“Because I paced it-see?”

“You paced it. Why?”

“Oh, not then, I didn’t. I come back in the morning and did it. The murder was out by then.”

“And how do you know that you’d got the right place to measure to?”

“There was oil on the road-that’s why, sir.”

Sir James leaned back again, and the questioning went on.

“Well, Richard, you came up the road and saw the gentleman get into the car. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir. And I went round without his seeing me to the back of his car.” ‘

“How do you know that he didn’t see you?”

The blue eyes took on a dreamy gaze. They really were very beautiful eyes.

“I played Injuns with him, sir.”

“How do you mean you played Indians?”

“It’s a game we play, sir. I’m quite good at it. You must get to a place without anyone seeing you. It’s difficult in the daytime, but it’s dead easy at night. I got round to the back of the car, and there I see as how he’d got something hanging down over the back so that the number-plate was covered.”

“You’re sure of that? You’re on oath, remember.”

The blue eyes reproached him.

“Acourse I remember.”

“What did you do?”

“I lifted the stuff that was hanging down. I’d some matches with me and I saw the number-plate.”

He gave the County letters and the number of Mac’s car.

“You are quite sure about that? Remember that you are on oath.”

“I’m quite sure, sir.”

“And then?”

“I was playing a game of cops and Injuns. The man in the car was a cop, and I was an Injun.”

“Go on.”

Dicky hesitated. There was something more to tell-something that he hadn’t told to anyone, something that gave him a funny feeling when he remembered it. It gave him such a funny feeling that he didn’t like talking about it. His voice fell.

“The man in the car was putting his moustache back on-”

There was a sensation in the court. Dicky, seeing the effect that he had produced, perked up a little. Mr. Carisbrooke came in quickly.

“He was putting his moustache back on?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Let’s get this quite clear. Do you mean that the man in the car had been wearing a false moustache?”

“Yes, sir. A big bushy one it was.”

“And you’re quite sure about this?”

“Yes, sir. He put on the light inside the car and he looked in the glass, and he was fixing it to get it straight. And I dunno why, but it kind of give me the creeps and I ran away.”

“And then did you deliver the note?”

Dicky became noticeably deflated. He said, “N-no,” and shuffled with his feet.

“Why didn’t you?”

Dicky hesitated. To say that he had forgotten it would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but he had found grown-ups singularly unreceptive to this kind of truth. And then with a glow of virtue it came over him that if he told the truth and they didn’t believe him, that was their affair, he had nothing to do with it. He lifted his head, fixed his blue gaze on Mr. Carisbrooke’s face and said,

“Please, sir, I forgot all about it.”

“How was that?”

“Well, I met up with Stuffy Craddock and Roger Barton, and they’d got a wizard scheme on… Must I tell you what it was, sir?”

“I think you had better.” Mr. Carisbrooke’s tone was affable.

Dicky brightened.

“They said there was a wheel sunk in the pond by Mr. Fulbrook’s wall, and they said if we could get it out-” His voice rather trailed away.

“If they could get it out-”

Dicky’s voice became small and miserable.

“They said as if we could get it out we could have a go at the apples on the other side of the wall.”

“I see,” said Mr. Carisbrooke cheerfully. “And did you get it out?”

“No, sir. And it was getting late and we was all wet through, so we went home, and my mother took off my wet clothes to dry them and I went to bed.”

“And when did you think of the note again?”

“Not till next day, sir.”

“And then?”

“I didn’t think that I’d better do anything about it. It’s-it’s rather difficult, sir-”

Mr. Carisbrooke looked at him cheerfully.

“Let’s have it,” he said.

A faint angel smile trembled on Dicky’s lips.

“It had got wet, sir, with us trying to get the wheel out of the pond. It was stuck in the mud and we got soaked, me and Stuffy Craddock and Roger Barton. Roger’s father clouted him proper.”

“Did your mother clout you?”

“No! My mother never clouts me.”

“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Carisbrooke drily.

“Oh, yes, sir, I know that.”

Beside Miss Silver Mrs. Pratt began to cry again. Her Dicky-to say that-in a court of justice! It was the moment of her life. She wept on silently.

The counsel for the defence was speaking.

“And what did you do about the note after that?”

“I didn’t do anything, sir. I left it in my pocket.”

“Until when?”

“Till Miss Silver come, she and Miss Jenny.”

“When was that?”

“It was a week ago.”

“And then?”

“Miss Silver she asked me about it, and I told her. I give her the letter.”

“Is this the letter?” He was being offered it-the same dirty, creased note that Mac had written and that Jenny had never had.

“Yes, that’s it!”

“Read it out.”

“Do I read the date too?”

“You read everything.”

He read the date aloud, and then went on, “ ‘Jenny, don’t say anything to anyone’-that’s underlined that is. And then it goes on, ‘but come out and meet me up on the heath as soon as it is quite dark. Mac. Bring this with you.’ ”

Chapter XLV

Dicky stepped down from the witness-box and made his way through the crowded court to where Miss Silver and his mother sat together. Jimmy Mottingley had taken his place in the box. He spoke up well and clearly.

“You are James Mottingley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you describe what happened on the day of the murder.”

He did so, and as he spoke it all came rushing back on him-his mother’s drawing-room-his mother calm and placid-talking to Mrs. Marsden and delaying him when he wanted to get started. It all came back to him as if it had happened yesterday. He could hear the very tones of their voices. It was uncanny how the give and take of that conversation came back to him. It was only by an effort that he kept his voice loud enough to fill the court room. It was as if he was back in his mother’s drawing-room with his eye upon the clock and counting out the time that it would take him to reach Hazeldon.

“I was very late in starting. The clock said half past six.”

“You drove fast?”

“I drove as fast as I could. I had this appointment.”

“With the dead girl?”

“With Miriam Richardson.”

“Go on.”

“When I got to Hazeldon I drove slowly up on to the Heath. I expected her to be near the road by the patch of gorse bushes, but I couldn’t see her. So I drove on a bit, and then I got out and walked back. I thought perhaps she hadn’t waited as I was so late.”

“What time was it when you got there?”

“I don’t know. I was in a hurry because I knew that I was late. I got straight out of the car and ran back to the clump of gorse. She wasn’t there. Then I went round the bushes and I found her.” His voice dropped to a horrified whisper, but it was a whisper that carried.

“Will you describe what you saw.”

Jimmy went on in that strange carrying whisper.

“She was there-on the ground. When I touched her I knew-that she was dead-”

“How did you know that she was dead?”

“She was cold-she was quite cold.”

“What did you do?”

“I went out on the road, and a bicycle was coming. I stood and waved, and it stopped. The man came with me, and I told him I had come there to meet a girl, and that I had found her dead. He took me to the police station, and we got the constable. That’s all.”