“Yes, but that won’t really do. Because on a line like this, surely, the porters know most of the season-ticket holders by heart? And the odds are that if he’d said, ‘I’ve left my season at home,’ the porter would have touched his cap and said, ‘Right you are, sir.’ Now, knowing that possibility, that all-but-certainty, was Brotherhood fool enough to go and book before he left London? As far as I remember, the tickets on this line aren’t examined till you change or till you go out of the station.” “You’re right. There’s something that looks devilish wrong about that. Well, how did the ticket get there, then?” “It looks, surely, as if it was put there after the man was dead.” “And if it was put there, it was put there to create a false impression, obviously. Now, let’s see; what false impression could you create by putting a ticket in a dead man’s pocket? That he was travelling on a different day—of course, that’s possible.” “Yes, but that wasn’t it: I mean, it wasn’t on Monday that he was killed. Because he was seen going up on Tuesday morning; they said that at the inquest.” “Good, then that’s excluded. Or you might create the impression that he was travelling third when he was really travelling first. But that would be useless, wouldn’t it, because lots of people on this line travel first on a third-class ticket when the trains are crowded, and this train was. Or you might create the impression that he was travelling, when he wasn’t really travelling at all. But Brotherhood clearly was, because he came up from London all right. The only other false impression would be that his destination was different from what it really was. But dash it all, his ticket was for Paston Whitchurch, and he was killed—Oh, good Lord!” “What’s the matter?” “What fools we’ve been! Don’t you see that if the man was really pitched out of the three o’clock from London, which doesn’t stop between Weighford and Binver, a ticket for Paston Whitchurch would disguise the fact that he came by that train, and make everybody think he came in the later one—the 4.50 from Paston Oatvile?” “By Gad, that sounds more promising. Then the murderer could prove an alibi by showing that he travelled on the three o’clock, eh?” “That would be about the size of it. Let’s see, had we any other reason for assuming the 4.50 train?” “The watch—the wrist-watch, that is. It had stopped at 4.54.” “You mean that it stopped at a moment when its hands were pointing to 4.54. But obviously it would be the simplest thing in the world to fake a watch. And—I say, Gordon, we can prove it!” “Prove it?” “Yes, from the other watch, the stomach-watch. Don’t you remember it was still going when we found it, only an hour fast? Well, the reason why it was an hour fast was that the murderer, at 3.54 on Tuesday afternoon, deliberately took it out of the pocket and turned it on to 4.54.” “You mean . . .”