Mr. Foster came, as gently as any sucking-pig. Into his mind had flashed a horrible realisation—they had discovered that girl in his tool-shed and were going to arrest him for sheltering a murderess! He was—what was the phrase? Yes, an accessory after the fact. And accessories after facts, Mr. Foster had an uncomfortable notion, were just as guilty in the eyes of the law as the principals. Disturbing thought—if they hanged that girl they would probably hang him too! Mr. Foster felt very sorry for the girl, but he felt still more sorry for Mr. Foster. By the time the little party reached the scullery, whither they led him out of consideration for the rest of Guy’s house, Mr. Foster was quite certain that he was going to be hanged. He simply hated the idea. “Now then,” barked the Colonel, as the circle closed round Mr. Foster in the scullery. “Now then, what have you got to say for yourself?” “N-nothing,” quavered the moribund Mr. Foster, and exuded a small shower of coal-dust from his clothes by way of emphasis. “Ah!” said the Colonel. “You admit it, then, do you?” “Y-yes,” trembled Mr. Foster. Since they knew all about it, he might just as well. He would not have admitted that he was covered with coal-dust had he seen any hope in denying it, but as they must have heard the girl’s story, and checked its truth by the nightgown, the camp outfit, and the cook’s evidence about food conveyed out of her larder that morning, he could see no earthly point in refusing to acknowledge his guilt. Perhaps, on the other hand, if he threw himself on their mercy, they might be more lenient. Guy was puzzled. He had the best of reasons for knowing that Mr. Foster had not committed the crime to which he was apparently confessing. What was the idea, then? He brightened. The nature of the crime had not been mentioned as yet, so that quite possibly Mr. Foster did not know of what he was accused. In that case he must be confessing to some totally different crime. Guy’s delighted smile broadened. What had the terrible fellow been up to? Embezzlement? Arson? Falsifying his income-tax return? Buying cigarettes after hours? Something devilish, no doubt. “Inspector,” said the Colonel in a voice of iron, “do your duty.” The Inspector stepped forward. He knew what to do, because the Colonel had been rehearsing him for most of the afternoon. His little job was to go as near to arresting Mr. Foster as one might without actually putting him under arrest. He frowned terrifically, both to intimidate his now abject victim and because he had suddenly and completely forgotten the neat little speech which the Colonel had been at some pains to compose for him. “Reginald Foster,” he said portentously, and frowned again, “Reginald Foster, you——” No, it was no use. “Reginald Foster, you comealongerme!” said the Inspector with the utmost ferocity. “And I warn you that everythink you say will be used in evidence against you,” he added perfunctorily and not altogether correctly.