“It’s all right, Mr. Moss,” broke in the superintendent closing the door, turning the lock and putting the key in his pocket. “I almost think you might have expected me to call. I’m Superintendent Norton, of the Frattenbury police”—he laid his card on the table—“and this is Detective-Sergeant Colson.” Then occurred a pitiable exhibition. Mr. Isaac Moss sank back in his chair, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, wringing his hands in a paroxysm of fright. “I never murdered Mr. Templeton,” he said. “I don’t know anything about it. I wasn’t there. I tell you it’s no use you arresting me—I’m innocent. I never touched him. I knew you’d come. Oh,” he moaned, “I knew you’d come, but I never murdered him, I tell you.” “Come, come, Mr. Moss,” said the superintendent in a soothing tone, “I haven’t made any charge against you yet. I warn you that the way you’re going on will do you no good. Pull yourself together. I want to ask you some questions. Why, we detained a man yesterday who had every cause to be alarmed, with the facts there were against him, and he took it coolly enough.” “He’s the man!” shrieked Moss. “He must be the man. You haven’t let him go, have you? Why do you come to me? He’s the man, I tell you.” Colson regarded the little writhing wretch with contempt mingled with pity. In his mind he was saying: “_He_ hasn’t got spunk enough to stab a fellow—even in his back.” The superintendent looked round the room. “You don’t happen to have any whisky—or brandy handy, do you?” Isaac Moss sprang to his feet. “Yes, I have,” he cried. “You shall have a drink—of course you shall have a drink. You see it was the other man, don’t you? Here——” He had dashed to a cupboard and produced a bottle of whisky, a siphon and glasses. One of the latter fell to the floor with a crash. The superintendent poured out a stiff portion of the spirit, filled the glass up with soda-water and handed it to the terrified man. “Drink it,” he said. “Sit down now, and pull yourself together.” Moss gulped down the contents of the tumbler and sat looking at them. A slight colour came into his cheeks, but he was still trembling. The superintendent waited. “What do you want?” asked Moss presently, in a slightly calmer tone of voice. “Well, in the first place, bear in mind that I haven’t arrested you. I want to ask you some questions.” As a matter of fact he had come determined to take Moss into custody. But he was accustomed to dealing with criminals, and had already half made up his mind that he need only detain him. And Moss had had fright enough as it was. “Go on,” said the Jew faintly. “Well, then, will you tell us why you left your house near Marsh Quay so early and so suddenly on Sunday morning?” “I didn’t leave it suddenly,” said Moss. “I had business in London—important business. I often come up on Sunday morning by that train.”