“Under the pretence of an evening walk, her so-called lover entices her to a lonely and suitable spot; his confederate is close by, hidden in the shadows, ready to give him assistance if the girl struggles and screams. But suddenly Dr. Earnshaw appears. He recognises Stapylton and challenges him. For a moment the villains are nonplussed, then Kinnaird—the cleverer of the two—steps forward, greets the two lovers unconcernedly, and after two minutes’ conversation casually reminds Stapylton of an appointment the latter is presumed to have at a club in St. James’ Street. “The latter understands and takes the hint, and takes a quick farewell of the girl, leaving her in his friend’s charge, then as fast as he can, goes off, presently takes a cab, leaving his friend to do the deed, whilst the _alibi_ he can prove, coupled with Dr. Earnshaw’s statement, was sure to bewilder and mislead the police and the public. “Thus it was that though Dr. Earnshaw saw and recognised Dr. Stapylton, Constable Fiske saw Dr. Kinnaird, whom he did _not_ recognise, on whom no suspicion had fallen, and whose name had never been coupled with that of Miss Elliott. When Constable Fiske had turned his back, Kinnaird murdered the girl and went off quietly, whilst Dr. Stapylton, on whom all suspicions were bound to fasten sooner or later, was able to prove the most perfect _alibi_ ever concocted. “One day I feel certain that the frauds at the Home will be discovered, and then who knows what else may see the light? “Think of it all quietly when I am gone, and to-morrow when we meet tell me whether if _I_ am wrong what is _your_ explanation of this extraordinary mystery.” Before I could reply he had gone, and I was left wondering, gazing at the photographs of two good-looking, highly respectable and respected men, whom an animated scarecrow had just boldly accused of committing one of the most dastardly crimes ever recorded in our annals. II. The Hocussing of Cigarette Chapter I Quite by chance I found myself one morning sitting before a marble-topped table in the A.B.C. shop. I really wondered for the moment what had brought me there, and felt cross with myself for being there at all. Having sampled my tea and roll, I soon buried myself in the capacious folds of my _Daily Telegraph_. “A glass of milk and a cheesecake, please,” said a well-known voice. The next moment I was staring into the corner, straight at a pair of mild, watery blue eyes, hidden behind great bone-rimmed spectacles, and at ten long bony fingers, round which a piece of string was provokingly intertwined. There he was as usual, wearing—for it was chilly—a huge tweed ulster, of a pattern too lofty to be described. Smiling, bland, apologetic, and fidgety, he sat before me as the living embodiment of the reason why I had come to the A.B.C. shop that morning. “How do you do?” I said with as much dignity as I could command.