Of course, Cotherstone had killed Kitely. That was certain. He had begun to suspect that as soon as he heard of the murder; he became convinced of it as soon as young Bent mentioned that Cotherstone had left his guests for an hour after supper. Without a doubt Cotherstone had lost his head and done this foolish thing! And now Cotherstone must be protected, safe-guarded; heaven and earth must be moved lest suspicion should fall on him. For nothing could be done to Cotherstone without effect upon himself--and of himself--and of himself Mallalieu meant to take very good care. Never mind what innocent person suffered, Cotherstone must go free. And the first thing to do was to assume direction of the police, to pull strings, to engineer matters. No matter how much he believed in Harborough's innocence, Harborough was the man to go for--at present. Attention must be concentrated on him, and on him only. Anything--anything, at whatever cost of morals and honesty to divert suspicion from that fool of a Cotherstone!--if it were not already too late. It was the desire to make sure that it was not too late, the desire to be beforehand, that made Mallalieu hasten to the police. He knew his own power, he had a supreme confidence in his ability to manage things, and he was determined to give up the night to the scheme already seething in his fertile brain rather than that justice should enter upon what he would consider a wrong course. While he sat silently and intently listening to Bent's story of the crime, Mallalieu, who could think and listen and give full attention to both mental processes without letting either suffer at the expense of the other, had reconstructed the murder. He knew Cotherstone--nobody knew him half as well. Cotherstone was what Mallalieu called deep--he was ingenious, resourceful, inventive. Cotherstone, in the early hours of the evening, had doubtless thought the whole thing out. He would be well acquainted with his prospective victim's habits. He would know exactly when and where to waylay Kitely. The filching of the piece of cord from the wall of Harborough's shed was a clever thing--infernally clever, thought Mallalieu, who had a designing man's whole-hearted admiration for any sort of cleverness in his own particular line. It would be an easy thing to do--and what a splendidly important thing! Of course Cotherstone knew all about Harborough's arrangements--he would often pass the pig-killer's house--from the hedge of the garden he would have seen the coils of greased rope hanging from their nails under the verandah roof, aye, a thousand times. Nothing easier than to slip into Harborough's garden from the adjacent wood, cut off a length of the cord, use it--and leave it as a first bit of evidence against a man whose public record was uncertain. Oh, very clever indeed!--if only Cotherstone could carry things off, and not allow his conscience to write marks on his face. And he must help--and innocent as he felt