A hurried speech, uttered in the swiftness of the hand-clasp. He tried to keep it with him as a charm against the bugbears of the night. But until the warder came at half-past six to wake him, they swam before him in a whirling, reiterative circle, recurring almost rhythmically like the separate monstrosities of horses in an infernal merry-go-round. Day came, and with it clearness of mind and logical sense of proportion. When Harroway, the solicitor, arrived, he discussed the situation with practised acuteness. His defence was clear. The stealing of the security was too ludicrous an expedient for a man of his intelligence. Besides, its legal value was that of a blank sheet of foolscap. Of this Hart’s confidential clerk had full knowledge. Would a jury believe a man to be so idiotic as to commit a murder in order to steal that which he knew to be worthless? Was it likely that a man who had committed a murder at three o’clock would deliberately postpone his return home--a quarter of an hour’s walk--until an hour when his arrival would be certain to attract attention? But Harroway shook his head dolefully. “Of course we’ll put all that forward. But the self-incriminating stupidity of criminals is a by-word. If the attorney or solicitor-general is prosecuting and takes his privilege of answering Gardiner, he will convince the jury of this little fact. It would be much more to the point if you would tell us how to prove an alibi. That’s the infernal part of it. No one is such a damned fool as to believe that you were lying drunk and invisible in a gutter all night. You _can_ prove an alibi if you like, can’t you?” “Certainly,” replied Hugh, with a baffling twirl of his moustache. “But I am going to do no such thing. Please consider that final. If you and Gardiner can’t get me off without it--well, I’ll hang. _Jouir, mourir et ne rien dire!_ And that’s the end of it.” He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders magnificently. The stout solicitor rose with irritation. “You are a confounded anachronism. You were meant for the Marquis de--de--God-knows-what in the French Revolution. You would think it a fine thing to stay the hangman until you had used your toothpick. You don’t understand that a life like yours is of value nowadays. You are risking it--braving the gallows for some infernal woman. It stands to reason. I am sick of women!” “So am I, Harroway,” replied Hugh, coolly. “You seem to have got them on the brain. Let us change the conversation.”