Believing he had got all he could from the couple, French warned them to keep his visit to themselves and immensely comforted Mrs. Burt by assuring her that she had told him little that he had not known before. Then saying he wished to have another word with the two outside men, he left the house and walked round the outbuildings. At the back of the main house was a large walled yard with an old-fashioned stone-built well in the center and farm buildings along one side. Wheel tracks leading into one of these indicated that it was the garage, and there, polishing up some spare parts, was Coombe. French repeated his explanation about having forgotten to ask Colonel Domlio a question, then, after chatting for some moments, he returned to the night of the tragedy. Putting up a bluff, he asked at what hours the colonel had taken out and brought back the car. Coombe was considerably taken aback by the question and said at once that he knew nothing about it. “But,” said French, in apparent surprise, “you must have known that the car was out?” To his delight, the man did not deny it. Oh yes, he knew that, but he had not heard it pass and he didn’t know when it had left or returned. “Then how did you know it had been out? Did Colonel Domlio tell you?” “No, he didn’t say naught about it. I knew by the mud on the car and the petrol that had been used.” “Pretty smart of you, that,” French said, admiringly. “So there was mud on her? Was she clean the night before?” “No. He had her out in the afternoon and got her a bit dirty. But he said it was late and for me not to bother with her till the next day, and so I let her alone.” “Naturally. And was much petrol gone?” “’Bout two gallons.” “Two gallons,” French repeated, musingly. “That would run her about forty miles, I suppose?” “Easy that and more.” “You live at the lodge gate, don’t you, Coombe?” “That’s right.” “Then the car must have passed you twice in the night. Surely you would have heard it?” “I might not. Anyhow, I wouldn’t if she went out the back way.” All this was excessively satisfactory to French. The theory he had formed postulated that Domlio had secretly run his car to the works on the night of the tragedy. And now it looked as if he had done so. At least, he had taken the car out. And not only had he denied it, but he had arranged that the machine should be left dirty so that the fresh mud it might gather should not show. Furthermore, the hour at which he returned exactly worked in. For a moment French was puzzled about the quantity of petrol which had been used. Forty miles or more was enough for two trips to the works. Then he saw that to carry out the plan Domlio must have driven there twice. First he must have been at the works about ten to drug Gurney’s tea. Then he must have gone in about midnight with Berlyn and Pyke. So this also fitted in.