anybody would connect me with the crime?” “Seriously, no; but I think irresponsible gossip might make things very unpleasant.” “It certainly would be unpleasant.” “You are my heir, Israel. Failing me, the title passes on to the branch of Lord George Gascoyne, whose heir you are through your mother.” “Exactly, sir; as I said, in my case there is motive.” I looked a little grave, and continued slowly: “Someone must have put the poison in the bottle.” I was deliberately allowing my gravity to increase in order to emphasise my growing apprehension. “I notice the detective has left the house,” I said. “Detective!” echoed Mr. Gascoyne in amazement. “Surely, sir, you knew that there was a detective in the house?” “My dear Israel, I knew nothing of the kind.” He thought for a moment, and then added: “I think I ought to have been told.” “I thought you knew, sir.” “Are you sure it was a detective?” “Quite sure.” But even as I spoke I remembered that I only had my own deductions to guide me. No one had told me he was a detective. I searched swiftly in my brain for some excuse, but could think of none. “How did you know he was a detective?” “I heard him questioning one of the servants.” “Which servant?” “Waters.” “What about?” “I did not quite catch what he said, but it was quite easy to see what he was.” “He may have been gathering evidence for the inquest.” “That is what I suggest.” “Oh! I beg your pardon.” He was evidently a little puzzled. The next day Lord Gascoyne was buried. It was a beautiful sunlit morning, and as we crossed the courtyard following the coffin in procession I glanced up towards the windows of Lady Gascoyne’s apartment. I could see a white hand slightly drawing apart the closed curtains. I was sorry for her, but as matters were going I was a good deal more sorry for myself. The affair had already attained the dignity of a first-class mystery in the London press, and as the victim was a Lord the sensation was twice what it would otherwise have been.