“I want to talk to you,” went on Derek, “and who knows when I may have another opportunity? There is an idea going about that I murdered my wife⁠—no, please don’t interrupt. It is absurd, of course.” He paused for a minute or two, then went on, speaking more deliberately. “In dealing with the police and Local Authorities here I have had to pretend to⁠—well⁠—a certain decency. I prefer not to pretend with you. I meant to marry money. I was on the lookout for money when I first met Ruth Van Aldin. She had the look of a slim Madonna about her, and I⁠—well⁠—I made all sorts of good resolutions⁠—and was bitterly disillusioned. My wife was in love with another man when she married me. She never cared for me in the least. Oh, I am not complaining; the thing was a perfectly respectable bargain. She wanted Leconbury and I wanted money. The trouble arose simply through Ruth’s American blood. Without caring a pin for me, she would have liked me to be continually dancing attendance. Time and again she as good as told me that she had bought me and that I belonged to her. The result was that I behaved abominably to her. My father-in-law will tell you that, and he is quite right. At the time of Ruth’s death, I was faced with absolute disaster.” He laughed suddenly. “One