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writing and shot him through the head. Precious little ‘quarrel’ about that.”
    â€œAnyway, there wouldn’t have been time for a quarrel,” I said, remembering Miss Marple’s words. “To creep up, shoot him, alter the clock hands back to 6:20, and leave again would have taken him all his time. I shall never forget his face when I met him outside the gate, or the way he said, ‘You want to see Protheroe—oh, you’ll see him all right!’ That in itself ought to have made me suspicious of what had just taken place a few minutes before.”
    Haydock stared at me.
    â€œWhat do you mean—what had just taken place? When do you think Redding shot him?”
    â€œA few minutes before I got to the house.”
    The doctor shook his head.
    â€œImpossible. Plumb impossible. He’d been dead much longer than that.”
    â€œBut, my dear man,” cried Colonel Melchett, “you said yourself that half an hour was only an approximate estimate.”
    â€œHalf an hour, thirty-five minutes, twenty-five minutes, twenty minutes—possibly, but less, no. Why, the body would have been warm when I got to it.”
    We stared at each other. Haydock’s face had changed. It had gone suddenly grey and old. I wondered at the change in him.
    â€œBut, look here, Haydock.” The Colonel found his voice. “If Redding admits shooting him at a quarter to seven—”
    Haydock sprang to his feet.
    â€œI tell you it’s impossible,” he roared. “If Redding says he killed Protheroe at a quarter to seven, then Redding lies. Hang it all, I tell you I’m a doctor, and I know. The blood had begun to congeal.”
    â€œIf Redding is lying,” began Melchett. He stopped, shook his head.
    â€œWe’d better go down to the police station and see him,” he said.

Eight
    W e were rather silent on our way down to the police station. Haydock drew behind a little and murmured to me:
    â€œYou know I don’t like the look of this. I don’t like it. There’s something here we don’t understand.”
    He looked thoroughly worried and upset.
    Inspector Slack was at the police station and presently we found ourselves face to face with Lawrence Redding.
    He looked pale and strained but quite composed—marvellously so, I thought, considering the circumstances. Melchett snorted and hummed, obviously nervous.
    â€œLook here, Redding,” he said, “I understand you made a statement to Inspector Slack here. You state you went to the Vicarage at approximately a quarter to seven, found Protheroe there, quarrelled with him, shot him, and came away. I’m not reading it over to you, but that’s the gist of it.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m going to ask a few questions. You’ve already been told that you needn’t answer them unless you choose. Your solicitor—”
    Lawrence interrupted.
    â€œI’ve nothing to hide. I killed Protheroe.”
    â€œAh! well—” Melchett snorted. “How did you happen to have a pistol with you?”
    Lawrence hesitated. “It was in my pocket.”
    â€œYou took it with you to the Vicarage?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI always take it.”
    He had hesitated again before answering, and I was absolutely sure that he was not speaking the truth.
    â€œWhy did you put the clock back?”
    â€œThe clock?” He seemed puzzled.
    â€œYes, the hands pointed to 6:22.”
    A look of fear sprang up in his face.
    â€œOh! that—yes. I—I altered it.”
    Haydock spoke suddenly.
    â€œWhere did you shoot Colonel Protheroe?”
    â€œIn the study at the Vicarage.”
    â€œI mean in what part of the body?”
    â€œOh!—I—through the head, I think. Yes, through the head.”
    â€œAren’t you sure?”
    â€œSince you know, I can’t see why it is necessary to ask me.”
    It was a feeble