“True.” Wendover produced from a cupboard an Ordnance Survey map of the district. “Let’s take each person in turn and see if we can establish their positions during the afternoon.” “I can help you there,” Sir Clinton volunteered. “I got most of it in the police reports. They were busy on that very point.” Wendover nodded and began without more ado. “Sylvia Hawkhurst. She was out paying a call, wasn’t she?” “Yes,” Sir Clinton explained. “She and friend Ernest went off in the car from the house at about eighteen minutes past three. At a quarter to four—just about the moment when the murders occurred—she was in a shop buying shoe-laces. That precludes any chance of her having used the car to get back to the Maze at the critical time. After that she paid a call on some friends and stayed with them until she came back home after six o’clock.” “What about Ernest Shandon?” Sir Clinton smiled. “Miss Hawkhurst dropped him at the East Gate as she passed out. It’s about two-and-a-half miles to the East Gate, and she says she was driving about fifteen miles an hour—it’s a narrow road, you remember. That means she dropped him at the East Gate at about 3.30. It’s the best part of two miles back to the Maze. Friend Ernest could hardly have walked it in fifteen minutes, could he? And he’s not much of a runner, to judge by his condition this morning. As a matter of fact, his story’s completely confirmed by other evidence. My men interviewed the driver of the post-cart. At 4.20 he came upon Ernest squatting by the roadside, about a mile along the public road, into which the East Gate leads. It’s a place where there’s a little wood, easily identifiable. Friend Ernest was sitting there with his boot off, damning the nail that had hurt him.” Wendover looked at his map. “That clears him. I can see the wood; it’s the only one that abuts on the road in that stretch. Now what about Arthur?” “We’ve only his own word for his movements. He certainly set out for the spinney; but that’s all one can say.” Wendover scanned his map once more. “The spinney’s only a mile from the Maze in a direct line. He might have cut across and got away again; and no one would be any wiser. He had all the afternoon for the affair.” His face clouded. “Somehow, I don’t think he was responsible, Clinton.” Sir Clinton made no direct reply. “He was hardly a likely agent for Hackleton to fix on, at any rate,” he observed. “Well, let’s get on. What about the gardeners?” “Two of them were working in a field about a mile from the Maze all afternoon. Each clears the other.” “And the third gardener who was on the spot that day—the man Skene?” “His story is that he was working in the kitchen-garden near the house. There’s no evidence against that.” “The maids? And the chauffeur?” “All accounted for. They had nothing to do with the affair.” “And Stenness?”