Joan took up the story. “You walked across to Liskeard House, and entered the garden through the coach-yard shortly before it was locked for the night. I will pass over what you did next; but at a time shortly before half-past eleven—probably about a quarter-past—you put on John Prinsep’s hat and coat and walked up and down the garden, imitating his lameness, in a spot where you could be seen from the back of the theatre. You then went upstairs to John’s room, and delivered, imitating my stepfather’s voice, a false telephone message purporting to come from him to his club in Pall Mall. Next you put on George’s hat and coat, and dressed in them walked out of the front door in such a way that the servants, seeing you at a distance, readily mistook you for George. Am I right, so far?” “I am listening, my dear Joan, because I had better hear the whole of this wild story that something—or some one”—here he turned and glared at Ellery—“has put into your head. But, of course, the whole thing is monstrous.” “You need not blame Mr. Ellery. He and I have worked it all out together, and we can prove all we say. I should have mentioned that before leaving Liskeard House you arranged the scene of the murders so as to make it seem, first of all, that John and George had killed each other. Under John’s body you placed a blood-stained handkerchief belonging to George, and you also left one of George’s knives sticking in the body. You killed George with a weapon which, as you well knew, had on it John’s finger-marks. Of course you wore gloves, and therefore left no marks which could be identified as your own. The finger-marks on the club with which George was killed were made by John earlier in the day when he showed you the club before dinner. They were defaced, but not obliterated, by the marks made later by your gloved hands. Is that correct?” “Of course it is not correct. It is a parcel of lies, the whole lot of it.”