"Which do you think he is, Mr. Gillingham?" said Cayley, looking at him steadily.
"Mark? It's absurd," said Bill impetuously.
"Bill's loyal, you see, Mr. Cayley."
"And you owe no loyalty to anyone concerned?"
"Exactly. So perhaps I might be too frank."
Bill had dropped down on the grass, and Cayley took his place on the seat, and sat there heavily, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his hands, gazing at the ground.
"I want you to be quite frank," he said at last. "Naturally I am prejudiced where Mark is concerned. So I want to know how my suggestion strikes you who have no prejudices either way."
"Your suggestion?"
"My theory that, if Mark killed his brother, it was purely accidental as I told the Inspector."
Bill looked up with interest.
"You mean that Robert did the hold-up business," he said, "and there was a bit of a struggle, and the revolver went off, and then Mark lost his head and bolted? That sort of idea?"
"Exactly."
"Well, that seems all right." He turned to Antony. "There's nothing wrong with that, is there? It's the most natural explanation to anyone who knows Mark."
Antony pulled at his pipe.
"I suppose it is," he said slowly. "But there's one thing that worries me rather."
