“Where was I? Oh, yes—I know. Well, very soon after the inquest, I found I was being watched. That wasn’t much of a fisherman you sent over to Marsh Quay, Mr. Colson! Oh, yes, I knew. When I went over to Portsmouth last Monday on business, and found that this fisherman travelled by the same train there and back, I was pretty certain.” “We were bound to keep an eye on you,” said the superintendent. “I don’t dispute it. But I’m afraid, as an innocent man, I resented it. My way of looking at it was that I’d have liked you to come and have the whole thing out with me. Of course, you know your own methods best. Anyhow, yesterday I set a little trap for you, Mr. Colson. I hope you’ll forgive me.” “A trap?” said Colson. “In this way. I saw you lounging about at Marsh Quay. I imagined you wanted me out of the way, so I started for Frattenbury. But I very soon retraced my steps, and let myself in at the back door. Out of the window I saw you in my garden. I came out and asked you in. Then I made an excuse for leaving you in my dining-room, which was what you wanted, I imagine.” Colson looked very black, especially as the superintendent gave him an amused glance. “Well,” went on the little man, “while you were examining the contents of my cigar cupboard I was watching you from outside, through the window. I was behind the laurel bush opposite it! You took one of those cigars. I’d counted ’em first. So I guessed you were going to arrest me pretty soon.” “That’s all very well, so far as it goes,” said the Chief Constable, “but it’s only your own story. It doesn’t in any way clear you.” “I know. But you’ll soon be satisfied. In the first place, the evidence of Isaac Moss—which you allow—proves that the crime was committed before one o’clock on the Sunday morning, eh, Major?” “Yes, I concede that.” “Very well. Now will you hear what Mr. Merrifield has to say?” Merrifield was just going to speak, but the Chief Constable held up his hand for silence. “What do you wish me to ask him, Mr. Proctor?” “Where I was on the Saturday night.” “If you know that, Mr. Merrifield, perhaps you’ll tell us?” “Why, of course I will. You don’t mean to say you’ve been thinking my friend here committed a murder? Why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly! It’s all right, Major Renshaw. Mr. Proctor had supper in my house on the Saturday night in question. He and my wife and a friend staying with us played bridge afterwards, and I’m ashamed to say we went on into Sunday morning. It was close on one o’clock when we finished the last rubber. It’s a lonesome sort of a walk to Marsh Quay, so I offered to run Mr. Proctor back in my car—and did.” The superintendent brought his hand down on the desk. “That explains what Joe Thatcher said about a motor!” he exclaimed. “Well, Mr. Merrifield?”