“And I, too, was in London.  I left Stowmarket at six o’clock.”

“Having reached the place at 2.20?” interposed Brett.

The other turned to him with eager pleading.

“In Heaven’s name, Mr. Brett, if you know all about my movements that day, disabuse Margaret’s mind of the terrible idea that prompted her question.”

“Why did you come here on that occasion?”

“The truth must out now.  My two uncles swindled my father—­that is, Margaret, your father led my Uncle David with him in a most unjust proceeding.  My father took up some risky business in City finance, on the verbal understanding with his brothers that they would share profits or bear losses equally.  The speculation failed, and your father basely withdrew from the compact, persuading the other brother to follow his lead.  Perhaps there may have been some justification for his action, but my poor old dad was very bitter about it.  The affair killed him.  I made my own way in the world, and came here to ask Alan to undo the wrong done years ago, and help me to get on my feet.  He was not in the best of tempers, and we fell out badly, using silly recriminations.  I went back to London, and next day travelled to Monte Carlo, where I lost more money than I could afford.  Believe me, I never even knew of Alan’s death until I saw the reports of Davie’s trial.”

“Why did you not come forward then?”

“Why?  No man could have better reasons.  First, it seemed to me that Davie had killed him.  Then, when the second trial ended, I came to the conclusion—­Lord help my wits—­that there was some underhanded work about the succession to the property, and my doubts appeared to receive confirmation by the news of Margaret’s marriage.  In any case, if I turned up to give evidence, I could only have helped to hang one of my own relatives.”

“It never occurred to you that you might be suspected?”

“Never, on my honour!  The suggestion is preposterous.  You seem to know everything.  Tell Margaret that I did leave Stowmarket by the train I named, that I stayed in the Hotel Victoria the same night, and left for the Riviera at 11 a.m. next day.  Margaret, don’t you believe me?  You and I were sweethearts as children.  Can you think I murdered your brother?  Why, dear girl, I refrained from seeing your husband lest I should wound you by revealing my thoughts.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her with such genuine emotion that she lifted her swimming eyes to his, and faltered: 

“Forgive me, Robert, though I can never forgive myself.  Your words shocked me.  I am sorry.  I am not mistaken now.  You are innocent as I am.”

“You have also convinced me, Mr. Frazer,” said Brett quietly.

Robert gazed quickly from one to the other.  Then he laughed constrainedly.

“I have been accused of several offences in my time,” he said, “but this notion that got into your heads licks creation.”