“It seems to me,” said Anthony, “that the whole reason he faked this elaborate struggle scene was in order that the clock could be stopped under what would seem natural circumstances. But why, having stopped the clock, did he alter it? Two reasons occur to me. One is that he merely wished to make it seem that the murder was done at any other time except when it really was. That’s rather weak, and I prefer my second idea. That is, that the time to which he moved the hands has a significance and wasn’t merely a chance shot. In other words, he set the thing at ten-forty-five because he had a nice clean alibi for that time. Judging by the rest of his work he’s a man of brains; and that would’ve been a pretty little safeguard—if only he hadn’t made that mistake about the striking.” “They all make bloomers—one time or another, sir. That’s how we catch ’em in the main.” “I know.” Anthony’s tone was less sure than a moment before. “All the same it’s a damn’ silly mistake. Doesn’t seem to fit in somehow. I’d expected better things from him.” “Oh, I don’t know, sir. He’d probably got the wind up, as they say, by the time he’d got so near finishing.” Anthony shrugged. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. By the way, Boyd, tell me this. How did Miss Hoode come to be downstairs at ten past eleven? I thought she was supposed to have gone to bye-bye after that game of cards.” “As far as I know—I haven’t been able to see her yet, sir—she came down to use the telephone—not this one but the one in the hall—about some minor affair she’d forgotten during the day. After she’d finished phoning she must’ve wanted to speak to her brother. Probably about the same matter. That’s all, sir.” “It’s so weak,” said Anthony, “that it might possibly be true.” Then, after a pause: “I think I’ve had about enough of this tomb. What you going to do next, Boyd? I’m for the garden.” He walked to the door. “You took the weaker end of my reasoning if you still believe in the mysterious outsider.” Boyd followed across the hall, through the verandah and down the steps which led from the flagged walk behind the house to the lawns below. Anthony sat himself down upon a wooden seat set in the shade of a great tree. He showed little inclination for argument. But Boyd was stubborn. “You know, sir,” he said, “you’re wrong in what you say about the ‘insider.’ You’d agree with me if you’d been here long enough to sift what evidence there is and been able the way I have to see _and_ talk to all the people instead of hearing about them sketchy and second-hand as it were.” Anthony looked at him. “There’s certainly something in that, Boyd. But it’ll take a lot to shift me. Mind you, my predilection for the ‘insider’ isn’t a conviction. But it’s my fancy—and strong.”