“Scene 2.—The murder, brutal, horrible, on the person of an old cripple, whilst his own daughter stands by, and the dismembering of the body. “Scene 3.—The ride in the motor-car—after dark, remember, and with plenty of rugs, beneath which the gruesome burden is concealed. The scene is accompanied by the comedy of Miss Dyke speaking to her father, and waving her hand affectionately at him from below. I tell you, that woman must have had some nerve! “Then, Scene 4.—The arrival at Wembley, and the hiding of the remains. “Scene 5.—Amelia goes to Edinburgh by the 5.15 a.m. train, and thus secures her own _alibi_. After that, the comedy begins in earnest. The impersonation of the dead man by Wyatt during the whole of that memorable Thursday. Mind you, that was not very difficult; it only needed the brain to invent, and the nerve to carry it through. The charwoman had never seen old Dyke before; she only knew that he was an invalid. What more natural than that she should accept as her new master the man who lay in bed all day, and only spoke a few words to her? A very slight make-up of hair and beard would complete the illusion. “Then, at six o’clock, the woman gone, Wyatt steals out of the house, bespeaks the motor-car, leaves it in the street in a convenient spot, and is back in time to be seen by Mrs. Marsh at seven. “The rest is simplicity itself. The silhouette at the window was easy enough to arrange; the sound of a man walking on crutches is easily imitated with a couple of umbrellas—the actual crutches were, no doubt, burned directly after the murder. Lastly, the putting out of the light at half-past ten was the crowning stroke of genius. “One little thing might have upset the whole wonderful plan, but that one thing only; and that was if the body had been found _before_ the great comedy scene of Thursday had been fully played. But that spinney near Wembley was well chosen. People don’t go wandering under trees and in woods on cold November days, and the remains were not found until the Saturday. “Ah, it was cleverly stage-managed, and no mistake. I couldn’t have done it better myself. Won’t you have another cup of tea? No? Don’t look so upset. The world does not contain many such clever criminals as Alfred Wyatt and Amelia Dyke.” VII. The Tremarn Case Chapter I “Well, it certainly is most amazing!” I said that day, when I had finished reading about it all in the _Daily Telegraph_. “Yet the most natural thing in the world,” retorted the man in the corner, as soon as he had ordered his lunch. “Crime invariably begets crime. No sooner is a murder, theft, or fraud committed in a novel or striking way, than this method is aped—probably within the next few days—by some other less imaginative scoundrel.