provocation or motive, there isn't one of us who wouldn't be capable of
committing murder. A man's outer life is lived according to the laws of
circumstances and society: his inner one no one knows anything about,
except himself--and God!"

"Heneage," Mason sighed, "is always cynical after 'kuemmel.'"

Heneage shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette.

"No!" he said, "I am not cynical. I simply have a weakness for the truth.
You will find it rather a hard material to collect if you set out in
earnest. But to return to Wrayson. Let me ask you a question. We are all
friends of his, more or less intimate friends. You would all of you scout
the idea of his having any share in the murder of Morris Barnes. What did
you make of his evidence at the inquest this afternoon? What do you think
of his whole deportment and condition?"

"I can answer that in one word," the Colonel declared. "I think that it
is unfortunate. The poor fellow has been terribly upset, and his nerves
have not been able to stand the strain. That is all there is about it!"

"Wrayson has been working up to the limit for years," Mason remarked,
"and he's not a particularly strong chap. I should say that he was about
due for a nervous breakdown."

A waiter approached the table and addressed the Colonel--he was wanted on
the telephone. During his absence, Heneage leaned back in his chair and
relapsed into his usual imperturbability. He was known amongst his
friends generally as the silent man. It was very seldom that he
contributed so much to their discussions as upon this occasion. Perhaps