Branston was quick to reply. “Whatever position I’m in, Inspector,” he said, “I’ve told you the truth. I can’t do more and I’m not going to do less. The story I have told you is a true account of what took place here on the afternoon of the murder—and _true in every particular_. I’ve put nothing in—neither have I kept anything back.” He paused—with more than a hint of defiance. “You had better interview Mrs. Bertenshaw again,” he added, “and see what she has to say. I should very much like you to.” “Send for her,” said Bannister, with a curt movement of the head. Branston did so. “Shall I remain here?” he demanded sourly. “For the moment,” snapped Bannister. Mrs. Bertenshaw advanced timidly—her timidity increasing perceptibly when she discovered the nature of the company. “Yes, sir?” she opened, with a glance at her employer. “These gentlemen desire to ask you one or two more questions with regard to what happened here last week, Mrs. Bertenshaw. Please tell them the truth.” Branston turned away and lit a cigarette cavalierly. But Bannister had already begun to congratulate himself upon the turn that affairs had taken. He had noticed a certain look in the eyes of this woman—a look he had seen so many times before in the eyes of people whom he had been forced to question that he was able to recognise it at once and which is more, apprehend its meaning. Mrs. Bertenshaw was frightened. There was no gainsaying that fact. The Inspector tried to tell himself that he was “warmer” than he had been before. The woman’s thin anxious face met his. “What is it you wish to know, sir?” she asked nervously. Bannister appeared all urbanity—perhaps his most dangerous mood, if his opponents only knew it. “I merely want to ask you a question or two, Mrs. Bertenshaw,” he said smilingly, “and I’m sure you’ll find no difficulty whatever in answering them.” Mrs. Bertenshaw’s eyes flickered in his direction, then dropped to the ground again. Bannister recognised the symptoms and went on. “A year ago—or at all events—_about_ a year ago Mr. Branston here lent you the sum of fifty pounds. Is that so?” The danger signals were now showing in Mrs. Bertenshaw’s cheeks. “Yes, sir,” she said in hardly more than a whisper. “That’s perfectly true. He lent it to me to advance to my only boy who went to Calcutta—he had a good chance offered to him out there—without that fifty pounds he couldn’t have taken advantage of it. It was very kind of Mr. Branston.” “I see,” said Bannister, “and I suppose the fact that you owed that fifty pounds to Mr. Branston has been a source of worry to you, ever since—eh?” “What do you mean? I don’t quite understand you.” A mere whisper now. Bannister continued inexorably. He was top-dog now.