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Jimmy Featherstone was drilling a hole in the gravel with his gold-headed cane.

"I will upon one condition," he said slowly.

She looked at him in surprise.

"Condition? What is it?"

He raised his head and looked her straight in the eyes.

"Leave the investigation of Abe Bellamy's affairs to somebody else," he said. "It isn't a woman's job. If the police had searched the plantation behind Creager's house, you would have had some difficulty in explaining your presence, Miss Howett."

For a moment Valerie stared at her companion, speechless and pale.

"I—I don't understand you, Mr. Featherstone," she faltered.

The young man twisted round and faced her with a smile, which was half good-humour and half admonition.

"Miss Howett, you've recently accused me of living a purposeless life. An idle man has plenty of time for observation. You passed my flat in St. James's Street in a taxi-cab that was following the Ford which Creager drove."

"Then you knew Creager?" she said in astonishment.

"I knew him slightly," said Mr. Featherstone, toying with his stick and avoiding her eyes. "I know everybody slightly," he added with a laugh, "and some people a lot. For example, I know that you dismissed your cab at the end of Field Road and that you walked down as far as Creager's house, and then, as though you weren't quite certain what you would do, you came to a stile which connects with a footpath running through the plantation at the end of Creager's garden. The plantation is not part of his land, and it is only in his use because he hasn't troubled to fence off the end of the garden. And in that plantation you waited until nearly eight o'clock last night."