murdered.  That would be much better, he said, than leaving the body there until he went over and found it when he had to go over to Riversbrook to take a look round, in accordance with the instructions that had been given him when Sir Horace went to Scotland.  Knowing what he did, he was afraid that if he was allowed to discover the body and inform the police, he would let something slip when the police came at him with their hundreds of questions.  We printed the letter to Scotland Yard, each one doing a letter at a time.  Hill took it with him, saying he would post it on his way home.

“When he left, Fred and I sat there thinking.  Suddenly it came to me as clear as daylight that Hill had committed the murder, and had fixed up things so as to throw suspicion on Fred. He must have known Sir Horace was coming back from Scotland that night, and he had laid in wait for him and shot him.  Then he had come over to my flat in order to persuade Fred to carry out the burglary, and direct suspicion to Fred for the murder, if the police worried him.  I told Fred what I thought, but he only laughed at me and said I was talking nonsense.  But I was right, for a week afterwards the police came and arrested Fred at the flat.”

“How did they get him?” asked Kemp.

“I saw them coming along the street from the window, and I pointed them out to Fred. He tried to get away through the kitchen window along the ledge and down the spouting.  He almost got away, but one of the detectives saw him before he reached the ground, and they dashed down stairs and got him in the street.  Next day I saw in the papers that Hill had made an important statement to the police, and this had led to Fred’s arrest.  Hill is the murderer, Kincher.  The cunning, wicked, treacherous villain told the police about Fred being up there.  He wants to see Fred hang in order to save his own neck.”  The girl’s voice rose to a shriek, and she sprang to her feet with blazing eyes.  “Kincher,” she cried, “you’ve got to help me put the rope round this wretch’s neck.  Do you hear me?”

Kemp’s impassivity was in marked contrast to the girl’s hysterical excitement.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Fred wants you to get up an alibi for him.  He sent me over to ask you to arrange it without delay.  He wants you and two or three others to swear that he was over here on the night of the murder.  That will be sufficient to get him off.”

“Not me,” said Kemp, shaking his head decidedly.  “I won’t do it; it’s too risky.  The police have too many things against me for my word to be any good as a witness.  I’d only be landing myself in trouble for perjury instead of helping Fred out of trouble.  He ought to have got an alibi ready before he was arrested.  I told him at the inquest that he ought to look after it, and he swore he’d not been up there on the night of the murder.  It is too late to do anything in the alibi line now.  I don’t know anybody I could get to come forward and swear Fred was in their company that night—­there is a difference between fixing up a tale for the police before a man’s arrested, and going into the witness box and committing perjury on oath.”