Belford’s little eyes opened wide. “But you—you were on me, sir! You suspected me like—thought I was the murd’rer!” Anthony shook his head. “Not really, Belford. You know, you looked too guilty to be true. I nabbed you just now because I don’t like eavesdroppers. Also because anything fishy in this house interests me at present.” “I may be a fool,” cried Belford in heavy tones not without humour, “but I feel better now I’ve got it off my chest like. Reely I do, sir! I kept sayin’ to meself as how I wasn’t guilty of anythink, and yet I ’ad the conscience awful! I’ve bin trying to tell you for twenty-four hours, sir, but when I ’eard you askin’ Poole if ’e’d ’ad a ’tack of that hay-fever on the night the master was killed, I got frightened again and was goin’ to bolt. Only you copped me.” He was silent a moment, then burst out: “Mr. Deacon didn’t do it, sir. He couldn’t of! You know that, sir?” Anthony did. But he wanted to turn this tragi-comic confession of nothing into evidence of importance, though he had but little hope of success. “What time,” he asked with affected carelessness, “did you go into the study?” “I was only just in and out like a flash, sir. But when I got back to the stairs, the clock there said five past eleven, sir—I remember it perfect. I wasn’t lookin’ for the time reely, only some’ow I saw it and couldn’t forget it like.” Anthony repressed elation. “Thanks,” he said, and got to his feet. Belford jumped up. “Are you—going, sir?” Anthony nodded. “But what—what are you goin’ to—to do about me? About what I told you, sir?” Anthony looked down benignly. “Nothing.” Belford’s mouth fell open. “Nothing! _Nothing?_ But——” “What I mean, Belford, is this. I’ll keep you out of trouble. You’ve told me one thing that makes all your confession of nothing worth while. You may, later on, have to give evidence; but that’s the worst you’ll have to do as far as I’m concerned. And don’t worry. And for the Lord’s sake don’t walk about as you’ve been doing lately, looking like Charles Peace with a bellyache.” The little man smiled all over his wizened face. Anthony looked at him curiously. Somehow, when talking to him as a man and not a servant, one found something so far from being sly as to be almost lovable. Anthony gave the narrow shoulders a reassuring pat and strolled away, making for the house. He had covered perhaps twenty yards when he stopped, turned on his heel, and walked back. Belford was seated again on his log. His face was buried in his hands. Anthony stood looking down at him. “What’s the matter?” he asked. The other dropped his hands with a cry, bounding to his feet. “I—beg your pardon, sir. You—I——” Anthony soothed him. “Steady, man, steady. Take your time. Lots of it.” Belford looked up at him, tried to speak, failed, and hung his head again. “Just now,” Anthony said, “you told me something about being desperate. What is it? Money?”