‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Delangua. He made a little theatrical bow.

‘I don’t know what your business may be, Mr Delangua,’ said Colonel Melrose sharply, ‘but if it is nothing to do with the matter at hand–’

Delangua interrupted him with a laugh. ‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘it has everything to do with it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ said Delangua quietly, ‘that I have come to give myself up for the murder of Sir James Dwighton.’

‘You know what you are saying?’ said Melrose gravely.

‘Perfectly.’

The young man’s eyes were riveted to the table.

‘I don’t understand–’

‘Why I give myself up? Call it remorse–call it anything you please. I stabbed him, right enough–you may be quite sure of that.’ He nodded toward the table. ‘You’ve got the weapon there, I see. A very handy little tool. Lady Dwighton unfortunately left it lying around in a book, and I happened to snatch it up.’

‘One minute,’ said Colonel Melrose. ‘Am I to understand that you admit stabbing Sir James with this?’ He held the dagger aloft.

‘Quite right. I stole in through the window, you know. He had his back to me. It was quite easy. I left the same way.’

‘Through the window?’

‘Through the window, of course.’

‘And what time was this?’

Delangua hesitated. ‘Let me see–I was talking to the keeper fellow–that was at a quarter past six. I heard the church tower chime. It must have been–well, say somewhere about half past.’

A grim smile came to the colonel’s lips.

‘Quite right, young man,’ he said. ‘Half past six was the time. Perhaps you’ve heard that already? But this is altogether a most peculiar murder!’

‘Why?’

‘So many people confess to it,’ said Colonel Melrose.

They heard the sharp intake of the other’s breath.

‘Who else has confessed to it?’ he asked in a voice that he vainly strove to render steady.

‘Lady Dwighton.’

Delangua threw back his head and laughed in rather a forced manner. ‘Lady Dwighton is apt to be hysterical,’ he said lightly. ‘I shouldn’t pay any attention to what she says if I were you.’

‘I don’t think I shall,’ said Melrose. ‘But there’s another odd thing about this murder.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Well,’ said Melrose, ‘Lady Dwighton has confessed to having shot Sir James, and you have confessed to having stabbed him. But luckily for both of you, he wasn’t shot or stabbed, you see. His skull was smashed in.’

‘My God!’ cried Delangua. ‘But a woman couldn’t possibly do that–’

He stopped, biting his lip. Melrose nodded with the ghost of a smile.

‘Often read of it,’ he volunteered. ‘Never seen it happen.’

‘What?’

‘Couple of young idiots each accusing themselves because they thought the other had done it,’ said Melrose. ‘Now we’ve got to begin at the beginning.’