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down, though I didn’t realize what had happened then, of course. Oh, Albert, you do believe me, don’t you? You do – you
do
believe me?’
    Campion looked down at her. The world was reeling. This was the last development he had expected, the last eventuality for which he had been prepared. He looked down into her face, saw the agonized appeal in her eyes, and spoke truthfully.
    â€˜I do, old dear,’ he said. ‘Heaven help me, I do.’

CHAPTER 5
The Facts
    â€“
    I NSPECTOR O ATES , sitting in the library at Little Venice, a pad of scribbling paper in front of him, bore a gloomy expression upon his cold, rather weary face. He had spent a trying three hours. There may be Scotland Yard detectives who enjoy wringing secrets from unwilling witnesses and placing their fingers unerringly upon the most likely suspect late on a Sunday evening, but Stanislaus Oates was not among them. He had found the whole business very tedious, very distressing, and probably auguring a lot of trouble.
    His last witness was now on his way from the drawing room, where the family had assembled, and Mr Oates was quite anxious to see him, so that when the door opened and a uniformed constable put his head in to say that Mr Campion was outside he pushed the pad away from him and looked up with interest.
    Albert Campion wandered into the room looking his usual vacant, affable self. If there was a hint of anxiety in his eyes it was hidden by the spectacles.
    The Inspector regarded him solemnly, and Campion was reminded of very much the same scene in a headmaster’s study many years before. There had been the same feeling of apprehension, the same air of calamity, although fortunately the issues at stake had not been nearly so grave.
    â€˜Well?’ said Oates, using very much the same inflection that old ‘Buggy’ had chosen, and very nearly the same words. ‘How did you manage to get mixed up in all this? You’ve got a nose for crime. Sit down, won’t you?’
    The fact that Mr Campion and Inspector Oates were old friends never obtruded itself when there were business matters on hand.
    For the first two or three minutes the proceedings were positively formal and Campion’s alarm increased.
    â€˜Oates,’ he said, ‘you’re behaving as though it was all over bar the arrest. Is it?’
    Oates shrugged his shoulders.
    â€˜I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘It seems very clear, doesn’t it? I’m afraid it’s going to be awkward for you, a friend of the family and that sort of thing. Still,’ he went on more cheerfully, ‘we’ve got to collect the evidence. I don’t think we’ve got anything conclusive enough for a conviction. No one saw her do it, you know.’
    Mr Campion blinked. The sudden fulfilment of a fear, however much expected, always comes as something of a shock. He leant back in his chair and regarded the Inspector gravely.
    â€˜Oates,’ he said, ‘you’re on the wrong horse.’
    The Inspector looked at him incredulously.
    â€˜And you’ve known me all these years,’ he said. ‘You’ve known me all these years and you make a deliberate attempt to impede me in the course of my – whatever it is.’
    â€˜Duty,’ said Mr Campion helplessly. ‘No. You’ve known me long enough,’ he went on, ‘to realize, I hope, that I have no conscience in these matters at all. Conscience doesn’t come into it. If I believed that Linda Lafcadio killed her fiancé and I thought any good purpose could be served by throwing dust in your eyes I should do so if I could.’
    The Inspector grunted. ‘Well, we know where we are, don’t we?’ he said, pleasantly. ‘How did you know I’d found out that the girl did it?’
    â€˜Well, it’s the easiest theory,’ said Campion. ‘Not wishing to give offence, Stanislaus. You’re always hot on the easiest