What kind of a story was I to tell about Scudder?
I had lied to Paddock about him, and the whole thing looked desperately fishy.

If I made a clean breast of it and told the police everything he had told me, they would simply laugh at me.

The odds were a thousand to one that I would be charged with the murder, and the circumstantial evidence was strong enough to hang me.

Few people knew me in England; I had no real pal who could come forward and swear to my character.

Perhaps that was what those secret enemies were playing for.