‘I’m afraid that would be difficult,’ answered Treverton thoughtfully. ‘I was very unhappy at that period of my life, and had acquired a habit of roaming about the streets of London between midnight and morning. I had suffered from a painful attack of sleeplessness, and this night-roving was the only thing that gave me relief. I was at a literary club near the Strand on the night of the murder. I left a few minutes after twelve. It was a fine, mild night--wonderfully mild for the time of year,--and I walked to Hampstead Heath and back.’ ‘Humph!’ muttered Mr. Leopold, ‘you couldn’t have managed things better, if you wanted to put the rope round your neck. You left your club a few minutes after twelve, you say--in comfortable time for the murder. You were seen to leave, I suppose?’ ‘Yes, I left with another member, a water-colour painter, who lives at Haverstock Hill.’ ‘Good--and he walked with you as far as Haverstock Hill, I suppose?’ ‘No, he didn’t. We walked to St. Martin’s Church together, and there he took a hansom. He had no latch-key, and wanted to get home in decent time.’ ‘Did you tell him you were going to walk up to the Heath?’ ‘No, I had no definite purpose. I walked as far, and in whatever direction my fancy took me.’ ‘Precisely. Then your friend, the water-colour painter, parted from you at about a quarter-past twelve?’ ‘It struck the quarter while we were wishing each other good-night.’ ‘Within five minutes’ walk of your lodging. No chance of an _alibi_ here, I fear, Mr. Treverton; unless you met any one on Hampstead Heath, which in the middle of the night was not very likely.’ ‘I neither met nor spoke to a mortal, except a man at a coffee-stall near the Mother Redcap, on my way back.’ ‘Oh! you talked to a man at a coffee-stall, did you?’ ‘Yes, I stopped to take a cup of coffee at ten minutes past two. If the same man is to be found there he ought to remember me. He was a loquacious fellow, something of a wag, and we had quite a political discussion. There had been an important division in the House the night before, and my friend at the coffee-stall was well posted in his _Daily Telegraph_.’ Mr. Leopold made a note of the circumstance while John Treverton was talking. ‘So far so good. Now we come to another point. Is there anybody whom you suspect as implicated in this murder? Can you trace a motive anywhere for such an act?’ ‘No,’ answered Treverton decidedly. ‘Yet you see the murder must have been done by some one, and that some one must have had a motive. It was not a case of suicide. The medical evidence at the inquest clearly demonstrated that.’ ‘You remember the inquest?’ ‘Yes, I was present.’ ‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Treverton, surprised. ‘Yes, I was there. Now to continue my argument; you, as the husband of the victim, must have been familiar with all her surroundings. You must know better than any one else whether there was any one connected with her who could have a motive for this crime.’