“My client believes that he can identify the car that ran into his by the fact that he recognised a Miss Leslie in it, who is playing at the Columbine Theatre. From inquiries made at the theatre it appears that the gentleman who was driving the car in question must have been Major Thompson.” “But our car didn't run into anything,” protested the lady. “I drove it myself all morning. And, besides, my husband and Miss Leslie weren't anywhere near Richmond Park. What time is this accident supposed to've happened?” Mr. Deane looked pained. “My client, Madame, was run into at between half-past four and a quarter to five.” “There you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Thompson in triumph. “Major Thompson—he's out on the links this afternoon—fetched Miss Leslie about two o'clock from the Columbine, and drove her here, where my son and I were waiting in the launch. We had intended to go for a picnic up the river, but the weather was so shocking that we gave it up, and played bridge instead. Miss Leslie refused to let my husband or son take the car out again, and took a taxi back to her hotel just before dinner.” “So Miss Leslie was here in the house at the time my client's car was run into—about half-past four?” Mrs. Thompson turned a deep red. “Miss Leslie was here from two-thirty till she left about half-past seven,” she said very distinctly. “If you care to go up to the golf links you'll find my husband there and the car! You can examine both at your leisure.” “Madame, I regret to say that I do _not_ understand the affair at all.” Mr. Deane stroked his grey moustache and spoke testily. “My client told me that he recognised Miss Leslie distinctly, and at her hotel, where of course I went first before venturing to disturb you, I was told that she had arrived on Saturday in a condition—I refer to her habiliments—which distinctly corroborated the idea of an accident.” Mrs. Thompson's foot was beating a light tattoo on the floor, and there was a distinct sparkle in her pretty eyes as she looked at her visitor. “I suppose she had a break-down in the taxi; I only know that she left here at half-past six, looking just as usual. She refused to borrow an umbrella. And now I must really refer you to my husband. You can't miss the links.” Mr. Deane excused himself stiffly for the intrusion, and let himself follow the road to the nearest telephone booth, at a pace that began with Mr. Deane's leisurely stride, and finished up in Pointer's best seven-leagued style. The number of the Sheens' golf club was in use. He requested to be rung up when it was free, and passed the time in entering notes in his little book. When he was put through he asked for Major Thompson. “He's out on the links,” replied a voice. “Mrs. Thompson isn't quite sure if he got her message clearly.” He heard an impatient tongue click. “As I just explained to the lady, sir, the Major has absolutely forbidden any messages to be sent on to the links. I'm very sorry, sir.” Pointer was not.