The old man muttered something I could not catch.  I could see that he had been hard hit by the loss of his elder son.  I asked them to be seated; the general complied, but the boy walked the floor in a manner most distressing.

“I shall not be long,” he remarked.  “Nor at a time like this is one in the mood to be diplomatic.  I will only say, sir, that we have come to ask of you a great—­a very great favor indeed.  You may not see fit to grant it.  If that is the case we can not well reproach you.  But if you can—­”

“It is a great favor, sir!” broke in the general.  “And I am in the odd position where I do not know whether you will serve me best by granting it or by refusing to do so.”

“Father—­please—­if you don’t mind—­” The boy’s voice was kindly but determined.  He turned to me.

“Sir—­you have testified to the police that it was a bit past seven when you heard in the room above the sounds of the struggle which—­which—­You understand.”

In view of the mission of the caller who had departed a scant hour previously, the boy’s question startled me.

“Such was my testimony,” I answered.  “It was the truth.”

“Naturally,” said Lieutenant Fraser-Freer.  “But—­er—­as a matter of fact, we are here to ask that you alter your testimony.  Could you, as a favor to us who have suffered so cruel a loss—­a favor we should never forget—­could you not make the hour of that struggle half after six?”

I was quite overwhelmed.

“Your—­reasons?” I managed at last to ask.

“I am not able to give them to you in full,” the boy answered.  “I can only say this:  It happens that at seven o’clock last Thursday night I was dining with friends at the Savoy—­friends who would not be likely to forget the occasion.”

The old general leaped to his feet.

“Norman,” he cried, “I can not let you do this thing!  I simply will not—­”

“Hush, father,” said the boy wearily.  “We have threshed it all out.  You have promised—­”

The old man sank back into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

“If you are willing to change your testimony,” young Fraser-Freer went on to me, “I shall at once confess to the police that it was I who—­who murdered my brother.  They suspect me.  They know that late last Thursday afternoon I purchased a revolver, for which, they believe, at the last moment I substituted the knife.  They know that I was in debt to him; that we had quarreled about money matters; that by his death I, and I alone, could profit.”

He broke off suddenly and came toward me, holding out his arms with a pleading gesture I can never forget.

“Do this for me!” he cried.  “Let me confess!  Let me end this whole horrible business here and now.”

Surely no man had ever to answer such an appeal before.

“Why?” I found myself saying, and over and over I repeated it—­“Why?  Why?”