about terms than that, Cupples.'

'I said "certain",' Mr Cupples repeated firmly.

Trent shrugged his shoulders. 'If you really were, after reading my
manuscript and discussing the whole thing as we did,' he rejoined, 'then
I can only say that you must have totally renounced all trust in the
operations of the human reason; an attitude which, while it is bad
Christianity and also infernal nonsense, is oddly enough bad Positivism
too, unless I misunderstand that system. Why, man--'

'Let me say a word,' Mr Cupples interposed again, folding his hands
above his plate. 'I assure you I am far from abandoning reason. I am
certain he is innocent, and I always was certain of it, because of
something that I know, and knew from the very beginning. You asked me
just now to imagine myself on the jury at Marlowe's trial. That would
be an unprofitable exercise of the mental powers, because I know that I
should be present in another capacity. I should be in the witness-box,
giving evidence for the defence. You said just now, "If there were a
single piece of evidence in support of his tale." There is, and it is
my evidence. And,' he added quietly, 'it is conclusive.' He took up his
knife and fork and went contentedly on with his dinner.

The pallor of sudden excitement had turned Trent to marble while Mr
Cupples led laboriously up to this statement. At the last word the blood
rushed to his face again, and he struck the table with an unnatural
laugh. 'It can't be!' he exploded. 'It's something you fancied,
something you dreamed after one of those debauches of soda and milk. You
can't really mean that all the time I was working on the case down there
you knew Marlowe was innocent.'

Mr Cupples, busy with his last mouthful, nodded brightly. He made an end
of eating, wiped his sparse moustache, and then leaned forward over the
table. 'It's very simple,' he said. 'I shot Manderson myself.'

'I am afraid I startled you,' Trent heard the voice of Mr Cupples say.
He forced himself out of his stupefaction like a diver striking upward
for the surface, and with a rigid movement raised his glass. But half
of the wine splashed upon the cloth, and he put it carefully down again
untasted. He drew a deep breath, which was exhaled in a laugh wholly
without merriment. 'Go on,' he said.

'It was not murder,' began Mr Cupples, slowly measuring off inches with
a fork on the edge of the table. 'I will tell you the whole story. On
that Sunday night I