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 was taking my before-bedtime constitutional, having set out from the hotel about a quarter past ten. I went along the field path that runs behind White Gables, cutting off the great curve of the road, and came out on the road nearly opposite that
