The way in which he really did enter the house was entirely unforeseen by him. He went into the garden, through the little green gate, and was beginning carefully to observe how the windows of the dining-room opened, when, out of the front door, cigar in mouth, walked Mr. Proctor himself. Afterwards he ascertained that Proctor had, after walking half-way to Frattenbury, turned back and let himself in at a door behind the house. The nondescript-looking man who carried a fishing-rod, but whose sport seemed to fail just at the time that Proctor started for Frattenbury, told him this hours later. At present he made an effort to conceal his surprise and mentally said, “Damn!” “Hallo, Mr. Colson,” said Proctor cheerily, “still trying to find out about that nasty business, I suppose! You were coming to see me?” The detective had no resource but to reply in the affirmative. This he did in a perfectly natural manner. “Well, come along in, then,” said the little man; “it’s a bit chilly outside to-day.” He led the way to his bachelor dining-room, and gave the detective a chair. The latter had quite recovered his composure; in fact, outwardly, he had not shown that he had lost it. “Just two or three things I should like to ask you, Mr. Proctor. I know you’re on the jury, of course, but I won’t interfere with your prerogatives. I rather wish you’d have been summoned as a witness instead.” “That was the fault of the police,” said Proctor, shrugging his shoulders. “Now, what can I tell you? Stop. Have a cigar first. I can offer you a really good smoke.” “Cheek,” thought Colson. Proctor went to a cupboard by the side of the fire-place, took a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked it. On a shelf were more than a dozen boxes of cigars. Colson eyed them eagerly, but was too far off to see them closely, and too wise to give himself away by moving. The little man carefully selected a box, shut the cupboard and locked it, put the box in front of Colson on the table and said: “I think you’ll like these. Now, then, Mr. Colson?” The detective had taken out his pocket-book and was apparently consulting it closely. In reality he was inventing questions. “We’re not at all satisfied, sir,” he said. “You’ve got a good view of the estuary. You didn’t notice any other strange craft besides the _Firefly_ about at the time the murder took place?” “No, I didn’t.” “It’s as well to be certain. I suppose a small boat _could_ have got up from lower down the estuary that night?” “Yes—certainly. The tide was flowing, you know.” “And she could have got back?” “There was no wind. It would have been hard rowing—unless whoever he was waited till the tide turned.” The detective asked several more questions and spoilt three or four pages of his notebook by writing down replies. Then the little man said: “I’m just going to have tea. Won’t you have some.” “Oh, thank you very much, if it’s not troubling you.”