My course was clear. Jim Gilson must be arrested, and a court of justice would have to say whether he was responsible for his actions or not. Personally, I was not sure that he was as mad as he pretended to be. The curious disposal of the shreds of pajamas showed cunning, a desire to mislead, or it may be there had been a struggle. Perhaps Simon Judd had fought desperately for his life, and the madman had buried him, entirely forgetting the dead body of Peter Judd, who had given him no trouble. Possibly he had left it with a purpose; certainly it had helped to convict an innocent man. Who can explain either the cunning or forgetfulness of a madman?
On the evening of the day following the arrest of Jim Gilson I received a telegram from Christopher Quarles, asking me to go to him without delay. He was in the empty room, his granddaughter with him.
"Wigan, this Sussex affair?" were the words with which he greeted me.
"All over. The murderer was arrested yesterday," I answered.
I had not seen Quarles for some days, and the case had not been mentioned between us. His theories would probably have hindered rather than helped me.
"You're wrong, all wrong," he said.
"My dear professor, nobody knows your ability better than I do, but you haven't had anything to do with this affair. I assure you——"
"You may tell me the whole story, if you like, but you're wrong. You haven't caught your man."
"Nonsense," I said angrily.
"Tell me the story."