“Humph!” Alec observed sceptically. “Are you going to accuse him directly of the murder?” “My dear Alec! Nothing so crude as that. I shan’t even say in so many words that I know a murder has been committed. I shall simply ask him a few pointed and extremely pertinent questions. He’ll see the drift of them all right; Master Jefferson is no fool, as we have every reason to know. Then we shall be able to get down to things.” “Well, for goodness’ sake do bear in mind the possibility (I won’t put it any stronger than that) that Jefferson never did kill Stanworth at all, and walk warily.” “Trust me for that,” Roger replied complacently. “By the way, did I tell you that Mrs. Plant received that letter just before going into lunch? It caught the eight-thirty post from the village.” “Did it?” Alec said without very much interest. “By Jove!” Roger exclaimed suddenly. “What an idiot I am! That’s conclusive proof that Stanworth couldn’t have posted it himself, isn’t it? Fancy my never spotting that point before!” “What point?” “Why, the first post out from the village is five o’clock. That letter must have been posted between five and eight-thirty—four hours or more after Stanworth was dead!” Chapter XXV The Mystery Finally Refuses to Accept Mr. Sheringham’s Solution Roger had no time to waste. Mrs. Plant, Alec, and himself were all to leave by the train soon after five o’clock; the car would be ready to take them into Elchester at half-past four. Tea was to be at four, and the time was already close on three. He had an hour left in which to disentangle the last remaining threads. As he stood for a moment outside the morning-room door it seemed to Roger as if even this narrow margin were half an hour more than he needed. Jefferson was still at work among the piled-up papers. He glanced up abstractedly as Roger entered the room and then smiled slightly. “Come to offer me a hand again?” he asked. “Devilish good of you, but I’m afraid there’s absolutely nothing I can turn over to you this time.” Roger drew a chair up to the other side of the table and seated himself deliberately. “As a matter of fact, I hadn’t,” he said slowly. “I wanted to ask you one or two questions, Jefferson, if you would be good enough to answer them.” Jefferson looked slightly surprised. “Questions? All right, fire away. What can I tell you?” “Well, the first thing I want to ask you,” Roger shot out, “is—where were you at the time that Stanworth died?” A look of blank astonishment was followed in Jefferson’s face by an angry flush. “And what the devil has that got to do with you?” he asked abruptly. “Never mind for the moment what it has to do with me,” Roger replied, his heart beating a little faster than usual. “I want you to answer that question.” Jefferson rose slowly to his feet, his eyes glittering ominously. “Do you want me to kick you out of the room?” he said in a strangely quiet voice. Roger leaned back in his chair and watched him unmoved.