Roger began, half unconsciously, to rearrange some of his ideas. If Jefferson was concerned in Stanworth’s death, then it would be because there was a very excellent reason for that death. All the more reason to probe into Stanworth’s affairs. “Going to stay down here long, Jefferson?” he asked, with an obvious yawn. “Not very. Just got to finish off this job I’m on now. You turn in. Must be getting pretty late.” Roger glanced at his watch. “Close on twelve. Right, I think I will, if you’re sure there’s nothing else I can do?” “Nothing, thanks. I shall have a go at it before breakfast myself. Got to get cleared up in here by eleven. Well, good-night, Sheringham, and many thanks.” Roger sought his room in a state of some perplexity. This new conclusion of his with regard to Jefferson was going to make things very much more complicated instead of more simple. He felt a strong sympathy with Jefferson all of a sudden. He was not a clever man; certainly he was not the brains of the conspiracy. What must his feelings be when he knew, as indeed he must know, that Roger was tracking out things that would, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred and with only very ordinary luck, have remained undiscovered for ever? How must he regard the net which he could see spread to catch him, and with him—whom? Roger dragged a chair up to the open window, and sat down with his feet on the sill. He felt he was getting maudlin. This had every appearance of a thoroughly cold-blooded crime, and here he was feeling sorry already for one of its chief participants. Yet it was because Jefferson, as he saw now that the scales had suddenly fallen from his eyes, was such a fine type of man—the tall, thin, small-headed type that is the real pioneer of our race—and because he himself genuinely liked all three members of that suspicious trio, that Roger, without necessarily giving way to maudlin sentiment, was yet unable to stifle his very real regret that everything should point so decisively to their guilt. Still, it was too late to back out now. He owed it to himself, if not even to them, to see the thing through. Roger could sympathise more fully now with Alec’s feelings on the matter. Curious that he should after all have come round in the end to that much-derided point of view of Alec’s! He began to review the personal element in the light of this new revelation. How did it help? If Jefferson was an honest man and would only kill because nothing short of killing would meet some unknown case, then what was most likely to have produced such a state of affairs? What is the mainspring that actuates three quarters of such drastic deeds? Well, the answer to that was obvious enough. A woman. How did that apply in this case? Could Jefferson be in love with some woman, whose happiness or peace had been threatened in some mysterious way by Stanworth himself, and if so, who was the woman? Lady Stanworth? Mrs. Plant? Roger uttered an involuntary exclamation. Mrs. Plant!