“Probably—for I don’t know—because your cousin asked him to go,” said Colson. “I told you he was a very foolish man. I believe he had faced many dangers in the course of his life, but he was never in so much danger as when he took that walk back to his yacht. Shall I tell you the way the two men went? Yes? Imagination, remember, sir! Well, they didn’t start along the well-lighted South Street. They went down the parallel street—only two lamps in it, sir—and hardly a soul there at that time of night. Then they went on to the Canal Basin—‘Mr. Blank’ had chosen the route—turned sharply to the right, crossed the main road, and took the field path leading to Marsh Quay. “When they reached the shore your cousin pulled ‘Mr. Blank’ out to the yacht in his dinghy. ‘Mr. Blank’ was smoking a cigar at the time—or lighted it when he got on board the yacht.” “Why do you imagine that my cousin took him on board?” “My fancy, sir, if you like. Let us say that there was something on board which your cousin had promised to show ‘Mr. Blank’—or to give to him. And as soon as he produced it, ‘Mr. Blank,’ who, I think, must have armed himself with a weapon for the purpose, killed your cousin.” “But why——” “Stop a moment, sir. Hear me out. ‘Mr. Blank,’ who had not noticed that the band had dropped off his cigar, very quickly relieved your cousin of any papers he had on him—we will imagine there was a reason for this—then he rowed ashore in the dinghy and did a very curious thing—it puzzled my imagination—at first. But I thought out a reason for it. He got hold of a canoe and took the dinghy back to the yacht again, making her fast, and finally paddled himself to shore in the canoe and walked back to Frattenbury, where he let himself into his house before, we will imagine, the theatrical performance at the Town Hall was quite over. Well, sir, _that’s_ my theory of how your cousin was murdered.” He paused. The Chief Constable and the superintendent sat like two statues. Francis Norwood leaned a little forward in his chair, and remarked, with a touch of sarcasm: “A very lucid story, sergeant. I hope you may be successful in tracking down this ‘Mr. Blank.’” But, again ignoring the coroner, Colson went on—to the Canon: “What do you think of it, sir?” “I don’t know what to think. It’s so very strange. But, to confine ourselves to your definition, can you imagine the motive?” “Yes, sir,” replied Colson, very quietly. “I think I can.” “What was it?” “Something that the law would call by a very ugly name—‘blackmail.’ That’s what I think, sir.” “Blackmail!—this ‘Mr. Blank’?” “No, sir. Mr. Templeton!” “My cousin a blackmailer!” exclaimed Canon Fittleworth. “Preposterous!” “I said that’s what the law would call him, sir. Please—let me go on. I haven’t quite finished. Let me imagine something further.”