He began brusquely—it was his way in dealing with women whom he thought he could frighten—by asking her what she meant by concealing information from the police. The woman was plainly embarrassed; but she only said that she did not know what he meant. He accused her of saying, in the servants’ hall, that she knew who had committed the murders in Liskeard House, but that she wasn’t going to say anything. Her reply was to deny all knowledge, and to inform the inspector that those that said she said such things wasn’t fit—not to associate with the decent folks. The more the inspector tried to browbeat her, the less would she say. She grew sulky, and told him to let a poor woman alone, and not go putting into her mouth things she never said. She didn’t know anything, and, if she did, she wouldn’t tell him. Inspector Blaikie retired from the contest beaten, but warning her that he would call again. He did not, however, retire so far as to prevent him from seeing that, as soon as she believed herself to be alone, the chauffeur’s wife hurried into Liskeard House by the back way, and went straight up the back stairs. Putting two and two together, he speedily concluded that she had gone to see Joan Cowper, and that Joan probably knew all that she knew, and had told her to keep quiet about it. The inspector made up his mind to see Joan as soon as the woman had gone. Meanwhile, Mrs. Purvis was telling Joan about the inspector’s visit, and begging pardon for having let her tongue wag in the servants’ hall. “But I didn’t tell him nothing, miss. You can rest assured of that. I sent him away with a flea in his ear, miss.” At this moment Ellery was announced. Joan dismissed Mrs. Purvis with a further caution to say nothing for the present. As soon as she had gone, Ellery told Joan of his visit to Sir John Bunnery, and of the fact that Woodman had been in serious financial straits before the murders took place. “It seems to be true enough, about your stepfather making a will in his favour. It’s all very odd: I don’t understand it a bit.” “I’m afraid there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for money—except murder,” said Joan. “Old Sir John seemed to think that murder was quite a venial offence in comparison with getting money by false pretences,” Ellery answered, laughing. “Don’t be silly, Bob. I’ve found out how Carter got into the house. And I’ve got the proof.” And then Joan told her story of the coach-house yard—her story which proved beyond doubt that Woodman had been on the scene of the crime. “Well done, Joan. So that makes it certain he was here.” “I’m really beginning to think, Bob, we’re rather clever people.” “My dear, we’ve done the trick. Do you realise that it practically finishes our case. We’ve got enough now to be quite sure of a conviction.” “Oh, Bob! How horrible it is when you put it that way. It has really been rather fun finding it all out; but now we’ve found out, oh, what are we to do about it?”