“At first I could not think what was meant; then I remembered what had taken place. We had been, Mrs. Berlyn and I, searching for a certain butterfly at the place and time mentioned. Suddenly she had cried out that she had seen a specimen and she had rushed after it past where I was standing. Just as she reached me she gave a cry and lurched against me. ‘Oh, my ankle!’ she shouted and clung to me. She had twisted her foot in a rabbit hole and she could not put her weight on it. I supported her in my arms for a few seconds, and it must have been at this moment that my blackmailer came on the scene. I laid Mrs. Berlyn down on the grass. She sat quiet for some minutes, then with my arm was able to limp to the car. She said her ankle was not sprained, but only twisted, and that she would be all right in a few hours. Next day when I rang up to enquire she said it was still painful but a good deal better. “At first I was doubtful whether I should act on the letter; then I thought that if there was a genuine photograph it would be better for me to deal with the owner. I therefore went out to the rendezvous at the time mentioned. But I might have saved myself the trouble, for no one was there. And from that day to this I never heard another word about the affair, nor did I mention it to a soul. Indeed, the Berlyn-Pyke tragedy put it out of my head, and the same thing, I suppose, robbed the photograph of its value.” “You told me,” said French, “something about Mrs. Berlyn’s relations with Mr. Pyke and yourself, saying that I would not understand your story otherwise. Just what was in your mind in that?” “Because these relations complicated the whole situation. Do you not see that? Had everything been normal I could have treated the thing as a joke and shown the photograph to Berlyn. As things were, he would have taken it seriously.” French felt a little puzzled by this statement. If the man were lying, it was just the sort of story he would expect to hear, except for one thing. It was capable of immediate confirmation. If it were not true he would soon get it out of Mrs. Berlyn. “I don’t want to be offensive, Colonel,” he said, “but by your own admission you have twice lied about what took place that night. Can you give me any proof that your present statement is true?” Domlio squared his shoulders. “I can’t,” he admitted. “I can show you the letter and you can ask Mrs. Berlyn, but I don’t know that either of those would constitute proof.” “They wouldn’t in themselves, but from either I might get some point which would. Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll see first whether Sergeant Daw has made any further discoveries; then you can show me the letter and we’ll drive out to the place where Mrs. Berlyn fell.” “That’s easily done.” They returned to the well, and there, to French’s satisfaction, found the missing duplicator parts laid out on the coping of the wall.