The voice was astonishingly soft and pleasant, and the accent agreeably refined. Evidently, there were surprising points about Mr. Ingerman. Long afterwards, Grant learned, by chance, that the man had been an actor before branching off into that mysterious cosmopolitan profession known as “a financier.” “No,” said Grant. “I have heard it very few times. Once, about three years ago, and today, when I mentioned it to the police.” The other man’s sallow cheeks grew a shade more sallow. Grant supposed that this slight change of color indicated annoyance. Of course, the association of ideas in that curt answer was intolerably rude. But Grant had been tried beyond endurance that day. He was in a mood to be brusque with an archbishop. “We can disregard your confidences, or explanations, to the police,” said Ingerman smoothly. “Three years ago, I suppose, my wife spoke of me?” “If you mean Miss Adelaide Melhuish—yes.” “I do mean her. To be exact, I mean the lady who was murdered outside this house last night.” Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of even a novelist’s skill in repartee. Thus far, he, Grant, had been merely uncivil, using a bludgeon for wit, whereas the visitor was making play with a finely-tempered rapier. “Now that you have established your identity, Mr. Ingerman, perhaps you will tell me why you are here,” he said. “I have come to Steynholme to inquire into my wife’s death.” “A most laudable purpose. I was given to understand, however, that at one time you took little interest in her living. I have not seen Mrs. Ingerman for three years—until last night, that is—so there is a chance, of course, that husband and wife may have adjusted their differences. Is that so?” “Until last night!” repeated Ingerman, almost in a startled tone. “You admit that?” Grant turned and pointed. “I saw, or fancied I saw, her face at that window,” he said. “She looked in on me about ten minutes to eleven. I was hard at work, but the vision, as it seemed then, was so weird and unexpected, that I went straight out and searched for her. Perhaps ‘searched’ is not quite the right word. To be exact, I opened the French window, stood there, and listened. Then I persuaded myself that I was imagining a vain thing, and came in.” “What was she doing here?” “I don’t know.” “She arrived in Steynholme on Sunday evening, I am told.” “I heard that, too.” “You imply that you did not meet her?” “No need to imply anything, Mr. Ingerman. I did not meet her. Beyond the fanciful notion that I had seen her ghost last night, the first I knew of her presence in the village was when I recognized her dead body this morning.” “Strange as it may sound, I am inclined to believe you.” Grant said nothing. He wanted to get up and pitch Ingerman into the road. “But who else will take that charitable view?” purred the other, in that suave voice which so ill accorded with his thin lips and slightly hooked nose.