Meanwhile, Joan and Ellery were seated with Carter Woodman. He had greeted them rather effusively on their entrance; and, in Moorman’s presence, they had thought it best to shake hands and behave as if nothing were the matter. Woodman had placed chairs for them, and had again sat down at his desk. While they spoke he continued for a while mechanically opening, and glancing at, the pile of letters before him. It was Joan who spoke first. “We have come here,” she said, “because it seemed the only thing to do. When we have heard what you have to say we shall know better what our next step must be.” Something in her voice caused Woodman to look up sharply. The tone was hard, and a glance at his two visitors showed him that their errand was not a pleasant one. But he looked down again and went on opening his letters without making any sign. “We have to tell you,” Joan went on, “that we know now who killed John Prinsep and poor George.” Woodman gave a start as she spoke; but all he said was, “Then, my dear Joan, you know a great deal more than I do.” “I will put it in another way,” said Joan. “We know that you killed them.” She got the words out with an effort, breathing hard and clutching the arm of the chair as she spoke. Woodman dropped the letter he was holding and looked straight at her. “My dear Joan,” he said, “are you quite mad? And you too, Mr. Ellery?” “No, we’re not mad. We know,” said Ellery, with a short, uneasy laugh—a laugh that grated. Woodman looked from the one to the other. “I fear you are both mad,” said he very quietly. “And now, will one of you please tell me what you mean by this extraordinary accusation?” “You had better hear what we have to say before you start protesting,” said Ellery. “Let me tell you exactly what happened at Liskeard House last Tuesday. Then you will see that we know. You are supposed to have been at your hotel in the small writing-room on the first floor between 10.45 and 11.30, or after.” “So I was, of course.” “But we can produce a gentleman who was in the writing-room between those hours, and can swear that you were not.” “Oh, I may have slipped out of the room for a while. But it is preposterous——” “You had better hear me out. This gentleman saw you leave the writing-room and go downstairs at a few minutes to eleven. Shortly after, he went to the room himself and remained there three-quarters of an hour. He saw you return to the writing-room rather before a quarter to twelve.” “This is pure nonsense. But what of it, even if it were true?” “This. When you left the room you went down to the basement of the hotel, which was deserted, and let yourself out by unbarring the side door leading from the Grill Room into St. John’s Street. You also returned that way shortly after half-past eleven.” “Again, I say that you are talking absolute nonsense. But, if it pleases you, pray continue this fairy tale.”