“Well, an example will explain what I mean. On this last holiday after Stanley and I got back to London we met Berlyn and his wife, who were in town. The four of us dined together and went to a theatre. We were to meet at the restaurant at seven. Well, Mrs. Berlyn had been off somewhere on her own and she was five minutes late. What was that for a woman? But Berlyn was so ratty about it that I felt quite embarrassed. You see, he wouldn’t have been late himself. If he had said seven, he would have been there—on the tick. He couldn’t see that other people were not made the same way.” “I follow you. You say that Mrs. Berlyn had rather a time with him. Did they not get on?” “Oh, they got on—as well as fifty per cent of the married people get on. Berlyn did his duty to her strictly, even lavishly, but he expected the same in return. I don’t know that you could blame him. Strictly speaking, of course he was right. It was his instinct for scrupulously fair play.” “Your late cousin and Mrs. Berlyn were very good friends, were they not?” “We were both good friends with Mrs. Berlyn. Stanley and I knew her as children. In fact, it was through Stanley that Berlyn met her. I was in the Argentine at the time, but he told me about it. Berlyn was going for a holiday—one of those cruises round the western Mediterranean. Stanley happened to have met Phyllis Considine, as she was then, in London, and she had mentioned she was going on the same trip. So he gave Berlyn an introduction. Berlyn, it appears, fell in love with her and was accepted before the cruise was over.” “Do you think Berlyn could have been jealous of your cousin?” “I’m sure he could not, Inspector. Don’t get that bee into your bonnet. Stanley certainly went often to the house, but Berlyn was always friendly to him. I don’t for a moment believe there was anything to be jealous about.” “There was enough intimacy for them to be talked about.” “In Ashburton!” Pyke retorted, scornfully. “In a little one-horse place like that they’d talk no matter what you did.” “It was believed that there was something between them until about four months before the tragedy, then for some unknown reason the affair stopped.” “That so?” Pyke retorted. “Well, if it stopped four months before the tragedy it couldn’t have caused it.” “Do you know where Mrs. Berlyn is now?” “Yes, in London; at 70b Park Walk, Chelsea, to be exact.” French continued his questions, but without learning anything further of interest, and after cautioning Pyke to keep his own counsel, he took his leave. So he had reached certainty at last! The body was Stanley Pyke’s. He had admittedly made four ghastly blunders in his test points and these he must now try to retrieve. There was also a reasonable suspicion that Charles Berlyn was the murderer. Splendid! He was getting on. As he went down to the Yard he felt he had some good work behind him to report. Chapter Ten London’s Further Contribution