“I'll be quite frank with you. There was Miss Leslie, my wife, my son Henry, and my son's fiancée at the bungalow on Saturday afternoon. My wife and the other young lady decided—very sensibly—that the weather was much too threatening for an outing on the river, but Miss Leslie, for some whim, tried to insist on our taking the launch out. Henry, of course, backed her up, like an idiot. My wife refused to go, the young lady refused to go—I kept myself out of it all by cleaning the car”—the major glanced at the disreputable old Armstrong, stiff with mud, which was standing a few yards from the two men—“and the upshot was that Miss Leslie and Henry decided to go in the launch, while my wife and Edith went into the house to get tea ready for them when they would return. I saw the silly young optimists off, and we expected them back within a quarter of an hour. But not a bit of it! Henry was beginning to see what a fool he was, but a girl doesn't see reason so quickly. It was nearly seven o'clock before the two returned, soaked through, of course. Miss Leslie has some friends higher up the river: they had pulled up there, had tea with them, and then made for home in all that downpour! After that, she took a taxi from our house and went back to her hotel; and if you know of a madder way of spending last Saturday afternoon, I don't. My wife is furious with her, and Edith is furious with my son.” “I'm afraid I must ask for the name of the friends with whom Miss Leslie had tea,” murmured Pointer. The major reluctantly gave it him, and the two men parted on good terms. What in the world had induced a rising young actress to spend her time in such an extraordinary manner, mused the police officer as he took the bus on to the Blacks, where Miss Leslie had tea. The villa was shut up, and, what was more, had been shut up since the middle of July, so the nearest tradesman told him. The Blacks were away at Cromer. Again Pointer 'phoned to Major Thompson. This time to his home address. The Blacks were “out,” he explained. Might he call and see Mr. Henry Thompson? “What's wrong now?” “Nothing, sir. Merely that I want to get hold of someone who was actually with Miss Leslie between four and six o'clock,” soothed the Chief Inspector. The major grunted. “He's not here now, but I believe you'll find him at the Sesame Club this evening about eight o'clock,” and the receiver snapped up. Evidently the domestic affairs of Henry were not yet running smoothly. In the Sesame lounge at seven-thirty Mr. Deane presented himself. Mr. Thompson was in the writing-room, he was told. Mr. Deane produced his card, and with it the tale of the motor collision. “I've met your father on the links this afternoon. Major Thompson very kindly gave me your address here—he's certain that you can give Miss Leslie an alibi for the hour in question at any rate. That would clear matters up a great deal.”