"I found the ashes under the grate, and I picked up a scrap of the crape. Nevertheless, in spite of your admission, I am not certain now in my own mind that it was you who wore it. Father, you were not the man whom Harold met." "I am--I was," insisted Scarse, doggedly. "I put on that old coat because I couldn't find the one I usually wear. As to the scarf, I wore it in token of my sorrow for the way in which this country is being ruined by its statesmen." But Brenda declined to accept this explanation. "You are not mad, father," she said quietly; "and only a madman would wear yards of crape round his neck in mourning for the delinquencies of his country's leaders; and only a madman would have killed Mr. Malet!" She paused, and, as he made no reply, continued: "The man Harold mistook for you was seen by other people, who also made the same mistake. What he came to Chippingholt for I know as well as you do. He came with the full intention of killing Mr. Malet." "Go on, go on," jeered her father; "you are making out a fine case against me." "Not against you, but against this relative of yours. Ah! you wince. I am right. He _is_ a relative. No person who wasn't could bear so strong a resemblance to another. He is some relation of whom you are ashamed--a twin brother, for all I know. He was in your study that day when you said it was Van Zwieten who was with you." "He was not!" retorted Scarse, angrily. "How dare you make me out a liar? Van Zwieten was with me. I locked the door of the study because we had quarrelled. He insisted on leaving the room, and, as I refused to open the door, he stepped out of the window, and went round and rang the front-door bell for admittance." "That is an ingenious, but a far-fetched explanation, father." "It is the true one. You can take or leave it." "I leave it, then," said Brenda, calmly. "You had the stranger in your study, and you afterwards sent him off by the 10:30 train. He was seen at the station!" Scarse started. "By whom?" he asked hurriedly. "By Van Zwieten and the station-master!" "Van Zwieten?" repeated Scarse, irritably. "He saw--who told you all this rubbish?" "Wilfred. The station-master told him. Besides, it is not rubbish. Oh, father, why won't you be frank with me? We have not much feeling for one another, but still I am your daughter, and I want to help you; so does Harold----" "What has he to do with it?" asked Scarse, sharply. "It was Harold who searched the corpse before it was taken to the Manor," replied Brenda, speaking slowly. "In the clenched right hand a morsel of black crape was found. Father, it was torn off that scarf!" "You cannot be certain of that." "How otherwise could so strange a material as crape come to be in the dead man's hand? He cried out before he was shot; I heard him. He must have clutched at his assailant and torn a piece from his scarf." "Did you see me shoot Mr. Malet?" "I saw no one shoot him; but I am certain it was that man."