But Colson only shook his head, and started forth on his bicycle. The little man grinned at him when he was shown into his house at Marsh Quay. “Come to arrest me again?” “No, Mr. Proctor, I haven’t. But I want to ask you something. Just carry your mind back to the inquest. Do you remember how that cigar band went round the jury?” “Yes—perfectly. The Canon gave it to the coroner and he handed it to the jury. Nine of them had it before it came to me. I handed it over to the two others—across the table—and they returned it to the coroner.” “Yes—that’s so. Then I suppose you recognised that band across the table—or somehow—before it got to you?” “No, I didn’t. It was only when I found it in my hand that I recognised it. Why do you ask?” “Then why the dickens did you get ready to change it before you knew what it was?” “_Change_ it!” exclaimed Proctor. “What are you talking about? I never changed it!” “What?” cried the detective, springing from his seat. “Do you mean to tell me you never——” He stopped suddenly. “Good Lord!” he said, sitting down in his chair again. “What is it?” asked Proctor. The detective thought rapidly. “One of those two jurymen must have changed it,” he said. “It was another band we found we had afterwards. For heaven’s sake keep your mouth shut about it, Mr. Proctor.” “The jurymen. What—Bailey or Westall? They were the two. Why, my dear sir, Bailey is a most respectable man—so is Westall.” “It isn’t a respectable man we’re after, Mr. Proctor. It’s a murderer. Remember, we even suspected _you_.” “But I can’t believe——” “Don’t try, sir, don’t try. Promise me you’ll say nothing, now. It mustn’t get out till we’ve investigated.” “Of course I’ll say nothing. But you astound me.” “I’m astounded myself,” said Colson, “though I really ought not to be. Good day, Mr. Proctor—mum’s the word, remember.” He rushed back to Frattenbury and called at the Deanery. To his question, the maid informed him the Dean was abroad, and wouldn’t be back till the first week in December. His language, as he came away, concerning clergy in general and Cathedral dignitaries in particular, was awful. For two hours that evening he was closeted with the Chief Constable and the superintendent. All three men were exceedingly grave. Major Renshaw said at length: “We must get all the evidence, Colson. It’s an awful thing, if it’s true. How about that stick!” “I don’t want to have to use it till we’ve proved the rest, sir. He might slip out of our hands on that alone.” “Also, there’s Ezra Grice,” said the superintendent. “Yes—there’s Ezra Grice,” repeated the Chief Constable. “We’ll wait for him.”