"These two fingers," he repeated, "and a flick of the wrist--very little
more than would be necessary for a thirty yard putt right across the
green."

Francis had recovered himself, had found his bearings to a certain
extent.

"I am sorry that you have told me this, Mr. Hilditch," he said, a little
stiffly.

"Why?" was the puzzled reply. "I thought you would be interested."

"I am interested to this extent," Francis declared, "I shall accept no
more cases such as yours unless I am convinced of my client's innocence.
I look upon your confession to me as being in the worst possible taste,
and I regret very much my efforts on your behalf."

The woman was listening intently. Hilditch's expression was one of
cynical wonder. Francis rose to his feet and moved across to his
hostess.

"Mrs. Hilditch," he said, "will you allow me to make my apologies? Your
husband and I have arrived at an understanding--or perhaps I should
say a misunderstanding--which renders the acceptance of any further
hospitality on my part impossible."

She held out the tips of her fingers.

"I had no idea," she observed, with gentle sarcasm, "that you barristers
were such purists morally. I thought you were rather proud of being the
last hope of the criminal classes."

"Madam," Francis replied, "I am not proud of having saved the life of a
self-confessed murderer, even though that man may be your husband."

Hilditch was laughing softly to himself as he escorted his departing
guest to the door.

"You have a quaint sense of humour," Francis remarked.

"Forgive me," Oliver Hilditch begged, "but your last few words rather
appealed to me. You must be a person of very scanty perceptions if you
could spend the evening here and not understand that my death is the one
thing in the world which would make my wife happy."

Francis walked home with these last words ringing in his ears. They
seemed with him even in that brief period of troubled sleep which came
to him when he had regained his rooms and turned in. They were there in
the middle of the night when he was awakened, shivering, by the shrill
summons of his telephone bell. He stood quaking before the instrument
in his pajamas. It was the voice which, by reason of some ghastly
premonition, he had dreaded to hear--level, composed, emotionless.

"Mr. Ledsam?" she enquired.

"I am Francis Ledsam," he assented. "Who wants me?"

"It is Margaret Hilditch speaking," she announced. "I felt that I