“I certainly did not say that. That man Thomas seems to have found out something you had missed. It is your turn to pick up something that has escaped him. Watch the servants at Liskeard House—the maids as well as Winter and Morgan. Keep an eye on the whole household. And meanwhile I will find out all about that girl at Fittleworth. I can have inquiries made locally on the spot.” “Then you’re inclined to think Winter may have done it?” “Not at all. There you are jumping to conclusions again. I’m not at all disposed to say anything definite just at present. What we need is further information, and all we can do for the present is to follow up every hint we get.” “I’ll do my best, sir. But it doesn’t look to me very hopeful.” “Oh, never say die. Even if we could not find out the whole truth for ourselves—and I believe we can—there is plenty of chance still for the murderer to give himself away. In my experience that is how ninety-nine out of a hundred murderers get caught—I mean of those who do get caught at all. You watch Winter carefully, but don’t jump to the conclusion that he’s guilty. Watch them all: keep your eyes and your mind wide open. We’ll pull it through yet.” “But,” said the inspector, unable any longer to keep back the question, “if you think neither Walter Brooklyn nor Winter did it, who do you think did?” “If I knew that, my dear inspector, I shouldn’t be giving you these instructions. The real criminal may be some one quite outside our previous range of suspicion. Indeed, I shan’t be at all surprised if he is.” “But you mean that the immediate thing is to go fully into these new aspects of the case?” “Quite so. Do that, and report progress. And remember to keep your eyes wide open for anything that may turn up. We must trust largely to luck.” As Inspector Blaikie left Superintendent Wilson’s room, he was in a curiously divided state of mind. At one moment he still said to himself that all his good labour could not have been wasted, and that Walter Brooklyn must really be guilty after all. The next he found himself assuming, with greater assurance, that Winter was the murderer. He was one of those men who can only keep their minds open by entertaining two contrary opinions at the same time. He shook his head over what seemed to him the weakness of his superior in letting Walter Brooklyn go without arresting some one else. Meanwhile, in the lounge at Liskeard House, Joan and Ellery were sitting very close to each other on a sofa making their plans for the discovery of the criminal. “How had we better begin?” he asked, running his hand despairingly through his hair. “I can see only one way,” Joan replied. “We have nothing to go upon—nothing, I mean, that would make us suspect any particular person. So the only thing to do is to suspect everybody—to find out exactly where everybody was when the crime was committed, and what they were doing that evening.” “That’s something of an undertaking.”