“You prefer that I should drag out a statement piecemeal rather than receive it _en bloc_?” “Put it that way, if you like.” “I shall even enjoy it. To clear the ground, are you the Isidor G. Ingerman who exploited the A1 Mine in Abyssinia?” Ingerman’s finger-tips whitened under a sudden pressure, but his voice remained calm. “An unfortunate episode,” he said. “And the Aegean Transport Company, Limited?” “Into which I was inveigled by Greeks. But why this history of ruined enterprises?” “It’s a sort of schooling. I have noticed that the smartest counsel invariably begin with a few fireworks in order to induce the proper frame of mind in a witness.” “Does that mean that you want me to blurt out bitter and prejudiced accusations against Mr. Grant?” “I want to hear what you have to say about the death of your wife. You forced the cross-examining role on me. I’m doing my best.” Ingerman kept silent during many seconds. When he spoke, his cultured voice was suave as ever. “Perhaps it was my fault, Mr. Furneaux,” he said. “You gave me a strong hint. I should have taken it, and we might have started an interesting chat on pleasanter lines. So, with apologies for my insistence about the train, I make a fresh start. I believe firmly that Grant was directly concerned in the murder. And I shall justify my belief. Within the past fortnight a _rapprochement_ between my wife and myself became possible. It was spoken of, even reduced to the written word. I have her letters. Mine should be found among her belongings. May I take it that they _have_ been found?” “Yes,” said Furneaux. “Ah. So far, so good. My poor wife reached the parting of the ways. She saw that her life was becoming an empty husk. I think the theater was palling on her. But I see now that she still cherished the dream of winning the man she loved—not me, her husband, but that handsome dilettante, Grant. I take it, therefore, that she went to Steynholme to determine whether or not the glamour of the past was really dead. Unfortunately, she witnessed certain idyllic passages between her one-time lover and a charming village girl. Imagine the effect of this discovery on one of the artistic temperament. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ and my unhappy wife would lash herself into an emotional frenzy. She would tear a passion to rags. Her very training on the stage would come to her aid in scathing words—perhaps threats. If Grant remained cold to her appeal the village beauty should be made to suffer. Then _he_ would flame into storm. And so the upas-tree of tragedy spread its poisonous shade until reason fled, and some demon whispered, ‘Kill!’ I find no flaw in my theory. It explains the inexplicable. Now, how does it strike you, Mr. Furneaux?” “As piffle.”