The justly exasperated Alec trotted after him. “Talk about Sherlock Holmes!” he growled, as he caught him up. “You’re every bit as maddening yourself. Why can’t you tell me all about it straight out if you really have discovered something, instead of beating about the bush like this?” “But I have told you, Alexander,” said Roger, with an air of bland innocence. “That confession is a fake.” “But _why_?” Roger hooked his arm through that of the other and piloted him in the direction of the rose garden. “I want to stick around here,” he explained, “so as to see the inspector when he comes up the drive. I’m not going to miss the opening of that safe for anything.” “Why do you think that confession’s a fake?” repeated Alec doggedly. “That’s better, Alexander,” commented Roger approvingly. “You seem to be showing a little interest in my discoveries at last. You haven’t been at all a good Watson up to now, you know. It’s your business to be thrilled to the core whenever I announce a farther step forward. You’re a rotten thriller, Alec.” A slight smile appeared on Alec’s face. “You do all the thrilling needed yourself, I fancy. Besides, old Holmes went a bit slower than you. He didn’t jump to conclusions all in a minute, and I doubt if ever he was as darned pleased with himself all the time as you are.” “Don’t be harsh with me, Alec,” Roger murmured. “I admit you haven’t done so badly so far,” Alec pursued candidly; “though when all’s said and done most of it’s guesswork. But if I grovelled in front of you, as you seem to want, and kept telling you what a dashed fine fellow you are, you’d probably have arrested Jefferson and Mrs. Plant by this time, and had Lady Stanworth committed for contempt of court or something.” He paused and considered. “In fact, what you want, old son,” he concluded weightily, “is a brake, not a blessed accelerator.” “I’m sorry,” Roger said with humility. “I’ll remember in future. But if you won’t compliment me, at least let me compliment you. You’re a jolly good brake.” “And after that, Detective Sheringham, perhaps you’ll kindly tell me how you deduce that the confession is a fake from the fact that old Stanworth’s pen wouldn’t write.” Roger’s air changed and his face became serious. “Yes, this really is rather important. It clinches the fact of murder, which was certainly a shot in the dark of mine before. Here’s the thing that gives it away.” He produced from his pocket the piece of paper which he had waved in Alec’s face in the library and, unfolding it carefully, handed it to the other. Alec looked at it attentively. It bore numerous irregular folds, as if it had been considerably crumpled, and in the centre, somewhat smudged, were the words “Victor St——,” culminating in a large blot. The writing was very thickly marked. The right-hand side of the paper was spattered with a veritable shower of blots. Beyond these there was nothing upon its surface.