"There's the police--there's the detectives--there's----" "The police and the detectives are all doing their best to fasten the crime on you!" retorted Brereton.

"Of course they are! That's their way.
When they've safely got one man, do you think they're going to look for another?
If you won't tell me what you were doing, and where you were that night, well, I'll have to find out for myself." Harborough gave his counsel a peculiar look which Brereton could not understand.
"Oh, well!" he said.

"If _you_ found it out----" He broke off at that, and would say no more, and Brereton presently left him and walked thoughtfully homeward, reflecting on the prisoner's last words.
"He admits there is something to be found out," he mused.

"And by that very admission he implies that it could be found out.

Now--how?
Egad!--I'd give something for even the least notion!" Bent's parlour-maid, opening the door to Brereton, turned to a locked drawer in the old-fashioned clothes-press which stood in Bent's hall, and took from it a registered letter.
"For you, sir," she said, handing it to Brereton.