“I take it that Mme. Quesnard and her nephew were on very intimate terms. He hoped to arouse no one by going to his aunt’s room, but in order to make quite sure that Alice Holt, hearing a noise in her mistress’s room, should not surreptitiously come down, and perhaps play eavesdropper at the momentous interview, he turned the key of the girl’s door as he went past, and locked her in. “Then he knocked at his aunt’s door (gently, of course, for old people are light sleepers), and called her by name. Mme. Quesnard, recognising her nephew’s voice, slipped on her dressing-gown, smoothed her hair, and let him in. “Exactly what took place at the interview it is, of course, impossible for any human being to say. Here even I can but conjecture,” he added, with inimitable conceit, “but we can only imagine that, having heard Lord Barnsdale’s confession of his wife’s folly, the old lady, who as a Frenchwoman was of quick temper and unbridled tongue, would indulge in not very elegant rhetoric on the subject of the woman she had always disliked. “Lord Barnsdale would, of course, defend his wife, and the old lady, with feminine obstinacy, would continue the attack. Then some insulting epithet, a word only perhaps, roused the devoted husband’s towering indignation—the meekest man on earth becomes a mad bull when he really loves, and the woman he loves is insulted. “I maintain that the old lady’s death was really due to a pure accident; that Lord Barnsdale gripped her by the throat, in a moment of mad anger, at some hideous insult hurled at his wife; of that I am as convinced as if I had witnessed the whole scene. Then the old lady fell, hit her head against the marble, and Lord Barnsdale realised that he was alone at night in his aunt’s room, and that he had killed her. “What would anyone do under the circumstances?” he added excitedly. “Why, of course, collect his senses and try to save himself from what might prove to be consequences of the most awful kind. This Lord Barnsdale thought he could best do by giving the accident, which looked so like murder, the appearance of a burglary. “The lock of the desk in the next room had already been forced open; he now locked the door on the inside, threw open the shutter and the window, jumped out as any burglar would have done; and, being careful to obliterate his own footmarks, he crept back into the house and thence into his own room, without alarming the watch-dog, who naturally knew his own master. He was, of course, just in time before Alice Holt succeeded in rousing the household with her screams. “And thus you see,” he added, “there are no such things as mysteries. The police call them so, so do the public, but every crime has its perpetrator, and every puzzle its solution. My experience is that the simplest solution is invariably the right one.” The End Transcriber’s Notes