"No. We do not know who killed her. Perhaps you may know?"
"I!" Ireland looked genuinely surprised. "No; how should I know?"
"Well," said George, rather awkwardly, "it seems that Bawdsey has got it into his head that you knew about this confession."
"I did not!"
"That you were afraid it would be published after her death, and that you went to the house on that night to get it."
"I did not. How could I have entered the house?"
"Bawdsey thinks you had a latch-key."
"No. All the keys were handed to Lord Derrington's agent when the house was sold. In plain in words, George, this man Bawdsey--Rates--whatever he calls himself; accuses me of the murder."
"He doesn't exactly accuse you, but----"
"I don't know what else you would call his statements but accusations," retorted Ireland with some heat, "but I never was near the house. I certainly thought that Mrs. Jersey might leave some such confession, but I never asked her about it. I never thought that such a healthy woman would die before me, and I knew that sooner or later my bad heart would carry me off in spite of the regularity of my life."