“Then you think it was the stuff up at the house that was used?” “I don’t think anything about it at present. All I wanted was to shut off that possible source of supply.” “Then you must be expecting more murders?” Sir Clinton appeared not to hear the query. “Suppose we come to motives now. Barring very exceptional cases, there are really only five motives that make it worth while to commit murder: women, money, revenge, fear, and homicidal mania. And I should think that in most cases if you go deep enough you’d find either women or money at the back of the business.” Wendover reflected for a time, evidently conning over the possibilities. “It doesn’t seem to be women this time, so far as things have gone,” he suggested at last. Sir Clinton refused to be drawn. “I must confess,” he said, “that I have a sneaking admiration for the Shandons’ murderer—at least so far as his brains go. Could you imagine a better place for murder than the Maze? Absolute privacy guaranteed by the nature of the affair. No one could see through those hedges. The murderer can creep up to within lethal distance, come almost face to face with his victim, and yet remain absolutely invisible. And when the job’s done, he can sneak off in perfect safety. No one can swear to seeing him. If he’s found in the Maze, he can explain that he heard a cry for help and rushed to assist. It was a brainy lad who hit on that _locale_ for his crime.” Wendover thought he had put his finger on a weak spot. “But that limits the number of possible murderers still further, surely. It would need to be a fellow who knew the Maze intimately, otherwise he’d have got tied up in it.” Sir Clinton smiled a trifle derisively. “Didn’t you hear me inquire about that at Whistlefield? The Maze is open day and night. Anyone could learn all about it, and no one would be much the wiser, since it’s in an outlying part of the grounds. A man could come up the river in a boat, drop into it, and cut a whole series of private marks on the hedges to guide him to the centre—bend twigs or something like that, which wouldn’t give away the fact that he’d been at work. Or he could even bring in a thread and trail it behind him to help him out again, and roll it up as he retreated. No, you can’t bank much on that point, Squire.” “Well, who did it, then?” demanded Wendover, exasperated by the upsetting of his idea. Sir Clinton looked up with something suspiciously like a grin on his face. “It might have been anybody,” he said, oracularly. “But it seems more likely that it was somebody, if you catch my meaning.” Wendover betrayed no pique at this indirect discomfiture. “One doesn’t get much out of you, that’s clear,” he responded ruefully. Sir Clinton seemed to feel that he might say something further without breaking through his self-imposed limitations.