“‘Doubtless,’ I agreed. ‘Let us hope your reason will prove satisfactory to the inspector. May I suggest, however, unless you can supply a better one, that your reason was to avoid the notoriety which would inevitably arise if a foreigner came to stay in a small village like this? And you were particularly anxious to avoid any possibility of Mr. Marley knowing that a Corsican was in the neighbourhood.’ “He laughed sarcastically. ‘I think that I have already stated that I have never even seen Mr. Marley,’ he sneered. “‘Oh!’ I remarked. ‘Then might I ask you, inspector, to have a look at this photograph? It is old and faded, but the faces are still clear.’ “I handed the photograph to the inspector, and with a sudden curse the Corsican whipped out a knife and sprang at me. He realised even then that the game was up, and his one thought was to revenge himself on me. But I’d been expecting some such move, and I’d got a revolver handy. Incidentally, revolver shooting is one of the few things I can do, and I plugged him through the forearm before he could do any damage. “He stood there glaring at me sullenly, and then the inspector took a hand. “‘Stand by that window, sergeant. Now, Mr. whatever-your-name-is, no monkey tricks. Do you still deny that you knew Mr. Marley?” “‘I refuse to answer,’ snarled the man. “‘Because this photograph is of you and Marley and a woman. Taken abroad somewhere.’ “‘Naples, to be exact, inspector,’ I said. ‘I found it in his rooms in Berners Street, the address of which I got as the result of my burglary here.’ “The Corsican stood there like a beast at bay, and the inspector’s face was stern. “‘What explanation have you got to give?’ he rapped out. ‘Why did you lie in evidence?’ “‘I refuse to answer,’ repeated the man. “‘Since he is so uncommunicative,’ I remarked, ‘perhaps you will allow me to reconstruct the crime. Much of it, of necessity, is guess-work. For instance, Lenardi, what was your motive in murdering Mr. Marley?’ I rapped the question out at him, and though he’d have killed me willingly if he could have got at me he didn’t deny it. “‘Well,’ I continued, ‘it doesn’t matter. Let us assume it was the girl in that photograph. You tracked Marley to earth here—in this village—that is all that concerns us. And having tracked him, you bided your time. Vengeance is the sweeter for delay. Each evening you walked up here, watching him through the window—gloating over what was to come. And then one night you found another man with him—Jack Fairfax—and they were quarrelling. At once you saw that this was your opportunity. However skilfully you hid your traces under ordinary circumstances, there was always a grave risk; but here, ready to hand, was a marvellous stroke of luck. Perhaps you crept nearer the window in the darkness, secure in the fact that the room was in a remote part of the house. You saw Jack Fairfax leave, blind with rage, and then, skulking out of the night, you entered the room yourself.’