“I may commit a burglary, sir—that’s all. It’s a fascinating game when you’re on a holiday. If possible—if I get any luck, that is—it won’t come off. But I’ll come back and give myself up to you if it does.” Colson seemed about to carry out his threat next day by taking with him a jimmy, a strong pocket-knife, and a bunch of skeleton keys—carefully selected from trophies at the police station. The house in which Proctor resided at Marsh Quay was exactly opposite the spot where the yacht had been anchored. The main entrance was from the road, just before the quay was reached. A low stone wall, running parallel with the estuary, bordered the garden on the western side, and a small gate led through this wall to the shore; in fact Proctor had come out of this gate when he had accosted Jim Webb and Mrs. Yates on the morning when the murder was discovered. The _Firefly_ was no longer riding in the little harbour. Acting on the instructions of her owner, Jim Webb by this time was sailing her back to Salcombe. Local interest in the scene of the murder had subsided, and the detective had the place practically to himself. He had found out all that he could about Mr. Proctor’s household and habits. That was not very difficult. The unsuspecting landlady of the “Mariner’s Arms,” in the course of an apparently casual conversation, had told him that the boy Philip had left, and that his great-uncle was once more by himself. He also gathered that Proctor’s domestic establishment consisted of an elderly cook-housekeeper and a young maidservant, both of whom slept at the back of the house, while Proctor himself occupied a bedroom over the dining-room with a view, south and west, of the estuary. He further ascertained that it was the little man’s usual habit, when alone, to walk into Frattenbury in the afternoon, where he read the papers at a club. It was the afternoon now, and he had seen Proctor start towards Frattenbury across the field path, so he felt free and unobserved. There were several things that he wanted to do. First of all he wanted to saturate his mind with a mental vision of the committal of the crime. It was not the first time, of course, that he had taken a careful survey, but he wished to reconstruct the scene, as he had imagined it, more closely. For this purpose he took up a position on the shore just by the little garden gate. Then he soliloquised: “Yes—now suppose anyone in the house, or garden, were on the lookout for Templeton’s return—Wait a bit, though. Something might have happened before then. It was, probably, only the thought of robbery in the first place. “By Jove!” he exclaimed presently, “I believe I’ve got it—it would account for the stick in the dinghy and everything else. This way.