“I am not for the moment suggesting that he was anyone in particular, but I should just like to be certain whether such a thing was or was not a possibility. If, as we think, this man made a deliberate attack upon Sir Garth, he would almost certainly be disguised. The old idea of the false beard and glasses is rather played out now—partly because beards are so little worn, partly because false ones seldom look real, and partly because it is now realized that a very slight alteration of a face can completely change it. This man wore a dark moustache; probably he was a clean-shaven man. I rather gather that his voice was ‘refined,’ but not quite that of a gentleman.” (For the moment, Poole thought it better to keep to himself Press’s evidence about the “gentlemanly oath.”) “A lower or middle class man would have difficulty in counterfeiting a gentleman’s voice, but a gentleman could easily convey the other impression—especially if he knew something about acting.” Slowly an expression of astonishment, almost of horror, crept into Hessel’s face. “Good God, Inspector,” he said. “You are suggesting that—that it might be Ryland!” “Is it impossible, sir?” pressed Poole, leaning forward eagerly. “Ryland! Ryland! His height, yes, perhaps—even his figure. But—oh no, it is impossible, Inspector. I should have recognized him, of course. Besides, the whole idea is unthinkable; he is a charming boy, devoted to his father. . . .” “Was he?” “Why, yes; why, of course he was!” “The first time I spoke to you, Mr. Hessel, you told me that on that very evening, a few minutes before his death, Sir Garth was talking to you about some trouble with his son—about the son’s lack of affection for his father. You said yourself that they did not understand one another, that Sir Garth was unjust to his son—his adopted son, it now appears.” Hessel looked pale and troubled. “Yes, yes, Inspector,” he said. “That may be so. But what I said in no way implied that there was _serious_ trouble between them; at bottom, I am quite certain, they were both deeply attached to one another.” “I happen to know, sir,” the detective persisted, “that there _was_ serious trouble between them. I also know that Mr. Ryland Fratten has not satisfactorily accounted for his whereabouts at that hour—and I know other things. Now I want, sir, direct answers to two questions, if you will be so good as to give them to me. First, do you believe that the man who knocked into Sir Garth on the Steps that evening was Mr. Ryland Fratten?” “No, I do not!” exclaimed Hessel emphatically. “Very well, sir; now, do you give me your assurance that, beyond all reasonable doubt, it was _not_ Ryland Fratten?” Poole’s steady eyes searched into the depths of the harassed face of the banker; they saw doubt, anxiety, and, finally, determination. “I . . . I . . . yes, I am sure—absolutely sure—that it was not Ryland,” said Hessel.