“This man may have been the actual murderer or not. We are here going on the statements of the housekeeper, which may turn out to be a tissue of lies; but I do not think so, she is not a good enough actress for that. This man stays for half an hour, and is let out by the Home Secretary. After that Sir James writes a letter and posts it himself. He returns and goes to his room complaining of feeling sleepy.”
“Did he?” said Sinclair, “I did not hear that.”
“Certainly,” said Collins, “Mrs. Simmons said so, if she is reliable. Very good, he locks himself in, and asks not to be disturbed. Here he remains, as far as we know, till the murder takes place. We find the door locked and the windows fastened, with no apparent means of escape. There is no one in the room.”
“By Jove, he was a cool hand,” said Sinclair. “All the time he was talking with Sir James the letter was on its way to the Central News, and might have arrived. He must have calculated things pretty well.”
“Undoubtedly, and he probably knew that there was no telephone in the house.”
Collins got up and handed round the cigar box. When he resumed his seat he continued, and his face was grave.
“A Home Secretary is very open to attack. He may have refused to pardon a criminal, and the man when he comes out from penal servitude or imprisonment will seek revenge. He is always getting threatening letters. Then there are murderers whom he reprieves, and the relatives of the murdered man may seek revenge. Again, there are political fanatics. You remember the Phœnix Park murders.”
“Of course,” said Boyce, “the whole staff will be put on to-morrow to investigate this side of the question.” Collins nodded.
“Then there is a personal revenge. His life appears to be a blameless and honourable one, but one never knows; there are skeletons in the best of cupboards.”
“There was a ne’er-do-well son,” said Sinclair.