it was murder, sir, it was done this way. Mrs. Mount makes this appointment. She’s lost her nerve, and she’s going to give things away. The Hollands know a good deal already; she’s going to tell them more. I don’t know how much the Reverend knows, but he’s going to know a good deal more by the time she’s finished. Naturally, this doesn’t suit a certain person’s book. He gets wind of it, and goes there to stop her. He must have reached the house just before I got there myself. She lets him in, and they start arguing. Suddenly they see me coming up the drive. He snatches up the steel paper-knife from the desk, and threatens her with it if she utters a sound. She keeps quiet. They watch me hide in the laurels. Then an hour or so later along come the Hollands, and he does the same thing. They sit on the lawn, and the situation’s saved for another few minutes. But he’s getting badly rattled, and she’s probably nearing hysteria. He doesn’t trust her one inch. All the time, while the three of us are out there, he’s got to keep the knife at her breast to make sure of her silence. And what does he do? He makes her hold it there herself, both hands on the hilt, and the point right on her heart; with one hand over hers he can control her more easily like that, and use his eyes elsewhere. She’s half-dead with fright of him—sees he means murder—does whatever he tells her. Then the Hollands come up to the house again. From their conversation he learns that the front door, which he can’t have shut properly, has blown ajar. They’re coming in. He hears them go into the drawing-room, and then into the dining-room; he knows they’re bound to come into the study. It’s his life or hers now. What does he do? He’s behind Mrs. Mount now, both his hands over hers on the hilt of the dagger. With a convulsive pull he forces the thing into her heart. She screams once. He drops her and darts behind the door, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. In come the Hollands; Mrs. runs out, Holland stays a moment, then follows her out of the house. I’m on my way across the lawn. The murderer’s got a couple of seconds to get inside the lavatory just by the front door. He does it. But he can’t leave the grounds in case he’s seen. So then,” concluded Rudge, somewhat breathlessly, “all he’s got to do is to wait till the coast’s clear, creep out of the house, hide round the angle of it, scuffle on the gravel, and walk in again. And that, sir, is just what I suggest he did do.”
There was a silence after Rudge had finished.
Superintendent Hawkesworth broke it, by remarking quite mildly: “Can you prove he didn’t come up the drive? What about those two on the lawn?”
“They couldn’t see from where they were. The angle of the house is in the way.”
“Besides, they wouldn’t say.”
There was another silence.
“Mr. Hawkesworth,” said Rudge, a little diffidently, “who is to make the arrest, you or I?”
“You’d better. You’ve put in some very good work on this case,” said the Superintendent, who after all was a fair man, “and I think you ought to have the credit of it. The one who makes the arrest always gets the credit. That is,” he added rather perfunctorily, “if Major Twyfitt agrees.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said that gentleman. “I quite agree. Rudge has done very well. Saved us a lot of trouble, to say nothing of Scotland Yard.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Rudge modestly, and looked at the clock. The time was close on half-past eleven.
“Well, I suppose we can only wait,” said the Chief Constable. All three were beginning to feel uneasy.
They did not have to wait long. Before the hands of the clock had reached the appointed time a constable put his head round the door to announce, in a stentorian whisper, that Mr. Graham was there, to see Mr. Rudge by appointment.
“Show him in,” nodded the Major.
The cropped-headed reporter entered with no less than his usual assurance, greeting the three heartily and receiving three very curt nods in exchange. “What’s this, Inspector?” he said. “Something rather special for me? That’s very decent of you.”
“Something very special,” replied