We climbed--the constable and I--a narrow stone stairway somewhere at
the back of New Scotland Yard, and so came to the inspector's room.
Bray was waiting for us, smiling and confident. I remember--silly as the
detail is--that he wore in his buttonhole a white rose. His manner of
greeting me was more genial than usual. He began by informing me that
the police had apprehended the man who, they believed, was guilty of the
captain's murder.

"There is one detail to be cleared up," he said. "You told me the other
night that it was shortly after seven o'clock when you heard the sounds
of struggle in the room above you. You were somewhat excited at the
time, and under similar circumstances men have been known to make
mistakes. Have you considered the matter since? Is it not possible that
you were in error in regard to the hour?"

I recalled Hughes' advice to humor the inspector; and I said that,
having thought it over, I was not quite sure. It might have been earlier
than seven--say six-thirty.

"Exactly," said Bray. He seemed rather pleased. "The natural stress
of the moment--I understand. Wilkinson bring in your prisoner. The
constable addressed turned and left the room, coming back a moment later
with Lieutenant Norman Fraser-Freer. The boy was pale; I could see at a
glance that he had not slept for several nights.