“Meeting anyone? Staveley? No, I can't say I remember his saying anything about it to me. He went out some time round about ten o'clock. But I thought he'd just gone for a turn in the fresh air. We'd been smoking a lot, and the room was a bit stuffy.” The inspector jotted something in his note-book before asking his next question. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Billingford?” Billingford's face assumed a bland expression. “Me? Oh, I'm a commission agent.” “Do you mean a commercial traveller?” Armadale demanded. A faint smile crossed Sir Clinton's face. “I think Mr. Billingford means that he lives by his wits, inspector. Am I correct?” he asked, turning to Billingford. “Well, in a way, yes,” was the unashamed reply. “But commission agent sounds rather better if it gets into the papers.” “A very proper tribute to respectability,” Sir Clinton commented drily. “What did you know about Staveley?” the inspector went on. “Staveley? Nothing much. Used to meet him now and again. The two of us did business together at times.” “Was he a commission agent too?” the inspector inquired ironically. “Well, sometimes he said he was that, and other times he put himself down as a labourer.” “On the police charge-sheet, you mean?” Sir Clinton asked. Billingford grinned openly. “Never saw the inside of a gaol in my life,” he boasted. “Nor did Staveley either, that I know about.” “I've no doubt my colleagues did their best,” Sir Clinton said amiably. The inspector came back to his earlier question. “Is that all you can tell us about him?” “Who? Staveley? Well, sometimes we worked together. But it's not likely I'd tell you much about that, is it?” “What was he doing down here?” “Staying with me for a day or two. I was getting a bit jaded with rush-work in the City, so I came down here for a rest. And Staveley, he said he'd join me and we'd work out a new scheme for benefiting some members of the public.” The inspector nodded. “Some easy-money business, I suppose. Now come to last night, and be careful what you say. Tell me exactly what you can remember. Begin about dinner-time.” Billingford reflected for a moment or two before answering. “After dinner, things were a bit dull, so the three of us started to play poker to pass the time.” “Three of you?” Armadale interrupted. “Who was the third man?” “Oh, he's an Australian by the twang. Derek Fordingbridge, he calls himself. Staveley brought him down. There was something about his having an estate round about here, and wanting to take a look at it.” “You hadn't met him before?” “Me? Oh, only once or twice. I thought he was just another labourer in the vineyard, if you take me.” “A competitor of yours in the commission agent business? What was he doing in that line if he had an estate?” “Search me!” Billingford answered guardedly. “I'm not one for asking too many questions about people's affairs. ‘Do unto others as you'd be done by’ is my motto.”