Nothing further had come to light when, on Saturday morning, Inspector Blaikie went to Superintendent Wilson with his daily report on the case, telling him first about the taxi-man’s evidence. The superintendent seemed to attach some importance to this. “Where you have to rely on circumstantial evidence,” he said, “the accumulation of details is all-important. Every little helps. Your taxi-driver may yet be an important link in the chain.” The inspector confided to his superior that the result of his reflections on the case was to make him far more doubtful than he had been of securing a conviction. “Quite so,” said the superintendent. “I thought you would realise that when you had thought it over.” The inspector replied that he saw it now, and went on to explain what he believed to be the strategy of the defence—throwing suspicion on the servants. “The trouble of it is,” he said, “that although I’m absolutely sure in my own mind that Winter had nothing whatever to do with the affair, there’s no way of proving the thing one way or the other. So far as the evidence goes, he might have done it. Of course, there’s absolutely no shred of evidence that he did; but that is not enough to prevent a clever counsel from arousing suspicion in the mind of a jury.” “Are you so sure,” said the superintendent, “that there is no shred of evidence? I mean, of course, of what the other side may be able to dress up to look like evidence. I should say that fellow Thomas is clever enough to find something that he can make serve as a cause for suspicion, if there is anything at all that will serve. For example, this Prinsep seems to have been a bit of a beast. Is there anything to show whether Winter was on good or bad terms with him? If they had quarrelled or anything of the sort, that is just the kind of fact Thomas, or his counsel, would use to good effect.” “You’re right there; but I’ve come across nothing that would suggest a quarrel. Morgan—that’s the valet chap—made no secret of disliking Prinsep very cordially; but Winter seems to be just the good, faithful family servant.” “I dare say there’s nothing to be found out in that way: but you might make a note of it, and get a few inquiries made. We want to know exactly how strong the defence is likely to be. And, by the way, I suppose you still have no doubts in your own mind that Walter Brooklyn is the murderer?” The superintendent opened his eyes, and looked at the inspector as he spoke. “None at all—at least, it seems to me practically certain. Quite as certain as the case against most men who get hanged. Do you mean that you are in doubt about it?” The superintendent made no direct reply to this. “At any rate,” he said, “the evidence is certainly not conclusive. I suppose you have no idea whether the defence will try to prove an _alibi_.” “I don’t see how they can. According to his own story, Brooklyn was just strolling about alone all the evening. He can’t prove that, surely.”