Secondly, there was the consideration that if suspicion were to be thrown on Domlio he must be made to take out his car secretly on the fatal night. And how better could this be done than by the story of the photograph? Once again, did this not suggest design? If so, something both interesting and startling followed. Mrs. Berlyn was privy to it. And if she were privy to it, was she not necessarily implicated in the murder? Could she even be the accomplice for whom he, French, had been searching? There was, of course, her alibi. If she had been at the party at her house at ten o’clock she could not have drugged Gurney’s tea. But was she at her house? Experience had made French sceptical about alibis. This one certainly seemed watertight, and yet was it not just possible that Mrs. Berlyn had managed to slip away from her guests for the fifteen or twenty minutes required? It was evident that the matter must be tested forthwith, and French decided that, having already questioned Mr. Fogden, he would interview the Dr. and Mrs. Lancaster whom Lizzie Johnston had mentioned as also being members of the party. They lived on the Buckland road half a mile beyond the Berlyns’, and next morning French called on them. Dr. Lancaster, he had learned from Daw, was a newcomer to the town, a young LL.D. who had been forced by a breakdown in health to give up his career at the bar. He received French at once. “I want to find out whether any member of the party could have left the house about ten o’clock for fifteen or twenty minutes,” French explained. “Do you think that you or Mrs. Lancaster could help me out?” “I can only speak for myself,” Dr. Lancaster smiled. “I was there all the time, and I’m sure so was Mrs. Lancaster. But I’ll call her and you can ask her.” “A moment, please. Surely you can speak for more than yourself? Were you not with the others?” “With some of them. You see, what happened was this. When we went in, Mrs. Berlyn said that she had been disappointed in that three London friends, who were staying at Torquay and whom she expected, had just telegraphed to say they couldn’t come. That made our numbers wrong. She had intended to have three tables of bridge, but now, as some of us played billiards, she suggested one bridge table and snooker for the other five. She and I and—let me see—Fogden and a Miss Pym, I think, and one other—I’m blessed if I can remember who the other was—played snooker. So I wasn’t with the other four between the time that we settled down to play and supper.” “What hour was supper?” “About half past ten, I think. We broke up when it was over—rather early, as a matter of fact. We reached home shortly after eleven.” “And you played snooker all the evening until supper?” “No. After an hour or more we dropped it and played four-handed billiards.” “Then some player must have stood out?”