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mistake him for an Englishman. His whole person was noticeable, too — the wide, ridgy shoulders, tumbling fair hair and queer, light eyes, temperish, pouted mouth and heavy jaw. Ferguson, too, was Scottish in accent, though not in idiom, and in feature might be almost anything.
    ‘Did the gentleman give any particular account of himself?’ asked Wimsey, coming rather suddenly out of his abstraction.
    ‘No, he only got tae the station as the train was standin’ at the platform, but he said somethin’ aboot startin’ late fra’ Ballantrae. He tuk his ticket for Ayr and the machine was labelled according.’
    ‘We may be able to trace that,’ said Wimsey.
    ‘Ay, that’s so. I hae sent an inquiry to Ayr and to Glesga’. They’ll may be remember’t.’
    ‘And maybe not,’ said Wimsey. ‘Well, now, Dalziel, I also, as the lady said, have not been idle.’
    He produced his list of suspects.
    ‘Mind you,’ he said, warningly, ‘this list may not be complete. But we know the man we are looking for is a painter, which narrows the field considerably. And all these six people are known to have had it in for Campbell in one way or another, though some of the motives may seem pretty inadequate.’
    The Sergeant peered thoughtfully at the list, and so did Sir Maxwell. The latter’s jurisdiction extended over both Kirkcudbrightshire and Wigtownshire, and he knew all the artists more or less well, though not with any great intimacy, his own interests being military and sporting.
    ‘Now,’ said Wimsey, ‘two of these people have alibis. Ferguson was duly seen on to the 9.8 from Gatehouse. He had no bicycle with him, and he booked to Glasgow. There’s a picture exhibition on there, and no doubt that’s what he was making for. Waters also departed for Glasgow by the 8.45 from Kirkcudbright, in company with Miss Selby and Miss Cochran. If they all met at the show they will prove each other’s alibis all right. Strachan was out all night and came home at lunch-time with a black eye, and what is more, he is telling lies about it.’ He gave a brief summary of his conversations with Strachan and Myra.
    ‘That looks bad,’ said Dalziel.
    ‘Yes; we mustn’t pin all our faith to the cyclist at Girvan, or even to the mysterious passenger at Pinwherry; they may both be perfectly genuine travellers. Strachan might quite well have been painting up the Minnoch at 11 o’clock and ridden back to Gatehouse by lunch-time. It’s only twenty-seven miles. It would be dangerous, because he might be recognised, but people who commit murders must take a few risks. Besides, he might have hidden his car somewhere on the road the day before, and picked it up on his way back, bringing the bicycle with him. Did I mention to you, by the way, that there’s a bicycle disappeared from the Anwoth Hotel at Gatehouse?’
    Dalziel shook his head.
    ‘It’s a case wi’ a great number of possibeelities,’ he said. ‘Always supposin’ that it is a case. We havena got the doctor’s opeenion yet.’
    ‘That’ll come tomorrow, I suppose?’
    ‘Ay. The maitter has been laid before the Fiscal, and there will be a post-mortem examination. There’s Campbell’s sister expectit to-nicht — it seems she’s his only relation — an’ they’ll maybe wait till she has seen the corpse, forbye the licht will be better for the doctor in the mornin’.’
    After the Sergeant and his companion had gone, Wimsey remained smoking thoughtfully for some time. He was worried about Waters. He had left him the night before in a dangerous mood. The last train from Glasgow got in to Kirkcudbright at 9.00. If Waters had really gone to see the Exhibition, it was not reasonable to expect him back that night. He would only have got into Glasgow at 2.16, and would have had to leave again at 5.30. Nobody would go all that way in order to spend a bare three hours in the town. Except, possibly, to establish an alibi. Could one establish an alibi that way?
    Wimsey turned to the time-table again. Kirkcudbright depart 8.45. That was