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his wife’s evidence tended to make his arrival at the farm appear later than he had suggested. Perhaps this aunt would be able to give a more concise idea of the time he had left her flat. William thought he had departed somewhere about nine. Janet Rother declared he had not arrived at the farmhouse until 10.30. He had, therefore, taken approximately an hour and a half to cover the distance between the coast-town and Chalklands.
    Drawing into the side of the road, Meredith felt in the door-flap of his car and pulled out his inch-to-the-mile map of the district. With a flexible steel rule he carefully scaled the distance. Thirteen miles at the most! An hour and a half to cover thirteen miles? It was incredible, absurd! William had assured him that he had returned by the direct route and had not stopped on the way.
    Meredith experienced a thrill of satisfaction, a customary sensation when a ray of light penetrated a particularly murky problem. If only he could make certain of the time John Rother had been killed—that would drive the nail further home. He had left Chalklands at 6.15 by the clock on the Hillman’s dashboard. He had then driven about thirty miles, somewhere, for some unknown reason, before reaching the point under Cissbury Ring. Not that Meredith could calculate anything from that. Rother might have stopped for an hour, two hours, at any place en route while covering those thirty miles. Or he might have reached his fateful rendezvous and waited there for several hours before his murderer turned up and attacked him. He might have—
    Meredith suddenly felt his heart quicken, whilst a surge of blood rushed through his ears. A quick excitement took hold of him. He pressed his foot on the accelerator. Fool! Blind fool that he was! He was cracking up in his old age. Fancy missing a point like that! He could imagine the withering scorn of the Old Man if ever he learnt the details of this piece of crass short-sightedness.
    The clock on the Hillman’s dashboard was correct. During Rother’s last struggle in the car the dashboard dials had been smashed in and Meredith remembered now that the clock was not ticking. Which meant— that the clock would have stopped at the exact time the murder was committed!
    Reaching Findon he drew up at Clark’s Filling Station, where John Rother’s car had been garaged since Pyke-Jones’ discovery. But before examining the car there was one other point about which Meredith wanted information.
    Clark himself recognized the Superintendent and touched his forelock.
    â€œHow-do, sir. Anything you want?”
    Meredith nodded.
    â€œA spot of information, Mr. Clark. On the night preceding the discovery of Rother’s Hillman under Cissbury, I understand that his brother, William Rother, called at your place for some petrol.”
    â€œThat’s right, sir—he did. He said he was off to Littlehampton, where his aunt had met with an accident. He drove back up the road after I’d run in a couple of gallons and took the Angmering-Littlehampton turning. You can see it from here —about a hundred yards or so up on the left.”
    â€œWhat time was this?”
    Clark considered this point for a moment, running a forefinger through his hair.
    â€œHalf past seven—twenty to eight. Somewheres around then.”
    â€œThanks—now could I have a look at Rother’s Hillman? It’s still here, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, sir—this way. We’ve not done anything to her yet, though Mr. William has left instructions for the windscreen and dashboard dials to be repaired. It’s been a bit of a rush of late. It always is in the holiday season.”
    â€œThank God for that,” thought Meredith as he followed Clark down the length of a big corrugated-iron garage to where the car was backed away in a corner. It would have been a nasty jar if Clark had already repaired the damage and thrown away the old