“Right-o!” said Bill again. He felt safe with that, not wishing to commit himself until he knew what he was wanted to say. As they went across the lawn, Antony dropped the bowls and took out his pipe. “Got a match?” he said loudly. As he bent his head over the match, he whispered, “There’ll be somebody listening to us. You take the Cayley view,” and then went on in his ordinary voice, “I don’t think much of your matches, Bill,” and struck another. They walked over to the seat and sat down. “What a heavenly night!” said Antony. “Ripping.” “I wonder where that poor devil Mark is now.” “It’s a rum business.” “You agree with Cayley—that it was an accident?” “Yes. You see, I know Mark.” “H’m.” Antony produced a pencil and a piece of paper and began to write on his knee, but while he wrote, he talked. He said that he thought Mark had shot his brother in a fit of anger, and that Cayley knew, or anyhow guessed, this and had tried to give his cousin a chance of getting away. “Mind you, I think he’s right. I think it’s what any of us would do. I shan’t give it away, of course, but somehow there are one or two little things which make me think that Mark really did shoot his brother—I mean other than accidentally.” “Murdered him?” “Well, manslaughtered him, anyway. I may be wrong. Anyway, it’s not my business.” “But why do you think so? Because of the keys?” “Oh, the keys are a wash-out. Still, it was a brilliant idea of mine, wasn’t it? And it would have been rather a score for me if they _had_ all been outside.” He had finished his writing, and now passed the paper over to Bill. In the clear moonlight the carefully printed letters could easily be read: “GO ON TALKING AS IF I WERE HERE. AFTER A MINUTE OR TWO, TURN ROUND AS IF I WERE SITTING ON THE GRASS BEHIND YOU, BUT GO ON TALKING.” “I know you don’t agree with me,” Antony went on as Bill read, “but you’ll see that I’m right.” Bill looked up and nodded eagerly. He had forgotten golf and Betty and all the other things which had made up his world lately. This was the real thing. This was life. “Well,” he began deliberately, “the whole point is that I know Mark. Now, Mark—”