"There you go again, sir, questioning my motives. But I am of a forgiving disposition. Now, there cannot be the slightest doubt that a poacher named John Wise, better known as 'Rabbit Jack,' who resides in this town, chose that New Year's Eve as an excellent time to net the meadows behind the Hall. He had heard about Mrs. Eastham's dance, and knew that on such a night the estate keepers would have more liking for fun with the coachmen and maids than for game-watching. He entered the park soon after midnight, and saw a gentleman walk up the avenue towards the house. He waited a few minutes, and crept quietly along the side of the hedge--in the park, of course. Being winter time, the trees and bushes were bare, and he was startled to see the same gentleman, with his coat buttoned up, standing in the shade of the yews close to the Hall. 'Rabbit Jack' naturally thought he had been spotted. He gripped his lurcher's collar and stood still for nearly ten minutes. Then it occurred to him that he was mistaken. He had not been seen, so he stole off towards the plantation and started operations. He is a first-rate poacher, and always works alone. About three o'clock he was alarmed by a policeman's lantern--the search of the grounds after the murder, you see--and made off. He entered Stowmarket on the far side of the town, and ran into a policeman's arms. They fought for twenty minutes. The P.C. won, and 'Rabbit Jack' got six months' hard labour for being in unlawful possession of game and assaulting the police. Consequently, he never heard a syllable about the 'Stowmarket Mystery,' as this affair was called by the Press, until long after Mr. Hume's second trial and acquittal. Yet the first thing 'Rabbit Jack' did after his release was to go straight to the police and tell them what he had seen. I think, Mr. Hume, that even you will admit a good deal depended on the result of the fight between the poacher and the bobby, for 'Rabbit Jack' described a man of your exact appearance and dressed as you were that night." There was silence for a moment when Winter ended his recital. "It is evident," said Brett, otherwise engaged in making smoke-rings, "that 'Rabbit Jack' saw the real murderer." "A man like me--in evening dress! Who on earth could he be?" was Hume's natural exclamation. "We must test this chap's story," said Brett. "How?" "Easily enough. There is a garden outside. Can you bring this human bunny here to-night?" "I think so." "Very well. Stage him about nine o'clock. Anything else?" Mr. Winter pondered a little while; then he addressed Hume hesitatingly: "Does Mr. Brett know everything that happened after the murder?" "I think so. Yes." "Everything! Say three-quarters of an hour afterwards?" The effect of this remark on Hume was very pronounced. His habitual air of reserve gave place to a state of decided confusion. "What are you hinting at?" he cried, striving hard to govern his voice.