“I don’t know whether it has ever happened to any of you fellows”—the Writer lit a cigarette—“to harbour suspicions which are gradually lulled, only to have them suddenly return with redoubled force. There was I, peacefully writing my account of the Appledore fête, while outside my host, an enthusiastic gardener, as he had told me, pursued his hobby. Could anything have been more commonplace and matter of fact? He was engaged on the roses at the moment, spraying them with some solution, presumably for green fly, and unconsciously I watched him. No, I reflected, it couldn’t be for green fly, because he was only spraying the roots, and even I, though not an expert, knew that green fly occur round the buds. And at that moment I caught a momentary glimpse of the two other men. They were roaring with laughter, and it seemed to me that my host was the cause of the merriment. He looked up and saw them, and the hilarity ceased abruptly. The next moment they had disappeared, and my host was continuing the spraying. He went on industriously for a few minutes, then he crossed the lawn towards the open window of the room where I was writing. “‘Nearly finished?’ he asked. “‘Very nearly,’ I answered. ‘Green fly bad this year?’ “‘Green fly?’ he said a little vaguely. ‘Oh! so-so.’ “‘I thought you must be tackling them on the roses,’ I pursued. “‘Er, quite—quite,’ he remarked. ‘Nasty things, aren’t they?’ “‘Is it a special system of yours to go for the roots?’ I asked. “He gave me one searching look, then he laughed mysteriously. “‘Ah, ha! my young friend,’ he answered. ‘Don’t you try and get my stable secrets out of me.’ “And I felt he was lying. Without thinking something made me draw a bow at a venture, and the arrow went home with a vengeance. “‘Wonderful delphiniums you’ve got,’ I remarked, leaning out of the window and pointing to a bed underneath. “‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m very proud of those.’ “And the flowers at which I was pointing were irises. So this enthusiastic gardener did not know the difference between a delphinium and an iris. Back in an overwhelming wave came all my suspicions; I knew there was a mystery somewhere. This man wasn’t a gardener; and, if not, why this pretence? I remember now that every time he had drawn my attention to a specimen he had taken the attached label in his hand. Quite unobtrusive it had been, unnoticeable at the time, now it suddenly became significant. Why was he playing this part—pretending for my benefit? Futilely spraying the roots of roses, making me miss my train. I was convinced now that that had been part of the plan—but why? Why the telegraphing? Why the invitation to stop the night?