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tracing my movements and getting the evidence you need to convict me.”
    The Constable nodded.
    â€œI see, sir. A blow on the head, you said. You must have had a pretty narrow escape. Perhaps you’ll tell us all you know about this murder.”
    Arnold ran a sweating finger round the inside of his starched collar, then played with the heavy, engraved ring through which his tie was threaded.
    â€˜It’s all a dreadful shock,” he said. “I’d made my plans for the murder and worked them out to the last detail; I admit that. But I never intended to murder Mr. Hardstaffe really. I only meant to write it all.” He noticed that the two policemen exchanged glances again, and he hesitated. “I’m afraid I’m not being too clear about this,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to ask a few questions.”
    â€œNo, that’s all right,” the Superintendent assured him. “Just tell us the story in your own way.”
    Arnold smiled ruefully.
    â€œThat’s what I was afraid you’d say,” he remarked. “I’m certainly getting some first-hand information for my book now, but I’m afraid it will be too late to be of any use to me. You see, it’s like this. I’m writing a detective novel, and I’d cast old Hardstaffe as the victim and myself as the murderer. In it, I am a writer who becomes so affected by the atmosphere of hatred in the house where I am staying that I become obsessed with the idea that it will make a perfect setting for a murder, and determine to commit one. It sounds a bit involved, I know, but there’s no doubt whatever in my mind that when I got that bang on the head, I submerged myself in the character I had created, returned here to murder Mr. Hardstaffe, and somehow got back to London. My movements have all been rather hazy to me since I was in the raid, but as soon as I heard at the station what had happened, something clicked into place in my mind, and I said to myself, ‘My God! I’ve murdered him!’”
    There was a pause. Then the Superintendent said,
    â€œYou hadn’t any real reason for killing him, then?”
    Arnold hesitated.
    â€œWell, I disliked him intensely,” he said at length. “He was one of the worst-mannered men I’ve ever met, and he treated his wife abominably. There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that he would have murdered her if I hadn’t disposed of him first.”
    For the first time, his audience showed signs of real interest.
    â€œWhat makes you think that, sir?”
    Arnold described the scene he had inadvertently witnessed in the study.
    It could no longer hurt Mr. Hardstaffe, and it might count in his own favour if he related the incident, he thought.
    â€œMost interesting,” remarked the Superintendent.
    â€œMost,” agreed the Constable.
    Arnold became annoyed.
    â€œLook here!” he exclaimed. “You don’t seem to believe a word I’m saying. Well, I’ll prove it to you that I’m a murderer. I’ll tell you exactly what I did, and exactly what Mr. Hardstaffe looked like after I’d—finished with him. The only thing I can’t tell you is which night it took place, because...”
    â€œBecause it was after you’d had that knock on the head,” the Constable suggested unnecessarily.
    Superintendent frowned at him.
    â€œYes,” agreed Arnold. “I know it sounds as if I’m joking, but you’ll see... And, in any case, it doesn’t make any difference to my story because they all do exactly the same things in that house every night of the year. Mrs. Hardstaffe goes to bed at half-past nine, Miss Hardstaffe goes at half-past ten, and Mr. Hardstaffe sits up with a tantalus of whiskey and a syphon of sodawater till after the midnight news.”
    â€œAnd who locks up the house for the night?” asked Cheam.
    â€œMiss Hardstaffe,” replied Arnold. “She