‘What’s that you say?’ he gasped at last, licking his dry lips. ‘Impossible! I—I wasn’t there.’ He dropped his head into his hands while the sweat stood in drops on his forehead. Daunt waited silently. His doubts were becoming confirmed. The man surely was guilty. Presently Austin raised his head. ‘This is awful news,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I can only say I wasn’t there. I swear it. There is a mistake. There must be. Who is supposed to have seen me? And from where?’ In Daunt’s opinion the answer was unconvincing. The man’s manner was shifty. Unless Jimmy was greatly mistaken he was lying. He replied somewhat coldly: ‘Two people in Dr Graham’s wood at the other side of the river are prepared to swear to it.’ ‘Two?’ Austin groaned. ‘My God! How can they? They must have seen someone else, and mistaken him for me.’ ‘Suppose it was proved there was no other boat down the river that night but yours. What will you say then?’ ‘What can I say? I don’t understand it. That could not be proved—unless someone took my boat from the Old Ferry.’ He sat up eagerly and a gleam came into his eye. ‘Could that be it, Mr Daunt? Could whoever worked the trick on me have been watching at the Old Ferry, and have taken my boat when I went ashore? What do you think?’ This was an idea which had not occurred to Daunt, and he instantly saw that it might account for the whole thing. Suppose the real murderer, knowing of Austin’s financial relations with his father, had seen how that fact could be used as the basis of a case against the son, and had added details to strengthen it. Suppose he had forged notes, getting Austin to bring a boat to the Old Ferry, and, leaving it there, go to the Abbey. Meanwhile he himself, made up to represent Austin, might have taken the boat to the boathouse, committed the murder and returned the boat to the Old Ferry before Austin arrived back? Daunt felt that this was a possibility which must not be overlooked. It might at any rate be a line of defence. Then he remembered the shoes. No. If Austin had deliberately made a fake with the shoes, he must be guilty. He spoke again. ‘Unfortunately, there is another very serious point. Your alibi depends on the fact that the prints made at the Abbey were made by shoes which it can be proved you were wearing on that Wednesday night and at no other time. Isn’t that so?’ ‘That is so.’ ‘How many pairs of that kind of shoe had you?’ ‘One pair.’ ‘Then how do you explain the fact that you bought two pairs on the Monday before the murder?’ This time Austin showed no signs of embarrassment. ‘I bought two—yes,’ he answered readily, ‘but I only brought one home. I lost the other.’ ‘Lost the other? Just how?’