“I turned away abruptly. Jack was tall and broad and clean-shaven. Strive as I would, the deadly suspicion was beginning to grip me that Jack, in a fit of ungovernable passion, had killed the old man. And at such moments, whatever may be the legal aspect of the matter, one’s main idea is how best to help a pal. If Jack had indeed done it, what was the best thing to do? “I rang the bell, and told the scared-looking maid to bring the whisky and some glasses. Then, with a muttered apology, I left the room. I felt I wanted to talk to Joan about it. I found her dry-eyed and quite composed, though she was evidently holding herself under control with a great effort. And briefly I told her what the stranger had said. “She heard me out in silence: then she spoke with a quiet assurance that surprised me. “‘If Jack did it,’ she said, ‘he doesn’t know he’s done it. He doesn’t know he’s killed—father.’ She faltered a bit over the last word, and I didn’t interrupt. ‘What I mean is this,’ she went on after a moment. ‘I know Jack—better than anyone else. I know those rages of his—when he sees red. But they’re over in a minute. He’s capable of anything for a second or two, but if he’d done it, Hugh, if he’d hit father—and killed him—his remorse would have been dreadful. He wouldn’t have run away: I’m certain of that. That’s why I say that if Jack did it he doesn’t know—he killed him.’ “I said nothing: there was no good telling her that it wasn’t one blow, nor yet two or three, that had been used. There was no good telling her that it was no accidental thing done unwittingly in the heat of the moment—that it was an absolute impossibility for the man who had done it to be in ignorance of the fact. And yet, though I realised all that, her simple conviction put new hope into me. Illogical, I admit, but I went downstairs feeling more confident. “I found that the local police had arrived—a sergeant and an ordinary constable—and had already begun their investigations. The principal evidence, of course, came from the stranger, and he repeated to them what he had already told me. His name apparently was Lenham—Victor Lenham—and the police knew he had been stopping at the local inn. “‘You saw the body through the window, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘and then went round to the drawing-room?’ “‘That is so, sergeant.’ “‘You didn’t go into the room?’ “‘Not until later—with these gentlemen. You see,’ he added, ‘I’ve seen death too often not to recognise it. And as, in a way, you will understand, it was no concern of mine, I thought it advisable to have some member of the house itself with me before entering the room.’ “‘Quite, sir, quite.’ The sergeant nodded portentously. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’