oaken desk with a deep body stood by the window in a room that
overlooked St. James's Park from a height. The room was large, furnished
and decorated in the mode by someone who had brought taste to the work;
but the hand of the bachelor lay heavy upon it. John Marlowe unlocked
the desk and drew a long, stout envelop from the back of the well.

"I understand," he said to Mr. Cupples, "that you have read this."

"I read it for the first time two days ago," replied Mr. Cupples, who,
seated on a sofa, was peering about the room with a benignant face. "We
have discussed it fully."

Marlowe turned to Trent. "There is your manuscript," he said, laying the
envelop on the table. "I have gone over it three times. I do not believe
there is another man who could have got at as much of the truth as you
have set down there."

Trent ignored the compliment. He sat by the table gazing stonily at the
fire, his long legs twisted beneath his chair. "You mean, of course," he
said, drawing the envelop towards him, "that there is more of the truth
to be disclosed now. We are ready to hear you as soon as you like. I
expect it will be a long story, and the longer the better, so far as I
am concerned; I want to understand thoroughly. What we should both like,
I think, is some preliminary account of Manderson and your relations
with him. It seemed to me from the first that the character of the dead
man must be somehow an element in the business."

"You were right," Marlowe answered grimly. He crossed the room and
seated himself on a corner of the tall cushion-topped fender. "I will
begin as you suggest."

"I ought to tell you beforehand," said Trent, looking him in the eyes,
"that although I am here to listen to you, I have not as yet any reason
to doubt the conclusions I have stated here." He tapped the envelop. "It
is a defense that you will be putting forward--you understand that?"

"Perfectly." Marlowe was cool and in complete possession of himself, a
man different indeed from the worn-out, nervous being Trent remembered
at Marlstone a year and a half ago. His tall, lithe figure was held with
the perfection of muscular tone. His brow was candid, his blue eyes were
clear, though they still had, as he paused collecting his ideas, the
look that had troubled Trent at their first meeting. Only the lines of
his mouth showed that he knew himself in a position of difficulty, and
meant to face it.

"Sigsbee Manderson was not a man of normal m