Margaret consulted the notebook. “The servants,” she said, “were all right. Most obviously all right—except the man Belford. The girls no one could accuse of murder, they’re too timid and their stories were all connected enough. In most cases they fitted in with each other naturally enough. The cook was in bed before ten-thirty, and slept through the whole thing. The chauffeur was talking to friends outside the lodge. The butler was apparently in his little room all the evening. He can’t prove it by witnesses, but you couldn’t suspect an old man like that. He’s not strong enough for one thing; and he’s obviously dreadfully upset by the death of his master. Mrs. Mainwaring seemed all right. She went to bed early, and was seen there by both Miss Hoode and the maid Smith—the one that was afterwards in the linen-room. After the murder was discovered she was found fast asleep. Sir Arthur Digby-Coates is quite all right. He was in his own sitting-room—it has his bedroom on one side of it and the secretary’s on the other, apparently—from ten-fifteen until the body was found by Miss Hoode and the old butler rushed up and fetched him. During that time he was seen by various people, including Deacon, at very short intervals. As for Miss Hoode, she deposed—that’s the word, isn’t it?—that she was in bed by half-past ten, reading. At about eleven she suddenly remembered something about an invitation to some one—she wasn’t very clear in her evidence—and went downstairs to use the telephone and to speak to her brother. After that, well, you know what happened. That’s all.” Anthony smiled. “And very good, too. I congratulate you, Miss Warren. ‘So there, in a manner of speaking, they all are.’ Of course, it’s all very untidy, this evidence. Very untidy! Not at all neat!” “I know, Mr. Gethryn. But then, you see, it wasn’t as if they were all on trial. I mean, all this about where they were and that sort of thing came out mixed up with other things. It wasn’t cross-examination with everything on the point and nowhere else. And if people don’t know there’s going to be a murder, they can’t very well all get up nice, smooth alibis, can they?” Anthony laughed. “Just what I said, Miss Warren. They can’t. Now, about ferret-face—Belford, I mean. You seem to think his evidence wasn’t as good as the others’. What did he do? Or say?” Hastings took up the tale. “Nothing very unusual in itself. But his manner was all wrong. Too wrong, I thought, to be merely natural nervousness. Margaret thinks the same. It wasn’t that he said anything one could catch hold of; he was just fishy. He made rather a bad impression on the court too. In fact, I think there’d have been a lot more of him later if the case against your limpid-eyed pet hadn’t come out so strong.