"When you led your brother to the carriage last night, you looked about you to make sure that the Colonel was there; and as the carriage started, he spoke to you and asked if the man he had seen you put in the carriage was indeed your brother Karl."
He shrugged his shoulders again. "You may as well go on."
"I am going on. Fearing lest, even at the last moment, the plan should miscarry, you came here yourself; and yourself, finding your brother lying nearly unconscious on the couch, opened the window so that the watcher in the garden might see where his helpless victim lay; and then—you left the window open to make his entrance easy and certain."
"You tell a story well," he said, when I paused. "I told you once before you should write plays. You have admirable imagination." He was quite himself again now. He spoke lightly, lit a cigar, and took a couple of turns across the room.
"It appears to have interested you."
"Naturally. I suppose now I can pick up the rest from what you said before?"
"Yes. The sofa pillow has done duty before."
"A very likely tale, of course—and your witnesses?"
"No one knows all this except myself."
"Very fortunate—for them, if not perhaps for you."