Theydon explained.

"In all likelihood you can discover the driver," he smiled, "and he
will establish my alibi."

His tone seemed to annoy Furneaux, who broke in:

"Don't you write novels?"

"Yes."

"Sensational?"

"Occasionally."

"Then you ought to be tickled to death, as the Americans say, at being
mixed up in a first-rate murder. This is no ordinary crime. Several
people will be older and wiser before the culprit is found and
hanged."

"What Mr. Furneaux has in mind," purred Winter cheerfully, "is the
curious habit of some witnesses when questioned by the police. They
arm themselves against attack, as it were. You see, Mr. Theydon, we
suspect nobody. We try to ascertain facts, and hope to deduce a theory
from them. Over and over again we are mistaken. We are no more astute
than other men. Our sole advantage is a wide experience of criminal
methods. The detective of romance-- if you'll forgive the allusion--
simply doesn't exist in real life."

"I accept the rebuke," said Theydon. "I suppose the gray car was still