In the first place, it did not account satisfactorily for the disappearance of Berlyn. Presumably Domlio had manœuvred his colleague into such a position that he could give him away to the police with safety to himself. Berlyn would therefore have to do the other’s bidding, which would be to disappear and to get rid of the crate. This was possible, but there was not a shred of proof that it had happened. Secondly, the theory did not explain how the letters were posted in London. However, though French was not entirely satisfied, he grew more and more convinced that he was on sure ground in suspecting Domlio. At all events, his next job must be to test the point. First he decided to find out what Sergeant Daw could tell him about the colonel and early next morning saw him at the police station. The sergeant greeted him with a peculiar smile. “I suppose, sir, you’ve heard the rumor that’s going round?” he asked at once. “What’s that, Sergeant?” “They say you’ve found out that Mr. Berlyn murdered Mr. Pyke out on the moor that night. Mrs. Billing, Pyke’s landlady, is supposed to have recognised the underclothes.” French smiled. “Well it’s quite true,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, Sergeant, but I went off to London as soon as I discovered it. I warned Mrs. Billing not to talk, but I hardly believed she could help herself.” The sergeant was evidently upset. “I’m sorry about the whole thing, Mr. French. I should have thought Mr. Berlyn was the last man who would do such a thing.” “You may be right. Indeed, it’s a matter arising out of that very point that I want to see you about. I have a notion there was a second person in it—some one who might even have taken the lead. Tell me”—French’s voice became very confidential—“what sort of a man is Colonel Domlio?” The sergeant looked shocked. “Colonel Domlio?” he repeated. “Surely, sir, you don’t mean to suggest that the colonel was mixed up in a murder?” “You don’t think it likely?” “I don’t, sir, and that’s a fact. The colonel’s a very quiet man and peculiar in some ways, but he’s well respected in the district.” “So was many a murderer.” The sergeant was clearly sceptical, though anxious to be polite. He said he was sure Mr. French would not speak without good reason, but his own view was evident. “Well, tell me all you know about him, anyway.” Domlio, it appeared, was a man of about forty-five, short, thickset, and dark. (Not the man who called for the crate, thought French.) He was very well off, and since his wife had died some six years earlier, had lived alone with his servants in his house on the moor. He held sufficient Veda stock to give him a controlling interest in the firm, acted as consulting engineer, and was usually referred to as the senior partner. Entomology was his pet hobby and it was believed that he was writing a book on the insect life of the moor.