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“That must have been the moment. The bullet, if you remember, entered through the back of the man’s neck. Hepworth must always have been picturing to himself this meeting–tenants of garden suburbs do not carry loaded revolvers as a habit–dwelling upon it till he had worked himself up into a frenzy of hate and fear. Weak men always fly to extremes. If there was no other way, he would kill him.

“Can’t you hear the silence? After the reverberations had died away! And then they are both down on their knees, patting him, feeling for his heart. The man must have gone down like a felled ox; there were no traces of blood on the carpet. The house is far from any neighbour; the shot in all probability has not been heard. If only they can get rid of the body! The pond–not a hundred yards away!”

He reached for the brief, still lying among his papers; hurriedly turned the scored pages.

“What easier? A house being built on the very next plot. Wheelbarrows to be had for the taking. A line of planks reaching down to the edge. Depth of water where the body was discovered four feet six inches. Nothing to do but just tip up the barrow.

“Think a minute. Must weigh him down, lest he rise to accuse us; weight him heavily, so that he will sink lower and lower into the soft mud, lie there till he rots.

“Think again. Think it out to the end. Suppose, in spite of all our precautions, he does rise? Suppose the chain slips? The workmen going to and fro for water–suppose they do discover him?

“He is lying on his back, remember. They would have turned him over to feel for his heart. Have closed his eyes, most probably, not liking their stare.

“It would be the woman who first thought of it. She has seen them both lying with closed eyes beside her. It may have always been in her mind, the likeness between them. With Hepworth’s watch in his pocket, Hepworth’s ring on his finger! If only it was not for the beard–that fierce, curling, red beard!

“They creep to the window and peer out. Fog still thick as soup. Not a soul, not a sound. Plenty of time.

“Then to get away, to hide till one is sure. Put on the mackintosh. A man in a yellow mackintosh may have been seen to enter; let him be seen to go away. In some dark corner or some empty railway carriage take it off and roll it up. Then make for the office. Wait there for Ellenby. True as steel, Ellenby; good business man. Be guided by Ellenby.”

He flung the brief from him with a laugh.

“Why, there’s not a missing link!” he cried. “And to think that not a fool among us ever thought of it!”

“Everything fitting into its place,” I suggested, “except young Hepworth. Can you see him, from your description of him, sitting down and coolly elaborating plans for escape, the corpse of the murdered man stretched beside him on the hearthrug?”

“No,” he answered. “But I can see her doing it, a woman who for week after week kept silence while we raged and stormed at her, a woman who for three hours sat like a statue while old Cutbush painted her to a crowded court as a modern Jezebel, who rose up from her seat when that sentence of fifteen years’ penal servitude was pronounced upon her with a look of triumph in her eyes, and walked out of court as if she had been a girl going to meet her lover.

“I’ll wager,” he added, “it was she who did the shaving. Hepworth would have cut him, even with a safety-razor.”