I’m taking a leaf out of the book of a man I’ve a great admiration for—the man who killed Sir John Smethrust. After he got clear he wrote to Scotland Yard and explained how he’d done it—said he liked to tidy things up. So do I. By the time you get this—it will be posted ten days from now—Miriam and I will be absolutely clear—not only across the water but across half a continent—start looking for us if you like. If you find us you’re smarter than I give you credit for—but you won’t take us alive—and one or two of you’ll get hurt. There are a few details I’d like to make clear. I take it, as a basis, that you know how the killing was done and the alibis arranged—your Mr. Poole seemed fairly sharp on that, though I don’t quite know how he turned up at Ald House when he did on Tuesday night.” (“By the way, Mr. Fratten, I was following you. Fallows rang up that you slipped him and we traced you there. I was looking for Mrs. Wraile’s way out too—after finding that her husband had left his club by a back window I guessed that they’d repeated the trick at Ald House.”) “After Poole disturbed us, we cut down the escape. Poor Lessingham didn’t know the rail was missing at one turn—he went over—quite accidentally, I needn’t assure, Mr. Commissioner. We slipped your not very vigorous watch-dogs, got a taxi, and so—by stages that I won’t mention—to the beginning of our long journey. Now about earlier times. Lessingham—Hessel—struck on me when I was on my beam ends, like many other soldiers. He was on them too—psychologically, and for a different reason. He had had a devilish time in the war—‘German Jew’ and all the rest of it. His one idea was to get his own back—he was quite unscrupulous—and unreasonable as to how he did it and who he did it to, though he probably wouldn’t have picked on his own friend, Fratten, if Fratten hadn’t stumbled across our path—might have, though—complexes are funny things. You’ve got to the bottom of the Rotunda game by now—I needn’t bother you with that. By the way, my poor old General was quite innocent of what was happening—as he has been all his life—don’t run him in. Resston, too, of course. Lessingham’s official letters were sent by the clerks to the Hotel Antwerp and by them to Mme. Pintole, who destroyed them. But another set, and anything of importance, was sent privately by Miriam to his own home address—as Hessel. In that way he was kept absolutely up to date all the time though he only came near us about once a month. In the same way, he wrote to her or to me. It all went swimmingly till Fratten blew in.