The Park-keeper had not, fortunately, gone far afield. He was secretly thrilled at meeting the detective who had charge of the Fratten case, but the dignity of his office did not allow him to reveal the fact. It was the case, he said, that an acquaintance of his, a Mr. Herbert Tapping, a tuning-fork tester—had actually witnessed the death of Sir Garth Fratten. He had had an argument with Mr. Tapping only yesterday, after reading the account of the Inquest. He, Mr. Blossom, had advanced the thesis that Sir Garth had been done in by his companion, the Jewish gentleman, at the place where he fell, but Tapping had countered this by replying that he had actually seen Sir Garth fall and that Mr. Hessel could not have struck him—he was holding his arm at the time that Sir Garth staggered and fell. Moreover, Mr. Tapping had gone so far as to state that nobody else was near enough to strike a blow at that time; he himself was about the nearest and he was fifteen yards away. Mr. Tapping’s theory was that the blow had been struck by the “Admiralty messenger” on the Duke of York’s Steps, or, alternatively, that someone had thrown a stone at Sir Garth. Poole asked for and obtained the address of Mr. Herbert Tapping and, thanking Blossom for his help, made his way towards the Underground Station at St. James’s Park. As he walked, he turned over in his mind the baffling problem which this new evidence—if Mr. Tapping confirmed his friend’s story—only helped to deepen. Reliable witnesses stated categorically that Sir Garth had not been struck on the Steps; now a new witness, possibly reliable, said that he had not been struck at the spot where he fell. Where, then, in the name of goodness, had he been struck? Mr. Tapping had suggested a stone; the idea was a wild one; who could throw a stone so accurately as to strike the small vital spot in Sir Garth’s back—and from where had it been thrown? No one had been seen doing such a thing. Coningsby Smythe, of course—the House of Commons clerk—had been close behind but he had—according to his own story, at least—been separated from Fratten by a passing car. . . . Poole stopped dead. A passing car! That must have been within a few feet of Fratten! He had actually fallen a little distance beyond the carriage way, but he might have staggered a step or two before falling. Was it conceivable that he had been struck by someone in that car?