“That being so,” Stenness continued, “murder was the last thing that would have entered my mind. Why should I murder him? I’d squared the account; I’d got my money back again. What would be the point in putting my neck into a noose? None whatever! All I needed was a clean get-away. I planned that carefully enough.” “That’s no particular business of mine at present,” Sir Clinton reminded him. “But one might ask what you’re doing here, since it’s evidently not according to plan.” “It’s easy to account for that. I had planned to get away on the evening of the day when the Shandons were murdered. I was in the middle of clearing up preparations for a bolt . . . and suddenly came the affair in the Maze. Could I bolt then? Not likely. I’d have been marked down as the murderer if I’d stirred a step. And look what face would have been on things if I’d cleared out. It would have added the last touch of substance to the very hypothesis you put forward. The whole forgery business would have been raked up to furnish a motive. I couldn’t have faced it—for I hadn’t an alibi. Nobody could swear that I was in my room—I was packing up—at the time the murders were done. It would have been a clear enough case for any jury.” Sir Clinton’s face showed that he agreed with this reading. “There’s one point that hasn’t come out, though,” he said. “What’s the meaning of this sudden collapse on your part? If your conscience is clear—and I don’t doubt your account of it—why do you throw up the sponge like this? That’s not very clear.” Stenness’s face showed that Sir Clinton had touched him on the raw. He had some difficulty with his voice as he replied. “I may as well put all the cards on the table. You know what Miss Hawkhurst was like? Any man might have fallen in love with her. I did, at any rate.” “Were you engaged?” “No. I’ve got some sort of pride, even if I am a forger. Miss Hawkhurst had an income of her own. What had I? Nothing. Anyone might have supposed I was after her money.” “Hardly the money alone, surely—Miss Hawkhurst herself would account for the attraction without that.” “Well, I’m not that sort,” said Stenness, abruptly. “I’m not the kind of man who can live on his wife’s money. I can’t explain it. It is so.” “Your conscience is a rum contrivance,” Sir Clinton commented, not unkindly. “It’s in good working order, at any rate,” Stenness retorted. “Now, isn’t the thing clear enough to you? I meant to recover my money, clear out, work hard and make enough for my purposes. I reckoned that a couple of years would do it, if I took risks. And before I went, I was going to take the biggest risk of all. I was going to tell Sylvia the whole story and see what she had to say.” Sir Clinton could not repress his surprise. “You’re a rum card, Stenness. Be thankful I’ve had a large experience of liars and know when a man’s speaking the truth; for that yarn wouldn’t be believed by one person in a hundred.”