“No, Alexander, I didn’t,” Roger answered wearily. “The word murder was never so much as mentioned. I simply put it that I wanted to know what he was doing on the night of Stanworth’s death.” “And he wouldn’t tell you?” Alec asked, somewhat surprisedly. “He certainly would not. But he told me a lot of other things. He was in Stanworth’s power all right. I haven’t got time to tell you the whole story, but there’s motive enough for him to kill Stanworth himself, even without the introduction of Mrs. Plant’s side of it. Oh, the whole thing’s as plain as a pikestaff. I can’t understand why you’re so sceptical about it all.” “Perhaps I make a better detective than you do, Roger,” Alec laughed, a trifle constrainedly. “Perhaps,” Roger said without very much conviction. He glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better be getting back. I wonder if you’d believe it if I showed you Jefferson’s confession in writing! Would you?” “I very much doubt it,” Alec smiled. Jefferson was no longer alone in the morning room when Roger returned to it. To the latter’s surprise Lady Stanworth was also there. She was standing with her back to the window and did not look round at his entrance. Roger shut the door carefully behind him and looked inquiringly at Jefferson. That gentleman did not waste time. “We’ve talked the matter over,” he said curtly, “and decided to tell you what you want to know.” Roger could hardly repress an exclamation of surprise. Why should Jefferson have imported Lady Stanworth into the matter? Obviously she must be involved, and deeply, too. Could it be that Jefferson had taken her into his confidence with regard to Mrs. Plant? How much did she know, if that were the case? Presumably everything. Roger felt that the situation was about to prove not a little awkward. “I’m glad,” he murmured, half apologetically. Jefferson was carrying the thing off well. Not only did he appear to be feeling no fear at all, but his manner was not even that of defiance. The attitude he had adopted and which sat perfectly naturally upon him was rather one of dignified condescension. “But before I answer you, Sheringham,” he said stiffly, “I should like to say, both on behalf of this lady and myself, that we consider——” Lady Stanworth turned to him. “Please!” she said quietly. “I don’t think we need go into that. If Mr. Sheringham is incapable of understanding the position into which he has forced us, there can hardly be any need to labour the point.” “Quite, quite,” Roger murmured still more apologetically, and feeling unaccountably small. Lady Stanworth was perhaps the only person in the world who consistently had that effect upon him. “Very well,” Jefferson bowed. He turned to Roger. “You wanted to know where I was on the night that Stanworth shot himself?” “On the night of Stanworth’s death,” Roger corrected, with a slight smile.