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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10110 ***
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+The Postmaster’s Daughter
+
+by Louis Tracy
+
+1916
+
+Also by this author: _ Number Seventeen, The Wheel of Fortune, The Terms of
+Surrender, The Wings of the Morning, &c._
+
+
+Contents
+
+ I. The Face at the Window
+ II. P. C. Robinson “Takes a Line”
+ III. The Gathering Clouds
+ IV. A Cabal
+ V. The Seeds of Mischief
+ VI. Scotland Yard Takes a Hand
+ VII. “Alarums and Excursions”
+ VIII. An Interrupted Symposium
+ IX. He Whom the Cap Fits—
+ X. The Case Against Grant
+ XI. P. C. Robinson Takes Another Line
+ XII. Wherein Winter Gets To Work
+ XIII. Concerning Theodore Siddle
+ XIV. On Both Sides of the River
+ XV. A Matter of Heredity
+ XVI. Furneaux Makes a Successful Bid
+ XVII. An Official Housebreaker
+ XVIII. The Truth at Last
+
+
+
+
+Chapter I.
+The Face at the Window
+
+
+John Menzies Grant, having breakfasted, filled his pipe, lit it, and
+strolled out bare-headed into the garden. The month was June, that
+glorious rose-month which gladdened England before war-clouds darkened
+the summer sky. As the hour was nine o’clock, it is highly probable
+that many thousands of men were then strolling out into many thousands
+of gardens in precisely similar conditions; but, given youth, good
+health, leisure, and a fair amount of money, it is even more probable
+that few among the smaller number thus roundly favored by fortune
+looked so perplexed as Grant.
+
+Moreover, his actions were eloquent as words. A spacious French window
+had been cut bodily out of the wall of an old-fashioned room, and was
+now thrown wide to admit the flower-scented breeze. Between this window
+and the right-hand angle of the room was a smaller window,
+square-paned, high above the ground level, and deeply recessed—in fact
+just the sort of window which one might expect to find in a farm-house
+built two centuries ago, when light and air were rigorously excluded
+from interiors. The two windows told the history of _The Hollies_ at a
+glance. The little one had served the needs of a “best” room for
+several generations of Sussex yeomen. Then had come some iconoclast who
+hewed a big rectangle through the solid stone-work, converted the
+oak-panelled apartment into a most comfortable dining-room, built a new
+wing with a gable, changed a farm-yard into a flower-bordered lawn, and
+generally played havoc with Georgian utility while carrying out a
+determined scheme of landscape gardening.
+
+Happily, the wrecker was content to let well enough alone after
+enlarging the house, laying turf, and planting shrubs and flowers. He
+found _The Hollies_ a ramshackle place, and left it even more so, but
+with a new note of artistry and several unexpectedly charming vistas.
+Thus, the big double window opened straight into an irregular garden
+which merged insensibly into a sloping lawn bounded by a river-pool.
+The bank on the other side of the stream rose sharply and was well
+wooded. Above the crest showed the thatched roofs or red tiles of
+Steynholme, which was a village in the time of William the Conqueror,
+and has remained a village ever since. Frame this picture in flowering
+shrubs, evergreens, a few choice firs, a copper beech, and some sturdy
+oaks shadowing the lawn, and the prospect on a June morning might well
+have led out into the open any young man with a pipe.
+
+But John Menzies Grant seemed to have no eye for a scene that would
+have delighted a painter. He turned to the light, scrutinized so
+closely a strip of turf which ran close to the wall that he might have
+been searching for a lost diamond, and then peered through the
+lowermost left-hand pane of the small window into the room he had just
+quitted.
+
+The result of this peeping was remarkable in more ways than one.
+
+A stout, elderly, red-faced woman, who had entered the room soon after
+she heard Grant’s chair being moved, caught sight of the intent face.
+She screamed loudly, and dropped a cup and saucer with a clatter on to
+a Japanese tray.
+
+Grant hurried back to the French window. In his haste he did not notice
+a long shoot of a Dorothy Perkins rose which trailed across his path,
+and it struck him smartly on the cheek.
+
+“I’m afraid I startled you, Mrs. Bates,” he said, smiling so pleasantly
+that no woman or child could fail to put trust in him.
+
+“You did that, sir,” agreed Mrs. Bates, collapsing into the chair Grant
+had just vacated.
+
+Like most red-faced people, Mrs. Bates turned a bluish purple when
+alarmed, and her aspect was so distressing now that Grant’s smile was
+banished by a look of real concern.
+
+“I’m very sorry,” he said contritely. “I had no notion you were in the
+room. Shall I call Minnie?”
+
+Minnie, it may be explained, was Mrs. Bates’s daughter and assistant,
+the two, plus a whiskered Bates, gardener and groom, forming the
+domestic establishment presided over by Grant.
+
+“Nun-no, sir,” stuttered the housekeeper. “It’s stupid of me. But I’m
+not so young as I was, an’ me heart jumps at little things.”
+
+Grant saw that she was recovering, though slowly. He thought it best
+not to make too much of the incident; but asked solicitously if he
+might give her some brandy.
+
+Mrs. Bates remarked that she was “not so bad as that,” rose valiantly,
+and went on with her work. Her employer, who had gone into the garden
+again, saw out of the tail of his eye that she vanished with a
+half-laden tray. In a couple of minutes the daughter appeared, and
+finished the slight task of clearing the table; meanwhile, Grant kept
+away from the small window. Being a young man who cultivated the habit
+of observation, he noticed that Minnie, too, cast scared glances at the
+window. When the girl had finally quitted the room, he laughed in a
+puzzled way.
+
+“Am I dreaming, or are there visions about?” he murmured.
+
+Urged, seemingly, by a sort of curiosity, he surveyed the room a second
+time through the same pane of glass. Being tall, he had to stoop
+slightly. Within, on the opposite side of the ledge, he saw the tiny
+brass candlestick with its inch of candle which he had used over-night
+while searching for a volume of Scott in the book-case lining the
+neighboring wall. Somehow, this simplest of domestic objects brought a
+thrill of recollection.
+
+“Oh, dash it all!” he growled good-humoredly, “I’m getting nervy. I
+must chuck this bad habit of working late, and use the blessed hours of
+daylight.”
+
+Yet, as he sauntered down the lawn toward the stream, he knew well that
+he would do nothing of the sort. He loved that time of peace between
+ten at night and one in the morning. His thoughts ran vagrom then.
+Fantasies took shape under his pen which, in the cold light of morning,
+looked unreal and nebulous, though he had the good sense to restrain
+criticism within strict limits, and corrected style rather than matter.
+He was a writer, an essayist with no slight leaven of the poet, and had
+learnt early that the everyday world held naught in common with the
+brooding of the soul.
+
+But he was no long-haired dreamer of impossible things. Erect and
+square-shouldered, he had passed through Sandhurst into the army, a
+profession abandoned because of its humdrum nature, when an
+unexpectedly “fat” legacy rendered him independent. He looked exactly
+what he was, a healthy, clean-minded young Englishman, with a physique
+that led to occasional bouts of fox-hunting and Alpine climbing, and a
+taste in literature that brought about the consumption of midnight oil.
+This latter is not a mere trope. Steynholme is far removed from such
+modern “conveniences” as gas and electricity.
+
+At present he had no more definite object in life than to watch the
+trout rising in the pool. He held the fishing rights over half a mile
+of a noted river, but, by force of the law of hospitality, as it were,
+the stretch of water bordering the lawn was a finny sanctuary. Once, he
+halted, and looked fixedly at a dormer window in a cottage just visible
+above the trees on the opposite slope. Such a highly presentable young
+man might well expect to find a dainty feminine form appearing just in
+that place, and eke return the greeting of a waved hand. But the window
+remained blank—windows refused to yield any information that
+morning—and he passed on.
+
+The lawn dipped gently to the water’s edge, until the close-clipped
+turf gave way to pebbles and sand. In that spot the river widened and
+deepened until its current was hardly perceptible in fine weather. When
+the sun was in the west the trees and roofs of Steynholme were so
+clearly reflected in the mirror of the pool that a photograph of the
+scene needed close scrutiny ere one could determine whether or not it
+was being held upside down. But the sun shone directly on the water
+now, so the shelving bottom was visible, and Grant’s quick eye was
+drawn to a rope trailing into the depths, and fastened to an iron
+staple driven firmly into the shingle.
+
+He was so surprised that he spoke aloud.
+
+“What in the world is that?” he almost gasped; a premonition of evil
+was so strong in him that he actually gazed in stupefaction at a blob
+of water and a quick-spreading ring where a fat trout rose lazily in
+midstream.
+
+Somehow, too, he resisted the first impulse of the active side of his
+temperament, and did not instantly tug at the rope.
+
+Instead, he shouted:—
+
+“Hi, Bates!”
+
+An answering hail came from behind a screen of laurels on the right of
+the house. There lay the stables, and Bates would surely be grooming
+the cob which supplied a connecting link between _The Hollies_ and the
+railway for the neighboring market-town.
+
+Bates came, a sturdy block of a man who might have been hewn out of a
+Sussex oak. His face, hands, and arms were the color of oak, and he
+moved with a stiffness that suggested wooden joints.
+
+Evidently, he expected an order for the dogcart, and stood stock still
+when he reached the lawn. But Grant, who had gathered his wits,
+summoned him with crooked forefinger, and Bates jerked slowly on.
+
+“What hev’ ye done to yer face, sir?” he inquired.
+
+Grant was surprised. He expected no such question.
+
+“So far as I know, I’ve not been making any great alteration in it,” he
+said.
+
+“But it’s all covered wi’ blood,” came the disturbing statement.
+
+A handkerchief soon gave evidence that Bates was not exaggerating.
+Miss—or is it Madam?—Dorothy Perkins can scratch as well as look sweet,
+and a thorn had opened a small vein in Grant’s cheek which bled to a
+surprising extent.
+
+“Oh, it is nothing,” he said. “I remember now—a rose shoot caught me as
+I went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for you to
+come and see _this._”
+
+Soon the two were examining the rope and the staple.
+
+“Now who put _that_ there?” said Bates, not asking a question but
+rather stating a thesis.
+
+“It was not here yesterday,” commented his master, accepting all that
+Bates’s words implied.
+
+“No, sir, that it wasn’t. I was a-cuttin’ the lawn till nigh bed-time,
+an’ it wasn’t there then.”
+
+Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope.
+
+“Suppose we solve the mystery,” he said.
+
+“No need to dirty your hands, sir,” put in Bates. “Let I haul ’un in.”
+
+In a few seconds the oaken tint in his face grew many shades lighter.
+
+“Good Gawd!” he wheezed. At the end of the rope was the body of a
+woman.
+
+There are few more distressing objects than a drowned corpse. On that
+bright June morning a dreadful apparition lost little of its grim
+repulsiveness because the body was that of a young and good-looking
+woman.
+
+If one searched England it would be difficult to find two men of
+differing temperaments less likely to yield to the stress of even the
+most trying circumstance than Grant and Bates, yet, during some
+agonized moments the one, of tried courage and fine mettle, was equally
+horrified and shaken as the other, a gnarled and hard-grained rustic.
+It was he from whom speech might least be expected who first found his
+tongue. Bates, who had stooped, straightened himself slowly.
+
+“By gum!” he said, “this be a bad business, Mr. Grant. Who is she?
+She’s none of our Steynholme lasses.”
+
+Still Grant uttered no word. He just looked in horror at the poor husk
+of a woman who in life had undoubtedly been beautiful. She was well but
+quietly dressed, and her clothing showed no signs of violence. The
+all-night soaking in the river revealed some pitiful little feminine
+secrets, such as a touch of make-up on lips and cheeks, and the dark
+roots of abundant hair which had been treated chemically to lighten its
+color. The eyes were closed, and for that Grant was conscious of a deep
+thankfulness. Had those sightless eyes stared at him he felt he would
+have cried aloud in terror. The firm, well-molded lips were open, as
+though uttering a last protest against an untimely fate. Of course,
+both men were convinced that murder had been done. Not only were arms
+and body bound in a manner that was impossible of accomplishment by the
+dead woman herself, but an ugly wound on the smooth forehead seemed to
+indicate that she had been stunned or killed outright before being
+flung into the river.
+
+And then, the rope and the staple suggested an outlandish, maniacal
+disposal of the victim. Here was no effort at concealment, but rather a
+making sure, in most brutal and callous fashion, that early discovery
+must be unavoidable.
+
+The bucolic mind works in well-scored grooves. Receiving no assistance
+from his master, Bates pulled the body a little farther up on the strip
+of gravel so that it lay clear of the water.
+
+“I mum fetch t’ polis,” he said.
+
+The phrase, with its vivid significance, seemed to galvanize Grant into
+a species of comprehension.
+
+“Yes,” he agreed, speaking slowly, as though striving to measure the
+effect of each word. “Yes, go for the police, Bates. This foul crime
+must be inquired into, no matter who suffers. Go now. But first bring a
+rug from the stable. You understand? Your wife, or Minnie, must not be
+told till later. They must not see. Mrs. Bates is not so well to-day.”
+
+“Not so well! Her ate a rare good breakfast for a sick ’un!”
+
+Bates was recovering from the shock, and prepared once more to take an
+interest in the minor features of existence. Among these he counted
+ability to eat as a sure sign of continued well-being in man or beast.
+
+Grant, too, was slowly regaining poise.
+
+“I hardly know what I am saying,” he muttered. “At any rate, bring a
+rug. I’ll mount guard till you return with the policeman. There can be
+no doubt, I suppose, that this poor creature is dead.”
+
+“Dead as a stone,” said Bates with conviction. “Why, her’s bin in there
+hours,” and he nodded toward the water. “Besides, if I knows anythink
+of a crack on t’head, her wur outed before she went into t’river....
+But who i’ t’world can she be?”
+
+“If you don’t fetch that rug I’ll go for it myself,” said Grant,
+whereupon Bates made off.
+
+He was soon back again with a carriage rug, which Grant helped him to
+spread over the dripping body. Then he hastened to the village, taking
+a path that avoided the house.
+
+The lawn and river bank of _The Hollies_ could only be overlooked from
+the steep wooded cliff opposite, and none but an adventurous boy would
+ever think of climbing down that almost impassable rampart of rock,
+brushwood, and tree-roots. At any rate, when left alone with the
+ghastly evidence of a tragedy, Grant troubled only to satisfy himself
+that no one was watching from the house. Assured on that point, he
+lifted a corner of the rug, and, apparently, forced himself to
+scrutinize the dead woman’s face. He seemed to search therein for some
+reassuring token, but found none, because he shook his head, dropped
+the rug, and walked a few paces dejectedly.
+
+Then, hardly knowing what he was about, he relighted his pipe, but had
+hardly put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco.
+
+Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, and
+the outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber and
+undecided aspect.
+
+More than once he looked up at the attic window of the cottage which
+had drawn his eyes before tragedy had come so swiftly to his very feet.
+But, if he hoped to see anyone, he was disappointed, though, in the
+event, it proved that his real fear was lest the person he half
+expected to see should look out.
+
+He was not disturbed in that way, however. Fish rose in the river;
+birds sang in the trees; a water-wagtail skipped nimbly from rock to
+rock in the shallows; honey-laden bees hummed past to the many hives in
+the postmaster’s garden. These were the normal sights and sounds of a
+June morning—that which was abnormal and almost grotesque in its horror
+lay hidden beneath the carriage rug.
+
+To and fro he walked in that trying vigil, carrying the empty pipe in
+one hand while, with the other, he dabbed the handkerchief at the cut
+on his face. He was aware of some singular change in the quality of the
+sunlight pouring down on lawn and river and trees. Five minutes earlier
+it had spread over the landscape a golden bloom of the tint of
+champagne; now it was sharp and cold, a clear, penetrating radiance in
+which colors were vivid and shadows black. He was in no mood to analyze
+emotions, or he might have understood that the fierce throbbing of his
+heart had literally thinned the blood in his veins and thus affected
+even his sight. He only knew that in this crystal atmosphere the major
+issues of life presented themselves with a new and crude force. At any
+rate, he made up his mind that the course suggested by truth and honor
+was the only one to follow, and that, in itself, was something gained.
+
+By the time Bates returned, accompanied by the village policeman, and
+two other men carrying a stretcher, Grant was calmer, more
+self-contained, than he had been since that hapless body was dragged
+from the depths. He was not irresponsive, therefore, to the aura of
+official importance which enveloped the policeman; he sensed a certain
+uneasiness in Bates; he even noted that the stretcher was part of the
+stock in trade of Hobbs, the local butcher, and ordinarily bore the
+carcase of a well-fed pig.
+
+These details were helpful. Naturally, Bates had explained his errand,
+and the law, in the person of the policeman, was prepared for all
+eventualities.
+
+“This is a bad business, Mr. Grant,” began the policeman, producing a
+note-book, and moistening the tip of a lead pencil with his tongue.
+Being a Sussex man, he used the same phrase as Bates. In fact, Grant
+was greeted by it a score of times that day.
+
+“Yes,” agreed Grant. “I had better tell you that I have recognized the
+poor lady. Her name is Adelaide Melhuish. Her residence is in the
+Regent’s Park district of London.”
+
+Robinson, the policeman, permitted himself to look surprised. He was,
+in fact, rather annoyed. Bates’s story had prepared him for a
+first-rate detective mystery. It was irritating to have one of its
+leading features cleared up so promptly.
+
+“Oh,” he said, drawing a line under the last entry in the note-book,
+and writing the date and hour in heavy characters beneath. “Married or
+single?”
+
+“Married, but separated from her husband when last I had news of her.”
+
+“And when was that, sir?”
+
+“Nearly three years ago.”
+
+“And you have not seen her since?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“You didn’t see her last night?”
+
+Grant positively started, but he looked at the policeman squarely.
+
+“It is strange you should ask me that,” he said. “Last night, while
+searching for a book, I saw a face at the window. It was that window,”
+and four pairs of eyes followed his pointing finger. “The face, I now
+believe, was that of the dead woman. At the moment, as it vanished
+instantly, I persuaded myself that I was the victim of some trick of
+the imagination. Still, I opened the other window, looked out and
+listened, but heard or saw nothing or no one. As I say, I fancied I had
+imagined that which was not. Now I know I was wrong.”
+
+“About what o’clock would this be, Mr. Grant?”
+
+“Shortly before eleven. I came in at a quarter past ten, and began to
+work. After writing steadily for a little more than half an hour, I
+wanted to consult a book, and lighted a candle which I keep for that
+purpose. I found the book, and was about to blow out the candle when I
+saw the face.”
+
+Robinson wrote in his note-book:—
+
+“Called to _The Hollies_ to investigate case of supposed murder. Body
+of woman found in river. Mr. Grant, occupying _The Hollies_, says that
+woman’s name is Adelaide Melhuish”—at this point he paused to ascertain
+the spelling—“and he saw her face at a window of the house at 10.45
+P.M., last night.”
+
+“Well, sir, and what next?” he went on.
+
+“It seems to me that the next thing is to have the unfortunate lady
+removed to some more suitable place than the river bank,” said Grant,
+rather impatiently. “My story can wait, and so can Bates’s. He knows
+all that I know, and has probably told you already how we came to
+discover the body. You can see for yourself that she must have been
+murdered. It is an extraordinary, I may even say a phenomenal crime,
+which certainly cannot be investigated here and now. I advise you to
+have the body taken to the village mortuary, or such other place as
+serves local needs in that respect, and summon a doctor. Then, if you
+and an inspector will call here, I’ll give you all the information I
+possess, which is very little, I may add.”
+
+Robinson began solemnly to jot down a summary of Grant’s words, and
+thereby stirred the owner of _The Hollies_ to a fury which was
+repressed with difficulty. Realizing, however, the absolute folly of
+expressing any resentment, Grant turned, and, without meaning it,
+looked again in the direction of the cottage on the crest of the
+opposite bank. This time a girl was leaning out of the dormer window.
+She had shaded her eyes with a hand, because the sun was streaming into
+her face, but when she saw that Grant was looking her way she waved a
+handkerchief.
+
+He fluttered his own blood-stained handkerchief in brief
+acknowledgment, and wheeled about, only to find P. C. Robinson watching
+him furtively, having suspended his note-taking for the purpose.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter II.
+P. C. Robinson “Takes a Line”
+
+
+“It will help me a lot, sir,” he said, “if you tell me now what you
+know about this matter. If, as seems more than likely, murder has been
+done, I don’t want to lose a minute in starting my inquiries. In a case
+of this sort I find it best to take a line, and stick to it.”
+
+His tone was respectful but firm. Evidently, P. C.  Robinson was not
+one to be trifled with. Moreover, for a sleuth whose maximum
+achievement hitherto had been the successful prosecution of a poultry
+thief, it was significant that the unconscious irony of “a case of this
+sort” should have been lost on him.
+
+“Do you really insist on conducting your investigation while the body
+is lying here?” demanded Grant, deliberately turning his back on the
+girl in the distant cottage.
+
+“Not that, sir—not altogether—but I must really ask you to clear up one
+or two points now.”
+
+“For goodness’ sake, what are they?”
+
+“Well, sir, in the first place, how did you come to find the body?”
+
+“I walked out into the garden after finishing breakfast a few minutes
+ago, and noticed the rope attached to the staple, just as you see it
+now.”
+
+“Did you walk straight here?”
+
+“No. Not exactly. I was—er—curious about the face I saw, or thought I
+saw, last night, and looked into the room through the same window. By
+doing so I scared Mrs. Bates, who was clearing the table, and she
+screamed—”
+
+“Her would, too,” put in Bates. “Her’d take ’ee for Owd Ben’s ghost.”
+
+“You shut up, Bates,” said the policeman. “Don’t interrupt Mr. Grant.”
+
+Grant was conscious of an undercurrent of suspicion in the constable’s
+manner. He was wroth with the man, but recognized that he had to deal
+with narrow-minded self-importance, so contrived again to curb his
+temper.
+
+“I am not acquainted with old Ben or his ghost,” he said quietly. “I
+can only tell you that I went inside to reassure Mrs. Bates, and then
+strolled slowly to this very spot. Naturally, I could not miss the rope
+and the staple. To my mind, it was not intended that I or anyone else
+should miss them. I regarded them as so peculiar that I shouted for
+Bates. He came at once, and drew the body out of the water.”
+
+“And you recognized the dead woman as the one you saw last night?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“At about ten minutes to eleven?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Is it likely, sir, that any other person saw her in these grounds a
+bit earlier?”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“Well, sir, I can’t put it much plainer. Could anybody else have seen
+her here, say about 10.15?”
+
+Grant met the policeman’s inquiring glance squarely before he answered.
+
+“It is possible, of course,” he said, “but most unlikely.”
+
+“Were you alone here at that hour?”
+
+Again Grant sought and held that inquisitive gaze, held it until
+Robinson affected to consult his notes. There was a moment of tense
+silence. Then the reply came with an icy stubbornness that was not to
+be denied.
+
+“I decline absolutely to be cross-examined about my movements. If you
+are unable or unwilling to order the removal of the body, I’ll
+telegraph to the chief of police at Knolesworth, and ask him to act.
+Further, I shall request Dr. Foxton to examine the poor lady’s
+injuries. It strikes me as a monstrous proceeding that you should
+attempt to record my evidence at this moment, and I refuse to become a
+party to it.”
+
+“Now, then, Robinson, stop yer Sherlock Holmes work, an’ help me to
+lift this poor woman on to the stretcher,” said Bates gruffly.
+
+The policeman’s red face grew a shade deeper with annoyance, but he had
+the sense to avoid a scene. He was not popular in the village, and was
+well aware that the two rustics pressed into service as
+stretcher-bearers would joyfully retail the fact that he had been “set
+down a peg or two by Mr. Grant.”
+
+“I’ll do all that’s necessary in that way, sir,” he said stiffly. “I
+suppose you have no objection to my askin’ if you noticed any strange
+footprints on the ground hereabouts?”
+
+“That was the first thing I looked for, both here and outside the
+window—the latter, of course, for another reason. I found none. These
+stones would show no signs. The ground is so dry that even the five men
+now present leave no traces, but I remember seeing in the bed of the
+stream certain marks which, unfortunately, were obliterated when Bates
+hauled the body ashore. They were valueless, however—shapeless
+indentations in the mud and sand.”
+
+“Were they wide apart or close together, sir?”
+
+“Quite irregular. No one could judge by the length of the stride
+whether they were made by the feet of a man or a woman, if that is what
+you have in mind ... but, really—”
+
+Grant’s impatient motion was not to be misunderstood. Robinson stooped,
+removed the rug, and unfastened the rope, after noting carefully how it
+was tied, a point which he called on the others to observe as well.
+Then he and the villagers went away with their sad burden, the rug
+being requisitioned once more to hide that wan face from the vivid
+sunshine.
+
+Bates had a trick of grasping a handful of his short whiskers when
+puzzled; he did so now; it seemed to be an unconscious effort to pull
+his jaws apart in order to emit speech.
+
+“I’ve a sort of idee, sir,” he said slowly, “that Robinson saw Doris
+Martin on the lawn with ’ee last night.”
+
+Grant turned on his henchman in a sudden heat of anger.
+
+“Miss Martin’s name must be kept out of this matter,” he growled.
+
+But Sussex is not easily browbeaten when it thinks itself in the right.
+
+“All very well a-sayin’ that, sir, but a-doin’ of it is a bird of
+another color,” argued Bates firmly.
+
+“How did you know that Miss Martin was here?”
+
+“Bless your heart, sir, how comes it that us Steynholme folk know
+everythink about other folk’s business? Sometimes we know more’n they
+knows themselves. You’ve not walked a yard wi’ Doris that the women’s
+tittle-tattle hasn’t made it into a mile.”
+
+No man, even the wisest, likes to be told an unpalatable truth. For a
+few seconds, Grant was seriously annoyed with this village Solon, and
+nearly blurted out an angry command that he should hold his tongue.
+Luckily, since Bates was only trying to be helpful, he was content to
+say sarcastically:
+
+“Of course, if you are so well posted in my movements last night, you
+can assure the coroner and the Police that I did not strangle some
+strange woman, tie a rope around her, and throw her in the river.”
+
+“Me an’ my missis couldn’t help seein’ you an’ Doris a-lookin’ at the
+stars through a spyglass when us were goin’ to bed,” persisted Bates.
+“We heerd your voices quite plain. Once ’ee fixed the glass low down,
+an’ said, ‘That’s serious. It’s late to-night.’ An’ I tell ’ee
+straight, sir, I said to the missis:—‘It will be serious, an’ all, if
+Doris’s father catches her gallivantin’ in our garden wi’ Mr. Grant
+nigh on ten o’clock.’ Soon after that ’ee took Doris as far as the
+bridge. The window was open, an’ I heerd your footsteps on the road.
+You kem’ in, closed the window, an’ drew a chair up to the table. After
+that, I fell asleep.”
+
+Perturbed and anxious though he was, Grant could hardly fail to see
+that Bates meant well by him. The mental effort needed for such a long
+speech said as much. The allusion to Sirius, amusing at any other time,
+was now most valuable, because an astronomical almanac would give the
+hour at which that brilliant star became visible. Other considerations
+yielded at once, however, to the fear lest Robinson and his note-book
+were already busy at the post office. Without another word, he hurried
+away by the side-path through the evergreens, leaving Bates staring
+after him, and, with more whisker-pulling, examining the rope and
+staple, which, by the policeman’s order, were not to be disturbed.
+
+Grant reached the highroad just as Robinson and the men with the
+stretcher were crossing a stone bridge spanning the river about a
+hundred yards below _The Hollies_. A slight, youthful, and eminently
+attractive female figure, walking swiftly in the opposite direction,
+came in sight at the same time, and Grant almost groaned aloud when the
+newcomer stood stock still and looked at the mournful procession. He,
+be it remembered, was somewhat of an idealist and a poet; it grieved
+his spirit that those two women, the quick and the dead, should meet on
+the bridge. He took it as a portent, almost a menace, he knew not of
+what. He might have foreseen that unhappy eventuality, and prevented
+it, but his brain refused to work clearly that morning. A terrible and
+bizarre crime had bemused his faculties. He seemed to be in a state of
+waking nightmare.
+
+He was stung into impetuous action by seeing the policeman halt and
+exchange some words with the girl. He began to run, with the quite
+definite if equally mad intent of punching Robinson into reasonable
+behavior. He was saved from an act of unmitigated folly by the girl
+herself. She caught sight of him, apparently broke off her talk with
+the policeman abruptly, and, in her turn, took to her heels.
+
+Thus, on that strip of sun-baked road, with its easy gradient to the
+crown of the bridge, there was the curious spectacle offered by two men
+jogging along with a corpse on a stretcher, a young man and a young
+woman running towards each other, and a discomfited representative of
+the law, looking now one way and now the other, and evidently undecided
+whether to go on or return. Ultimately, it would seem, Robinson went
+with the stretcher-bearers, because Grant and the girl saw no more of
+him for the time.
+
+Grant had received several shocks since rising from the
+breakfast-table, but it was left for Doris Martin, the postmaster’s
+daughter, to administer not the least surprising one.
+
+Though almost breathless, and wide-eyed with horror, her opening words
+were very much to the point.
+
+“How awful!” she cried. “Why should any-one in Steynholme want to kill
+a great actress like Adelaide Melhuish?”
+
+Now, the name of the dead woman was literally the last thing Grant
+expected to hear from this girl’s lips, and the astounding fact
+momentarily banished all other worries.
+
+“You knew her?” he gasped.
+
+“No, not exactly. But I couldn’t avoid recognizing her when she asked
+for her letters, and sent a telegram.”
+
+“But—”
+
+“Oh, Robinson told me she was dead. I see now what is puzzling you.”
+
+“It is not quite that. I mean, why didn’t you tell me she was in
+Steynholme? Has she been staying here any length of time?”
+
+The girl’s pretty face crimsoned, and then grew pale.
+
+“I—had no idea—she was—a friend of yours, Mr. Grant,” she stammered.
+
+“She used to be a friend, but I have not set eyes on her during the
+past three years—until last night.”
+
+“Last night!”
+
+“After you had gone home. I was doing some work, and, having occasion
+to consult a book, lighted a candle, and put it in the small window
+near the bookcase. Then I fancied I saw a woman’s face, _her_ face,
+peering in, and was so obsessed by the notion that I went outside, but
+everything was so still that I persuaded myself I was mistaken.”
+
+“Oh, is that what it was?”
+
+Grant threw out his hands in a gesture that was eloquent of some
+feeling distinctly akin to despair.
+
+“You don’t usually speak in enigmas, Doris,” he said. “What in the
+world do you mean by saying:—‘Oh, is that what it was?’”
+
+The girl—she was only nineteen, and never before had aught of tragic
+mystery entered her sheltered life—seemed to recover her
+self-possession with a quickness and decision that were admirable.
+
+“There is no enigma,” she said calmly. “My room overlooks your lawn.
+Before retiring for the night I went to the window, just to have
+another peep at Sirius and its changing lights, so I could not help
+seeing you fling open the French windows, stand a little while on the
+step, and go in again.”
+
+“Ah, you saw that? Then I have one witness who will help to dispel that
+stupid policeman’s notion that I killed Miss Melhuish, and hid her body
+in the river at the foot of the lawn, hid it with such care that the
+first passerby must find it.”
+
+Every human being has three distinct personalities. Firstly, there is
+the man or woman as he or she really is; secondly, there is the much
+superior individual as assessed personally; thirdly, and perhaps the
+most important in the general scheme of things, there is the same
+individuality as viewed by others. For an instant, the somewhat
+idealized figure which John Menzies Grant offered to a pretty and
+intelligent but inexperienced girl was in danger of losing its
+impressiveness. But, since Grant was not only a good fellow but a
+gentleman, his next thought restored him to the pedestal from which,
+all unknowing, he had nearly been dethroned.
+
+“That is a nice thing to say,” he cried, with a short laugh of sheer
+vexation. “Here am I regarding you as a first-rate witness in my
+behalf, whereas my chief worry is to keep you out of this ugly business
+altogether. Forgive me, Doris! Never before have I been so bothered.
+Honestly, I imagined I hadn’t an enemy in the world, yet someone has
+tried deliberately to saddle me with suspicion in this affair. Not that
+I would give real heed to that consideration if it were not for the
+unhappy probability that, strive as I may, your name will crop up in
+connection with it. What sort of fellow is this police constable? Do
+you think he would keep his mouth shut if I paid him well?”
+
+Grant was certainly far from being in his normal state of mind, or he
+would have caught the tender gleam which lighted the girl’s eyes when
+she understood that his concern was for her, not for himself. As it
+was, several things had escaped him during that brief talk on the
+sunlit road.
+
+On her part, Doris Martin was now in full control of her emotions, and
+she undoubtedly took a saner view of a difficult situation.
+
+“Robinson is a vain man,” she said thoughtfully. “He will not let go
+the chance of notoriety given him by the murder of a well-known
+actress. Was she really murdered? Robinson said so when I met him on
+the bridge.”
+
+“I’m afraid he is justified in that belief, at any rate.”
+
+“Well, Mr. Grant, what have we to conceal? I was in your garden at a
+rather late hour, I admit, but one cannot watch the stars by day, and a
+big telescope with its tripod is not easily carried about. Of course,
+father will be vexed, because, as it happens, I did not tell him I was
+coming out. But that cannot be helped. As it happens, I can fix the
+time you opened your window almost to a minute, because the church
+clock had chimed the quarter just before you appeared.”
+
+Grant, however, was not to be soothed by this matter-of-fact reasoning.
+
+“I am vexed at the mere notion of your name, and possibly your
+portrait, appearing in the newspapers,” he protested. “Miss Melhuish
+was a celebrated actress. The press will make a rare commotion about
+her death. Look at the obvious questions that will be raised. What was
+she doing here? Why was she found in the river bordering the grounds of
+my house? Don’t you see? I had to decide pretty quickly whether or not
+I would admit any previous knowledge of her. I suppose I acted
+rightly?”
+
+“Why hide anything, Mr. Grant? Surely it is always best to tell the
+truth!”
+
+He looked into those candid blue eyes, and drew from their limpid
+depths an element of strength and fortitude.
+
+“By Jove, Doris, small wonder if a jaded man of the world, such as I
+was when I came to Steynholme, found new faith and inspiration in
+friendship with you,” he said gratefully. “But I am wool-gathering all
+the time this morning, it would seem. Won’t you come into the house? If
+we have to discuss a tragedy we may as well sit down to it.”
+
+“No,” she said, with the promptitude of one who had anticipated the
+invitation. “I must hurry home. There are accounts to be made up. And
+Robinson and others will be telegraphing to Knoleworth and London. I
+must attend to all that, because dad gets flustered if several messages
+are handed in at the same time.”
+
+“Come and have tea, then, about four o’clock. The ravens will have fled
+by then.”
+
+“The ravens?”
+
+“The police, you dear child, and the reporters, and the
+photographers—the flock of weird fowl which gathers from all points of
+the compass when the press gets hold of what is called ‘a first-rate
+story,’ By midday I shall be in the thick of it. But, thank goodness,
+they will know nothing to draw them your way until the inquest takes
+place, and not even then if _I_ can manage it.”
+
+“Don’t mind me, Mr. Grant. You must not keep anything back on my
+account. I’ll try and come at four. But I may be very busy in the
+office. By the way, you ought to know. Miss Melhuish came here on
+Sunday evening. She arrived by the train from London. I—happened to
+notice her as she passed in the Hare and Hounds’ bus. She took a room
+there, at the inn, I mean, and came to the post office twice yesterday.
+When I heard her name I recognized her at once from her photographs.
+And—one more thing—I guessed there was something wrong when I saw you,
+and Robinson, and Bates, and the other men standing near a body lying
+close to the river. That is why I came out. Now I really must go.
+Good-by!”
+
+She hastened away. Grant stood in the road and looked after her.
+Apparently she was conscious that he had not stirred, because, when she
+reached the bridge, she turned and waved a hand to him. She was
+exceedingly graceful in all her movements. She wore a simple white
+linen blouse and short white skirt that morning, with brown shoes and
+stockings which harmonized with the deeper tints of her Titian red
+hair. As she paused on the bridge for a second or two, silhouetted
+against the sky, she suggested to Grant’s troubled mind the Spirit of
+Summer.
+
+Returning to the house by way of the main gate, which gave on to the
+highway, he bethought him of Mrs. Bates and Minnie. They must be
+enlightened, and warned as to the certain influx of visitors. He
+resolved now to tackle a displeasing task boldly. Realizing that the
+worst possible policy lay in denying himself to the representatives of
+the press, who would simply ascertain the facts from other sources, and
+unconsciously adopt a critical vein with regard to himself, he
+determined to go to the other extreme, and receive all comers.
+
+Of course, there would be reservations in his story. That is what every
+man decides who faces a legal inquiry as a novice. It is a decision too
+often regretted in the light of after events.
+
+Meanwhile, P. C. Robinson was hard at work. In his own phrase, he “took
+a line,” and the trend of his thoughts was clearly demonstrated when a
+superintendent motored over from Knoleworth in response to a telegram.
+He told how the body had been found, and then went into details
+gathered in the interim.
+
+“Miss Melhuish hadn’t been in the village five minutes,” he said,
+“before she asked Mr. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds, where
+_The Hollies_ was, and how long Mr. Grant had lived in the village. She
+went for a walk in the direction of his house almost at once. Tomlin
+watched her until she crossed the bridge. That was on Sunday evening.”
+
+Superintendent Fowler allowed his placid features to show a flicker of
+surprise. In that rural district an actual, downright murder was almost
+unknown. Even a case of manslaughter, arising out of a drunken quarrel
+between laborers at fair-time, did not occur once in five years.
+
+“Oh, she came here on Sunday, did she?” he asked.
+
+“Yes, sir. Yesterday, too, she spoke of Mr. Grant to Hobbs, the
+butcher, and Siddle, the chemist.”
+
+The two were closeted in the sitting-room of Robinson’s cottage, which
+was situated on the main road near the bridge. It faced the short,
+steep hill overhanging the river. A triangular strip of turf formed the
+village green, and the houses of Steynholme clustered around this and a
+side road climbing the hill. From door and windows nearly every shop
+and residence in the village proper could be seen. In front of the Hare
+and Hounds had gathered a group of men, and it was easy to guess the
+topic they were discussing. The superintendent, who did not know any of
+them, had no difficulty in identifying Hobbs, who looked a butcher and
+was dressed like one, or Tomlin, who was either born an innkeeper or
+had been coached in the part by a stage expert. A thin, sharp-looking
+person, pallid and black-haired, wearing a morning coat and striped
+trousers, must surely be Siddle, while a fourth, the youngest there,
+and of rather sporting guise, was apparently a farmer of a
+horse-breeding turn.
+
+“Who is that fellow in the leggings?” inquired the superintendent
+irrelevantly. He was looking through the window, and Robinson
+considered that the question showed a lack of interest in his
+statement, though he dared not hint at such a thing.
+
+“He’s a Mr. Elkin, sir,” he said. “As I was saying—”
+
+“How does Mr. Elkin make a living?” broke in the other.
+
+“He breeds hacks and polo ponies,” said Robinson, rather shortly.
+
+“Ah, I thought so. Well, go on with your story.”
+
+Robinson was irritated, and justly so. His superior had put him off his
+“line.” He took it up again sharply, leaving out of court for the
+moment the various rills of evidence which, in his opinion, united into
+a swift-moving stream.
+
+“The fact is, sir,” he blurted out, “there is an uncommonly strong case
+against Mr. John Menzies Grant.”
+
+“Phew!” whistled the superintendent.
+
+“I think you’ll agree with me, sir, when you hear what I’ve gathered
+about him one way and another.”
+
+Robinson was sure of his audience now. Quite unconsciously, he had
+applied the chief canon of realism in art. He had conveyed his effect
+by one striking note. The rest of the picture was quite subsidiary to
+the bold splurge of color evoked by actually naming the man he
+suspected of murdering Adelaide Melhuish.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter III.
+The Gathering Clouds
+
+
+Thus, it befell that Grant was not worried by officialdom until long
+after his housekeeper and her daughter had recovered from the shock of
+learning that they were, in a sense, connected at first hand with a
+ghastly and sensational crime.
+
+Like Bates and their employer, neither Mrs. Bates nor Minnie had heard
+or seen anything overnight which suggested that a woman was being
+foully done to death in the grounds attached to the house. As it
+happened, Minnie’s bedroom, as well as that occupied by her parents,
+overlooked the lawn and river. Grant’s room lay in a gable which
+commanded the entrance. He had chosen it purposely because it faced the
+rising sun. The other members of the household, therefore, though in
+bed, had quite as good an opportunity as he, working in the dining-room
+beneath, of having their attention drawn to sounds disturbing the peace
+of the night in a quiet and secluded spot. Moreover, none of them was
+asleep. Minnie Bates, in particular, said that the “grandfather’s
+clock” in the hall struck twelve before she “could close an eye.”
+
+At last, just as Grant was rising from an almost untasted luncheon,
+Mrs. Bates, with a voice of scare, announced “the polis,” and P. C. 
+Robinson introduced Superintendent Fowler. This time Grant did not
+resent questions. He expected them, and had made up his mind to give
+full and detailed answers. Of course, the finding of the body was again
+described minutely. The superintendent, a man of experience, one whose
+manner was not fox-like and irritating like his subordinate’s, paid
+close attention to the face at the window.
+
+“There seems to be little room for doubt that Miss Melhuish did enter
+your grounds about a quarter to eleven last night,” he said
+thoughtfully. “You recognized her at once, you say?”
+
+“I imagined so. Until this horrible thing became known I had persuaded
+myself that the vision was a piece of sheer hallucination.”
+
+“Let us assume that the lady actually came here, and looked in.
+Evidently, her face was sufficiently familiar that you should know
+instantly who this unusual visitor was. I understand, though, that you
+had not the least notion she was staying in Steynholme?”
+
+“Not the least.”
+
+“How long ago is it since you last saw her?”
+
+“Nearly three years.”
+
+“You were very well acquainted with her, then, or you could not have
+glanced up from your table, seen someone staring at you through a
+window, and said to yourself, as one may express it:—‘That is Adelaide
+Melhuish’.”
+
+“We were so well acquainted that I asked the lady to be my wife.”
+
+“Ah,” said the superintendent.
+
+His placid, unemotional features, however, gave no clew to his
+opinions. Not so P. C. Robinson, who tried to look like a judge,
+whereas he really resembled a bull-terrier who has literally, not
+figuratively, smelt a rat.
+
+Despite his earlier good resolutions, Grant was horribly impatient of
+this inquisition. He admitted that the superintendent was carrying
+through an unpleasant duty as inoffensively as possible, but the
+attitude of the village policeman was irritating in the extreme.
+Nothing would have tended so effectively to relieve his surcharged
+feelings as to supply P. C. Robinson then and there with ample material
+for establishing a charge of assault and battery.
+
+“That is not a remarkable fact, if regarded apart from to-day’s
+tragedy,” he said, and there was more than a hint of soul-weariness in
+his voice. “Miss Melhuish was a very talented and attractive woman. I
+first met her as the outcome of a suggestion that one of my books
+should be dramatized, a character in the novel being deemed eminently
+suitable for her special rôle on the stage. The idea came to nothing.
+She was appearing in a successful play at the time, and was rehearsing
+its successor. Meanwhile, I—fell in love with her, I suppose, and she
+certainly encouraged me in the belief that she might accept me. I did
+eventually propose marriage. Then she told me she was married already.
+It was a painful disillusionment—at the time. I only saw her, to speak
+to, once again.”
+
+“Did she reveal her husband’s name?”
+
+“Yes—a Mr. Ingerman.”
+
+The superintendent looked grave. That was a professional trick of his.
+He had never before in his life heard of Mr. Ingerman, but encouraged
+the notion that this gentleman was thoroughly, and not quite favorably,
+known to him. Sometimes it happened that a witness, interpreting this
+sapient look by the light of his or her personal and intimate
+knowledge, would blurt out certain facts, good or bad as the case might
+be, concerning the person under discussion.
+
+But Grant remained obstinately silent as to the qualities of this
+doubtful Ingerman, so Mr. Fowler scribbled the name in a note-book, and
+was particular as to whether it ended in one “n” or two.
+
+Still, he carried other shots in his locker. In fact, Mr. Fowler, had
+he taken in youth to nicer legal subtleties than handcuffs and
+summonses, would have become a shrewd lawyer.
+
+“We’ll leave Mr. Ingerman for the moment,” he said, implying, of
+course, that on returning to him there might be revelations. “I gather
+that you and Miss Melhuish did not agree, shall I put it? as to the
+precise bearing of the marriage tie on your love affair?”
+
+“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your meaning,” and Grant’s tone
+stiffened ominously, but his questioner was by no means abashed.
+
+“I have no great acquaintance with the stage or its ways, but I have
+always understood that divorce proceedings among theatrical folk were,
+shall we say? more popular than, in the ordinary walks of life,” said
+Mr. Fowler.
+
+Grant’s resentment vanished. The superintendent’s calm method, his
+interpolated apologies, as it were, for applying the probe, were
+beginning to interest him.
+
+“Your second effort is more successful, superintendent,” he said dryly.
+“Miss Melhuish did urge me to obtain her freedom. It was, she thought,
+only a matter of money with Mr. Ingerman, and she would be given
+material for a divorce.”
+
+“Ah,” murmured Fowler again, as though the discreditable implication
+fitted in exactly with the life history of a noted scoundrel in a
+written _dossier_ then lying in his office. “You objected, may I
+suggest, to that somewhat doubtful means of settling a difficulty?”
+
+“Something of the kind.”
+
+Assuredly, Grant did not feel disposed to lay bare his secret feelings
+before this persuasive superintendent and an absurdly conceited village
+constable. Love, to him, was an ideal, a blend of mortal passion and
+immortal fire. But the flame kindled on that secret altar had scorched
+and seared his soul in a wholly unforeseen way. The discovery that
+Adelaide Melhuish was another man’s wife had stunned him. It was not
+until the fire of sacrifice had died into parched ashes that its
+earlier banality became clear. He realized then that he had given his
+love to a phantom. By one of nature’s miracles a vain and selfish
+creature was gifted in the artistic portrayal of the finer emotions. He
+had worshiped the actress, the mimic, not the woman herself. At any
+rate, that was how he read the repellent notion that he should bargain
+with any man for the sale of a wife.
+
+“You might be a trifle more explicit, Mr. Grant,” said the
+superintendent, almost reproachfully.
+
+“In what direction? Surely a three-years-old love affair can have
+little practical bearing on Miss Melhuish’s death?”
+
+“What, then, may I ask, could bear on it more forcibly? The lady
+admittedly visits you, late at night, and is found dead in a river
+bordering the grounds of your house next morning, all the conditions
+pointing directly to murder. Moreover—it is no secret, as the truth
+must come out at the inquest—she had passed a good deal of her time
+while in Steynholme, unknown to you, in making inquiries concerning
+you, your habits, your surroundings, your friends. Surely, Mr. Grant,
+you must see that the history of your relations with this lady, though,
+if I may use the phrase, perfectly innocent, may possibly supply that
+which is at present lacking—a clew, shall I term it, to the motive
+which inspired the man, or woman, who killed her?”
+
+P. C.  Robinson was all an eye and an ear for this verbal
+fencing-match. It was not that he admired his superior’s skill, because
+such finesse was wholly beyond him, but his suspicious brain was
+storing up Grant’s admissions “to be used in evidence” against him
+subsequently. His own brief record of the conversation would have
+been:—“The prisoner, after being duly cautioned, said he kept company
+with the deceased about three years ago, but quarreled with her on
+hearing that she was a married woman.”
+
+The superintendent seldom indulged in so long a speech, but he was
+determined to force his adversary’s guard, and sought to win his
+confidence by describing the probable course to be pursued by the
+coroner’s inquest. But Grant, like the dead actress, had two sides to
+his nature. He was both an idealist and a stubborn fighter, and
+ideality had been shattered for many a day by that grewsome object
+hauled in that morning from the depths of the river.
+
+“I am willing to help in any shape or form, but can only repeat that
+Miss Melhuish and I parted as described. I should add that I have
+never, to my knowledge, met her husband.”
+
+“He may be dead.”
+
+“Possibly. You may know more about him than I.”
+
+“Even then, we have not traveled far as yet.”
+
+Fowler was puzzled, and did not hesitate to show it. He believed, not
+without reasonable cause, that this young man was concealing some
+element in the situation which might prove helpful in the quest for the
+murderer. He resolved to strike off along a new track.
+
+“I am informed,” he went on, speaking with a deliberateness meant to be
+impressive, “that you did entertain another lady as a visitor last
+night.”
+
+Grant allowed his glance to dwell on Robinson for an instant. Hitherto
+he had ignored the man. Now he surveyed him as if he were a viper.
+
+“It will be a peculiarly offensive thing if the personality of a
+helpless and unoffending girl is brought into this inquiry,” he cried.
+“‘Brought in’ is too mild—I ought to say ‘dragged in.’ As it happens,
+astronomy is one of my hobbies. Last evening, as the outcome of a chat
+on the subject, Doris Martin, daughter of the local postmaster, came
+here to view Sirius through an astronomical telescope. There is the
+instrument,” and he pointed through P. C.  Robinson to a telescope on a
+tripod in a corner of the room. The gesture was eloquent. The burly
+policeman might have been a sheet of glass. “As you see, it is a solid
+article, not easily lifted about. It weighs nearly a hundred-weight.”
+
+“Why is it so heavy?”
+
+The superintendent had a knack of putting seemingly irrelevant
+questions. Robinson had been disconcerted by it earlier in the day, but
+Grant seemed to treat the interruption as a sensible one.
+
+“For observation purposes an astronomical telescope is not of much use
+unless the movement of the earth is counteracted,” he said. “Usually,
+the dome of an observatory swings on a specially contrived axis, but
+that is a very expensive structure, so my telescope is governed by a
+clockwork attachment and moves on its own axis.”
+
+Mr. Fowler nodded. He was really a very well informed man for a country
+police-officer; he understood clearly.
+
+“Miss Martin came here about a quarter to ten,” continued Grant, “and
+left within three-quarters of an hour. She did not enter the house. She
+was watching Sirius while I explained the methods whereby the distance
+of any star from the earth is computed and its chemical analysis
+determined—”
+
+“Most instructive, I’m sure,” put in the superintendent.
+
+He smiled genially, so genially that Grant dismissed the notion that
+the other might, in vulgar parlance, be pulling his leg.
+
+“Well, that is the be-all and end-all of Miss Martin’s presence. It
+would be cruel, and unfair, if a girl of her age were forced into a
+distasteful prominence in connection with a crime with which she is no
+more related than with Sirius itself.”
+
+The older man shook his head in regretful dissent.
+
+“That is just where you and I differ,” he said. “That very point leads
+us back to your past friendship with the dead woman.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Surely you see, Mr. Grant, that Miss Melhuish might be, probably was,
+watching your star-gazing, especially as your pupil chanced to be,
+shall I say, a remarkably attractive young lady ... No, no,” for
+Grant’s anger was unmistakable—“It does no good to blaze out in
+protest. An unhappy combination of circumstances must be faced
+candidly. Here are you and a pretty girl together in a garden at a
+rather late hour, and a woman whom you once wanted to marry spying on
+you, in all likelihood. I’ve met a few coroner’s juries in my time, and
+not one of them but would deem the coincidence strange, to put it
+mildly.”
+
+“What in Heaven’s name are you driving at?”
+
+“You must not impute motives, sir. I am seeking them, not supplying
+them.”
+
+“But what am I to say?”
+
+“Perhaps you will now tell me just how Miss Melhuish and you parted.”
+
+The fencers were coming to close quarters. Even P. C. Robinson had to
+admit that his “boss” had cornered the suspect rather cleverly.
+
+Grant realized that there was no room for squeamishness in this affair.
+If he did not speak out now, his motives might be woefully
+misunderstood.
+
+“We parted in wrath and tears,” he said sadly. “Miss Melhuish could
+not, or did not, appreciate my scruples. She professed to be in love
+with me. She even went so far as to threaten suicide. I—hardly believed
+in her sincerity, but thought it advisable to temporize, and asked for
+a few days’ delay before we came to a final decision. We met again, as
+I have said, and discussed matters in calmer mood. Ultimately, she
+professed agreement with my point of view, and we parted, ostensibly to
+remain good friends, but really to separate for ever.”
+
+“Thank you. That’s better. What _was_ your point of view, Mr. Grant?”
+
+“Surely I have made it clear. I could not regard my wife as
+purchasable. The proposed compact was, I believe, illegal. But that
+consideration did not sway me. I had been dreaming, and thought I was
+roaming in an enchanted garden. I awoke, and found myself in a morass.”
+
+The superintendent nodded again. Singularly enough, Grant’s somewhat
+high-flown simile appeared to satisfy his craving for light.
+
+“Do you mind telling me—is there another woman?” he demanded, with one
+of those rapid transitions of topic in which he excelled.
+
+“No,” said Grant.
+
+“You see what I am aiming at. Let us suppose that Miss Melhuish never,
+in her own mind, abandoned the hope that some day the tangle would
+straighten itself. Women are constituted that way. If her husband is
+now dead, and she became free, she might wish to renew the old ties,
+but, being proud, would want to ascertain first whether or not any
+other woman had come into your life.”
+
+“I follow perfectly,” said Grant, with some bitterness. “She would be
+consumed with jealousy because my companion in the garden last night
+happened to be a charming girl of nineteen.”
+
+“It is possible.”
+
+“So she went off and got someone to kill her, and tie her body with a
+rope, and arrange a dramatic setting whereby it would be patent to the
+meanest intelligence that I was the criminal?”
+
+Mr. Fowler smiled, and looked fixedly at P. C.  Robinson.
+
+“No, no,” he said, quite good-humoredly. “That would be carrying
+realism to extremes. Still, I am convinced, Mr. Grant, that this
+mystery is bound up in some way with your romance of three years ago.
+At present, I admit, I am working in the dark.”
+
+He rose. Apparently, the interview was at an end. But, while pocketing
+his note-book, he said suddenly:—
+
+“The inquest will open at three o’clock tomorrow. You will be present,
+of course, Mr. Grant?”
+
+“I suppose it is necessary.”
+
+“Oh, yes. You found the body, you know. Besides, you may be the only
+person who can give evidence of identity. In fact, you and the doctor
+will be the only witnesses called.”
+
+“Dr. Foxton?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Has he made a post-mortem?”
+
+“He is doing so now. You see, there is clear indication that this
+unfortunate lady was struck a heavy blow, perhaps killed, before she
+was put in the river.”
+
+“Good Heavens! Somehow, I was so stunned that I never thought of
+looking for signs of any injury of that sort.”
+
+Grant’s horror-stricken air was so spontaneous that it probably
+justified the severe test of that unexpected disclosure. He was so
+unnerved by it that the two policemen had gone before he could frame
+another question.
+
+Once they were in the open road, and well away from _The Hollies_,
+Robinson ventured to open his mouth.
+
+“He’s a clever one is Mr. Grant,” he said meaningly. “You handled him a
+bit of all right, sir, but he didn’t tell you everything he knew, not
+by long chalks.”
+
+The superintendent walked a few yards in silence. Even when he spoke,
+his gaze was introspective, and seemed to ignore his companion.
+
+“I’m inclined to agree with you, Robinson,” he said, speaking very
+slowly. “We have a big case in our hands, a very big case. We must
+tread warily. You, in particular, mixing with the village folk, should
+listen to all but say nothing. Don’t depend on your memory. Write down
+what you hear and see. People’s actual words, and the exact time of an
+occurrence, often have an extraordinarily illuminating effect when
+weighed subsequently. But don’t let Mr. Grant think you suspect him.
+There is no occasion for that—yet.”
+
+Mr. Fowler could be either blunt or cryptic in speech at will. In one
+mood he was the straightforward, outspoken official; in another the
+potential lawyer. P. C.  Robinson, though unable to describe his
+chief’s erratic qualities, was unpleasantly aware of them. He was not
+quite sure, for instance, whether the superintendent was encouraging or
+warning him, but, being a dogged person, resolved to “take his own
+line,” and stick to it.
+
+Grant passed a distressful day. Work was not to be thought of, and
+reading was frankly impossible. His mind dwelt constantly on the
+tragedy which had come so swiftly and completely into his ordered life.
+He could not wholly discard the nebulous theory suggested by
+Superintendent Fowler, but the more he surveyed it the less reasonable
+it seemed. The one outstanding fact in a chaos of doubt was that
+someone had deliberately done Adelaide Melhuish to death. The murderer
+had been actuated by a motive. What was that motive? Surely, in a place
+like Steynholme no man could come and go without being seen, and the
+murderer must be a stranger to the district, because it was ridiculous
+to imagine that he was one of the residents.
+
+Yet that was exactly what a dunderheaded policeman believed. P. C.
+Robinson had revealed himself by many a covert glance and prick-eared
+movement. Grant squirmed uneasily at the crass conceit, as there was no
+denying that circumstances tended towards a certain doubt, if no more,
+in regard to his own association with the crime.
+
+The admission called for a fierce struggle with his pride, but he
+forced himself to think the problem out in all its bearings, and the
+folly of adopting the legendary policy of the chased ostrich became
+manifest. What, then, should he do? He thought, at first, of invoking
+the aid of a barrister friend, who could watch the inquest in his
+behalf.
+
+Nevertheless, he shrank from that step, which, to his super-sensitive
+nature, implied the need of legal protection, and he fiercely resented
+the mere notion of such a thing. But something must be done. Once the
+murderer was laid by the heels his own troubles would vanish, and the
+storm raised by the unhappy fate of Adelaide Melhuish would subside
+into a sad memory.
+
+He was wrestling with indecision when a newspaper reporter called.
+Grant received the journalist promptly, and told him all the salient
+facts, suppressing only the one-time prospect of a marriage between
+himself and the famous actress.
+
+The reporter went with him to the river, and scrutinized the marks, now
+rapidly becoming obliterated, of the body having been drawn ashore.
+
+“The rope and iron staple, I understand, were taken from the premises
+of a man who lets boats for hire on the dam quarter of a mile away,” he
+said casually.
+
+Grant was astounded at his own failure to make any inquiry whatsoever
+concerning this vital matter. He laughed grimly.
+
+“You can imagine the state of my mind,” he said, “when I assure you
+that, until this moment, it never occurred to me even to ask where
+these articles came from or what had become of them.”
+
+“I can sympathize with you,” said the journalist. “A brutal murder
+seems horribly out of place in this environment. It is a mysterious
+business altogether. I wonder if Scotland Yard will take it up.”
+
+Grant surprised him by clapping him on the back.
+
+“By Jove, my friend, the very thing! Of course, such an investigation
+requires bigger brains than our local police are endowed with. Scotland
+Yard _must_ take it up. I’ll wire there at once. If necessary, I’ll pay
+all expenses.”
+
+The newspaper man had his doubts. The “Yard,” he said, acted in the
+provinces only if appealed to by the authorities directly concerned.
+But Grant was not to be stayed by a trifle like that. He hurried to the
+post office, hoping that Doris Martin might walk back with him.
+
+The girl and her father were busy behind the counter when he entered.
+He noticed that Doris was rather pale. She was about to attend to him,
+but Mr. Martin intervened. It struck Grant that the postmaster was
+purposely preventing his daughter from speaking to him.
+
+For some inexplicable reason, he felt miserably tongue-tied, and was
+content to write a message to the Chief Commissioner of Police, London,
+asking that a skilled detective should be sent forthwith to Steynholme.
+
+Mr. Martin read it gravely, stated the cost, and procured the requisite
+stamps. In the event, Grant quitted the place without exchanging a word
+with Doris, while her father, usually a chatty man, said not a syllable
+beyond what was barely needed.
+
+As he passed down the hill and by the side of the Green he was aware of
+being covertly watched by many eyes. He saw P. C.  Robinson peering
+from behind a curtained window. Siddle, the chemist, came to the shop
+door, and looked after him. Hobbs, the butcher, ceased sharpening a
+knife and gazed out. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds Inn,
+surveyed him from the “snug.”
+
+These things were not gracious. Indeed, they were positively maddening.
+He went home, gave an emphatic order that no one, except Miss Martin,
+if she called, was to be admitted and savagely buried himself in a
+treatise on earth-tides.
+
+But that day of events had not finished for him yet. He had, perforce,
+eaten a good meal, and was thinking of going to the post office in
+order to clear up an undoubted misapprehension in Mr. Martin’s mind,
+when Minnie Bates came with a card.
+
+“If you please, sir,” said the girl, “this gentleman is very pressing.
+He says he’s sure you’ll give him an interview when you see his name.”
+
+So Grant looked, and read:—
+
+Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman
+
+_Prince’s Chambers, London, W._
+
+
+
+
+Chapter IV.
+A Cabal
+
+
+Grant stared again at the card. A tiny silver bell seemed to tinkle a
+sort of warning in a recess of his brain. The name was not engraved in
+copper-plate, but printed in heavy type. Somehow, it looked ominous.
+His first impression was to bid Minnie send the man away. He distrusted
+any first impression. It was the excuse of mediocrity, a sign of
+weakness. Moreover, why shouldn’t he meet Isidor G. Ingerman?
+
+“Show him in,” he said, almost gruffly, thus silencing shy intuition,
+as it were. He threw the card on the table.
+
+Mr. Ingerman entered. He did not offer any conventional greeting, but
+nodded, or bowed. Grant could not be sure which form of salutation was
+intended, because the visitor promptly sat down, uninvited.
+
+Minnie hesitated at the door. Her master’s callers were usually
+cheerful Bohemians, who chatted at sight. Then she caught Grant’s eye,
+and went out, banging the door in sheer nervousness.
+
+Still Mr. Ingerman did not speak. If this was a pose on his part, he
+erred. Grant had passed through a trying day, but he owned the muscles
+and nerves of an Alpine climber, and had often stared calmly down a
+wall of rock and ice which he had just conquered, when the least slip
+would have meant being dashed to pieces two thousand feet below.
+
+There was some advantage, too, in this species of stage wait. It
+enabled him to take the measure of Adelaide Melhuish’s husband, if,
+indeed, the visitor was really the man he professed to be.
+
+At first sight, Isidor G. Ingerman was not a prepossessing person.
+Indeed, it would be safe to assume that if, by some trick of fortune,
+he and not Grant were the tenant of _The Hollies_, P. C.  Robinson
+would have haled him to the village lock-up that very morning. It was
+not that he was villainous-looking, but rather that he looked capable
+of villainy. He was a tall, slender, rather stooping man, with a
+decidedly well-molded, if hawk-like, face. His aspect might be
+described as saturnine. Possibly, when he smiled, this morose
+expression would vanish, and then he might even win a favorable
+opinion. He had brilliant black eyes, close set, and an abundant crop
+of black hair, turning gray, which, in itself, lent an air of
+distinction. His lips were thin, his chin slightly prominent. He was
+well dressed, and managed a hat, stick, and gloves with ease.
+Altogether, he reminded Grant of a certain notable actor who is
+invariably cast for the rôle of a gentlemanly scoundrel, but who, in
+private life, is a most excellent fellow and good citizen. Oddly
+enough, Grant recognized in him, too, the type of man who would
+certainly have appealed to Adelaide Melhuish in her earlier and
+impressionable years.
+
+Meanwhile, the visitor, finding that the clear-eyed young man seated in
+an easy chair (from which he had not risen) could seemingly regard him
+with blank indifference during the next hour, thought fit to say
+something.
+
+“Is my name familiar to you, Mr. Grant?” he inquired.
+
+The voice was astonishingly soft and pleasant, and the accent agreeably
+refined. Evidently, there were surprising points about Mr. Ingerman.
+Long afterwards, Grant learned, by chance, that the man had been an
+actor before branching off into that mysterious cosmopolitan profession
+known as “a financier.”
+
+“No,” said Grant. “I have heard it very few times. Once, about three
+years ago, and today, when I mentioned it to the police.”
+
+The other man’s sallow cheeks grew a shade more sallow. Grant supposed
+that this slight change of color indicated annoyance. Of course, the
+association of ideas in that curt answer was intolerably rude. But
+Grant had been tried beyond endurance that day. He was in a mood to be
+brusque with an archbishop.
+
+“We can disregard your confidences, or explanations, to the police,”
+said Ingerman smoothly. “Three years ago, I suppose, my wife spoke of
+me?”
+
+“If you mean Miss Adelaide Melhuish—yes.”
+
+“I do mean her. To be exact, I mean the lady who was murdered outside
+this house last night.”
+
+Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of
+even a novelist’s skill in repartee. Thus far, he, Grant, had been
+merely uncivil, using a bludgeon for wit, whereas the visitor was
+making play with a finely-tempered rapier.
+
+“Now that you have established your identity, Mr. Ingerman, perhaps you
+will tell me why you are here,” he said.
+
+“I have come to Steynholme to inquire into my wife’s death.”
+
+“A most laudable purpose. I was given to understand, however, that at
+one time you took little interest in her living. I have not seen Mrs.
+Ingerman for three years—until last night, that is—so there is a
+chance, of course, that husband and wife may have adjusted their
+differences. Is that so?”
+
+“Until last night!” repeated Ingerman, almost in a startled tone. “You
+admit that?”
+
+Grant turned and pointed.
+
+“I saw, or fancied I saw, her face at that window,” he said. “She
+looked in on me about ten minutes to eleven. I was hard at work, but
+the vision, as it seemed then, was so weird and unexpected, that I went
+straight out and searched for her. Perhaps ‘searched’ is not quite the
+right word. To be exact, I opened the French window, stood there, and
+listened. Then I persuaded myself that I was imagining a vain thing,
+and came in.”
+
+“What was she doing here?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“She arrived in Steynholme on Sunday evening, I am told.”
+
+“I heard that, too.”
+
+“You imply that you did not meet her?”
+
+“No need to imply anything, Mr. Ingerman. I did not meet her. Beyond
+the fanciful notion that I had seen her ghost last night, the first I
+knew of her presence in the village was when I recognized her dead body
+this morning.”
+
+“Strange as it may sound, I am inclined to believe you.”
+
+Grant said nothing. He wanted to get up and pitch Ingerman into the
+road.
+
+“But who else will take that charitable view?” purred the other, in
+that suave voice which so ill accorded with his thin lips and slightly
+hooked nose.
+
+“I really don’t care,” was the weary answer.
+
+“Not at the moment, perhaps. You have had a trying day, no doubt. My
+visit at its close cannot be helpful. But—”
+
+“I am feeling rather tired mentally,” interrupted Grant, “so you will
+oblige me by not raising too many points at once. Why should you
+imagine that conversation with you in particular should add to my
+supposed distress?”
+
+“Doesn’t it?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Why, then, may I ask, do you so obviously resent my questions? Who has
+so much right to put them as I?”
+
+Grant found that he must bestir himself. Thus far, the honors lay with
+this rather sinister-looking yet quiet-mannered visitor.
+
+“I am sorry if anything I have said lends color to that belief,” he
+answered. “Candidly, I began by assuming that you forfeited any legal
+right years ago to interfere in behalf of Miss Melhuish, living or
+dead. Let us, at least, be candid with each other. Miss Melhuish
+herself told me that you and she had separated by mutual consent.”
+
+“Allow me to emulate your candor. The actual fact is that you weaned my
+wife’s affections from me.”
+
+“That is a downright lie,” said Grant coolly.
+
+Ingerman’s peculiar temperament permitted him to treat this grave
+insult far more lightly than Grant’s harmless, if irritating, reference
+to the police.
+
+“Let us see just what ‘a lie’ signifies,” he said, almost judicially.
+“If a lady deserts her husband, and there is good reason to suspect
+that she is, in popular phrase, ‘carrying on’ with another man, how can
+the husband be lying if he charges that man with being the cause of the
+domestic upheaval?”
+
+“In this instance a hypothetical case is not called for. Three years
+ago, Mr. Ingerman, you had parted from your wife. Your name was never
+mentioned. Apparently, none in my circle had even heard of you. Miss
+Melhuish had won repute as a celebrated actress. I met her, in a sense,
+professionally. We became friends. I fancied I was in love with her. I
+proposed marriage. Then, and not until then, did the ghost of
+Mr.”—Grant bent forward, and consulted the card—“Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman
+intrude.”
+
+“So marriage was out of the question?”
+
+“If you expect an answer—yes.”
+
+Ingerman rested the handle of his stick against his lips.
+
+“That isn’t how the situation was represented to me at the time,” he
+said thoughtfully.
+
+Grant was still sore with the recollection of the way in which the
+superintendent of police had forced him to confess the pitiful scheme
+whereby a woman in love had sought to gain her ends. He refused to
+sully her memory a second time that day, even to gain the upper hand in
+this troublesome controversy.
+
+“I neither know nor care what representations may have been made to
+you,” he retorted. “I merely tell you the literal truth.”
+
+“Possibly. Possibly. It was not I who used the word ‘lie,’ remember.
+But if you are ungracious enough to refuse to withdraw the offensive
+phrase, let it pass. We are not in France. This deadly business will be
+fought out in the law courts. I am here to-night of my own initiative.
+I thought it only fair and reasonable that you and I should meet before
+we are brought face to face at a coroner’s inquest, and, it may be, in
+an Assize Court.... No, no, Mr. Grant. Pray do not put the worst
+construction on my words. _Someone_ murdered my wife. If the police
+show intelligence and reasonable skill, _someone_ will be tried for the
+crime. You and I will certainly be witnesses. That is what I meant to
+convey. The doubt in my mind was this—whether to be actively hostile or
+passively friendly to the man who, next to me, was interested in the
+poor woman now lying dead in a wretched stable of this village.”
+
+The almost diabolical cleverness of this long speech, delivered without
+heat and with singularly adroit stress on various passages, was
+revealed by its effect on Grant. He was at once infuriated and puzzled.
+Ingerman was playing him as a fisherman humors a well-hooked salmon.
+The simile actually occurred to him, and he resolved to precipitate
+matters by coming straightway to the landing-net.
+
+“Is your friendship purchasable?” he inquired, making the rush without
+further preamble.
+
+“My wife was, I was led to believe,” came the calm retort.
+
+Grant threw scruples to the wind now. Adelaide Mulhuish was being
+defamed, not by him, but by her husband.
+
+“We are at cross purposes,” he said, weighing each word. “Your wife,
+who knew your character fairly well, I am convinced, thought that you
+were open to receive a cash consideration for your connivance in a
+divorce.”
+
+“She had told me plainly that she would never live with me again. I was
+too fair-minded a man to place obstacles in the way when she wished to
+regain her freedom.”
+
+“So it was true, then. What was the price? One thousand—two? I am not a
+millionaire.”
+
+“Nor am I. As a mere matter of pounds, shillings, and pence, it was a
+serious matter for me when my wife’s earnings ceased to come into the
+common stock.”
+
+“My first, if rather vague, estimate of you was the correct one. You
+are a good bit of a scoundrel, and, if I guess rightly, a would-be
+blackmailer.”
+
+“You are talking at random, Mr. Grant. The levying of blackmail
+connotes that the person bled desires that some discreditable, or
+dangerous, fact should be concealed.”
+
+“Such is not my position.”
+
+“I—I wonder.”
+
+“I can relieve you of any oppressive doubt. I informed the police some
+few hours ago that you have appeared already in a similar role.”
+
+“Oh, you did, did you?” snarled Ingerman, suddenly abandoning his pose,
+and gazing at Grant with a curiously snakelike glint in his black eyes.
+
+“Yes. It interested them, I fancied.”
+
+Grant was sure of his man now, and rather relieved that the battle of
+wits was turning in his favor.
+
+“So you have begun already to scheme your defense?”
+
+“Hadn’t you better go?” was the contemptuous retort.
+
+“You refuse to answer any further questions?”
+
+“I refuse to buy your proffered friendship—whatever that may mean.”
+
+“Have I offered to sell it?”
+
+“I gathered as much.”
+
+Ingerman rose. He was still master of himself, though his lanky body
+was taut with rage. He spoke calmly and with remarkable restraint.
+
+“Go through what I have said, and discover, if you can, the slightest
+hint of any suggested condonation of your offenses, whether avowed or
+merely suspected. I shall prove beyond dispute that you came between me
+and my wife. Don’t hug the delusion that your three years’ limit will
+save you. It will not. I wish you well of your attempt to prove that I
+was a consenting party to divorce proceedings. I came here to look you
+over. I have done so, and have arrived at a very definite opinion. I,
+also, have been interviewed by the police, and any unfavorable views
+they may have formed concerning me as the outcome of your_ ex parte_
+statements are more than counteracted by the ugly facts of a ghastly
+murder. You were here shortly before eleven o’clock last night. My wife
+was here, too, and alive. This morning she was found dead, by you. At
+eleven o’clock last night I was playing bridge with three city men in
+my flat. When the news of the murder reached me to-day my first
+thought, after the shock of it had passed, was:—‘That fellow, Grant,
+may be innocently involved in a terrible crime, and I may figure as the
+chief witness against him.’ I am not speaking idly, as you will learn
+to your cost. Yet, when I come on an errand of mercy, you have the
+impudence to charge me with blackmail. You are in for a great
+awakening. Be sure of that!”
+
+And Isidor G. Ingerman walked out, leaving Grant uncomfortably aware
+that he had not seen the last of an implacable and bitter enemy.
+
+It was something new and very disturbing for a writer to find himself
+in the predicament of a man with an absolutely clear conscience yet
+perilously near the meshes of the criminal law. He had often analyzed
+such a situation in his books, but fiction diverged so radically from
+hard fact that the sensation was profoundly disconcerting, to say the
+least.
+
+He did not go to the post office. He was not equal to any more verbal
+fire-works that evening. So he lit a pipe, and reviewed Ingerman’s
+well-rounded periods very carefully, even taking the precaution to jot
+down exact phrases. He analyzed them, and saw that they were capable of
+two readings. Of course, it could not be otherwise. The plausible
+rascal must have conned them over until this essential was secured.
+Grant even went so far as to give them a grudging professional tribute.
+They held a canker of doubt, too, which it was difficult to dissect.
+Their veiled threats were perplexing. While their effect, as apart from
+literal significance, was fresh in his mind, he made a few notes of
+different interpretations.
+
+He went to bed rather early, but could not sleep until the small hours.
+Probably his rest, such as it was, would have been even more disturbed
+had he been able to accompany Ingerman to the Hare and Hounds Inn.
+
+A small but select company had gathered in the bar parlor. The two
+hours between eight and ten were the most important of the day to the
+landlord, Mr. Tomlin. It was then that he imparted and received the
+tit-bits of local gossip garnered earlier, the process involving a good
+deal of play with shining beer-handles and attractively labeled
+bottles.
+
+But this was a special occasion. Never before had there been a
+Steynholme murder before the symposium. Hitherto, such a grewsome topic
+was supplied, for the most part, by faraway London. To-night the
+eeriness and dramatic intensity of a notable crime lay at the very
+doors of the village.
+
+So Tomlin was more portentous than usual; Hobbs, the butcher, more
+assertive, Elkin, the “sporty” breeder of polo ponies, more inclined to
+“lay odds” on any conceivable subject, and Siddle, the chemist, a
+reserved man at the best, even less disposed to voice a definite
+opinion.
+
+Elkin was about twenty-five years of age, Siddle looked younger than
+his probable thirty-five years, while the others were on the stout and
+prosperous line of fifty.
+
+They were discussing the murder, of course, when Ingerman entered, and
+ordered a whiskey and soda. Instantly there was dead silence. Looks and
+furtive winks were exchanged. There had been talk of a detective being
+employed. Perhaps this was he. Mr. Tomlin knew the stranger’s name, as
+he had taken a room, but that was the extent of the available
+information.
+
+“A fine evenin’, sir,” said Tomlin, drawing a cork noisily. “Looks as
+though we were in for a spell o’ settled weather.”
+
+“Yes,” agreed Ingerman, summing up the conclave at a glance. “Somehow,
+such a lovely night ill accords with the cause of my visit to
+Steynholme.”
+
+“In-deed, sir?”
+
+“Well, you and these other gentlemen may judge for yourselves. It will
+be no secret tomorrow. I am the husband of the lady who was found in
+the river outside Mr. Grant’s residence this morning.”
+
+Sensation, as the descriptive reporters put it. Mr. Tomlin was dumbly
+but unanimously elected chairman of the meeting, and was vaguely aware
+of his responsibilities. He drew himself a fresh glass of bitter.
+
+“You don’t tell me, sir!” he gasped. “Well, the idee! The pore lady’s
+letters were addressed to Miss Adelaide Melhuish. Perhaps you don’t
+know, sir, that she stayed here!”
+
+“Oh, yes. I was told that by the local police-constable. Have I, by any
+chance, been given her room?”
+
+“No, sir. Not likely. It’s locked, and the police have the key till the
+inquest is done with.”
+
+“As for the name,” explained Ingerman, in his suave voice, “that was a
+mere stage pseudonym, an adopted name. My wife was a famous actress,
+and there is a sort of tacit agreement that a lady in the theatrical
+profession shall be known to the public as ‘Miss’ rather than ‘Mrs.’”
+
+“Well, there!” wheezed Tomlin. “Who’d ever ha’ thought it?”
+
+The landlord was not quite rising to the occasion. He was, in fact,
+stunned by these repeated shocks. So Hobbs took charge.
+
+“It’s a sad errand you’re on, sir,” he said. “Death comes to all of us,
+man an’ beast alike, but it’s a terrible thing when a lady like Miss—
+Mrs. ——”
+
+“Ingerman is my name, but my wife will certainly be alluded to by the
+press as Miss Melhuish.”
+
+“When a lady like Miss Melhuish is knocked on the ’ead like a—”
+
+Mr. Hobbs hesitated again. He also felt that the situation was rather
+beyond him.
+
+“But my wife was flung into the river and drowned,” said Ingerman
+sadly.
+
+“No, sir. She was killed fust. It was a brutal business, so I’m told.”
+
+“Do you mean that she was struck, her skull battered?” came the demand,
+in an awed and soul-thrilling whisper.
+
+“Yes, sir. An’ the wust thing is, none of us can guess who could ha’
+done it.”
+
+“Lay yer five quid to one, Hobbs, that the police cop the scoundrel
+afore this day fortnight,” cried Elkin noisily.
+
+Then Mr. Siddle put in a mild word.
+
+“Gentlemen,” he said, “let me remind you that we four will probably be
+jurors at the inquest.”
+
+That was a sobering thought. Elkin subsided, and Hobbs looked
+critically at the remains of a gill of beer.
+
+Ingerman took stock of the chemist. He might easily induce the others
+to believe that Grant was the real criminal, but the quiet man in the
+black morning-coat and striped cloth trousers was of finer metal. He
+knew instantly that if he could persuade this one “probable juror” of
+Grant’s guilt, the remainder would follow his lead like a flock of
+sheep.
+
+But there was no need to hurry. Next day’s inquest would be a mere
+formality. The real struggle would begin a week or a fortnight later.
+
+“You have said a very wise thing, sir,” he murmured appreciatively.
+“Even my feelings must be kept under better control. But this is no
+ordinary murder. Before it is cleared up there will be astounding
+revelations. Mark the word—astounding.”
+
+Hobbs, whose heavy cheeks were of a brick-red tint, almost startled the
+conclave by a sudden outburst which gave him an apoplectic appearance.
+
+“You’re too kind’earted, Siddle,” he cried. “Wot’s the use of talkin’
+rubbish. We all know where the body was found. We all know that Doris
+Martin an’ Mr. Grant were a’sweet-’eartin’ in the garden—”
+
+“Look here, Hobbs, just keep Doris Martin’s name out of it!” shouted
+Elkin, smiting the table with his fist till the glasses danced.
+
+“Gentlemen!” protested Siddle gently.
+
+“It’s all dashed fine, but I’m not—” blustered Elkin. He yielded to
+Ingerman’s outstretched hand.
+
+“I seem to have brought discord into a friendly gathering,” came the
+mournful comment. “Such was far from being my intent. Landlord, the
+round is on me, with cigars. Now, let us talk of anything but this
+horror. If I forget myself again, pull me up short, and fine me another
+round.”
+
+Siddle half rose, but thought better of it. Evidently, he meant to use
+his influence to stop foolish chatter.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter V.
+The Seeds of Mischief
+
+
+Ingerman was a shrewder judge of human nature than the village chemist.
+As well try to stem the flowing tide as stop tongues from wagging when
+such a theme offered.
+
+Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After
+this professional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact.
+
+“I’m sure you local residents will be interested, at least, in hearing
+something of my wife’s career,” he said. “There never was a more
+lovable and gracious woman, and no couple could be more united than she
+and I till some three years ago. Then came a break. She was independent
+of me, of course. She was a celebrity, I a mere nobody, best known, if
+at all, as ‘Miss Melhuish’s husband.’ Nevertheless, we were devoted to
+each other until, to her and my lasting misfortune, a certain author
+wrote a book which, when dramatized, contained a part for which my
+wife’s stage presence and talents seemed to be peculiarly suited.”
+
+Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges in
+stubble. Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of the covey,
+however.
+
+“I name no names,” he said solemnly. “Nor am I telling you anything
+that will not be thoroughly exposed before the coroner and elsewhere.
+From that unhappy period dated our estrangement. My wife fell under a
+fatal influence which lasted, practically unchecked, until the day, if
+not the very hour, of her death. Do I blame her? No—a thousand times
+no! You see me, a plain man, considerably her senior. _I_ had not the
+gift of writing impassioned love passages in which she could display
+her artistic genius. When I came home from the City, tired after the
+day’s work, _she_ was just beginning hers. You know what London
+fashionable life is—the theater, a supper, a dance, some great lady’s
+‘reception,’ and the rest of it. Ah, me! The stage, and literature, and
+the arts generally are not for poor fellows moiling in a City office.
+You gentlemen, I take it, are all happily married—”
+
+“I’m not,” said Elkin, “but I’ll lay you long odds I will be soon.”
+
+For some reason, this remark produced a certain uneasiness among his
+friends. Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars “stood” by this
+talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again,
+examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to
+say something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then
+Ingerman made a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was,
+and what Hobbs’s cryptic allusion had meant.
+
+“Good luck to you, sir,” he said, “but—take no offense—don’t marry an
+actress. There’s an old adage, ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’ I
+would go farther, and interpolate the word ‘should.’ If Adelaide
+Melhuish had never met me, but had married the man who could write her
+plays, this tragedy in real life would never have been.”
+
+“D—n him,” muttered Elkin fiercely. “He’s done for now, anyhow. He’ll
+turn no more girls’ heads for a bit.”
+
+“An’ five minutes since you yapped at me like a vicious fox-terrier for
+’intin’ much the same thing,” chortled Hobbs.
+
+Siddle stood up.
+
+“You ain’t goin’, Mr. Siddle?” went on the butcher. “It’s ’ardly ’arf
+past nine.”
+
+“I have some accounts to get out. It’s near the half year, you know,”
+and Siddle vanished unobtrusively.
+
+Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was a
+refractory bullock.
+
+“Siddle’s a fair-minded chap,” he said. “He can’t stand ’earin’ any of
+us ’angin’ a man without a fair trial.”
+
+Ingerman had marked the chemist for more subtle treatment when an
+opportunity arose, or could be made. At present, he was not sorry such
+a restraining influence was removed. The next half hour should prove a
+golden one if well utilized. He was right. Before the inn was cleared,
+what between Elkin’s savage comments and the other men’s thinly-veiled
+allusions, he knew all that Steynholme could tell with regard to Grant
+and Doris Martin.
+
+Grant’s first thought next morning was of the girl who had been thrust
+so prominently into his life by the death of another woman. That was,
+perhaps, the strangest outcome of the tragedy. Doris was easily the
+prettiest and most intelligent girl in the village, a rare combination
+in itself, even among young ladies of much higher social position than
+a postmaster’s daughter. But her father was a self-educated man, whose
+life had been given to books, whose only hobby was the culture and
+study of bees. He had often refused promotion, solely because his
+duties at Steynholme were light, and permitted of many free hours. In
+his only child he found a quick pupil and a sympathetic helper. Of her
+own accord she took to poetry and music. In effect, had Doris Martin
+attended the best of boarding-schools and training colleges, she would
+have received a smattering of French and a fair knowledge of the piano
+or violin, whereas, after more humble tuition, it might fairly be said
+of her that few girls of her age had read so many books and assimilated
+their contents so thoroughly. From her mother she inherited her good
+looks and a small yearly income, just sufficient to maintain a better
+wardrobe than her father’s salary would permit.
+
+Grant, newly settled in Steynholme, found the postmaster and his
+daughter intellectually on a par with himself, and this claim could
+certainly not be made on behalf of the local “society” element. The
+three became excellent friends. Naturally, the young people spent a
+good deal of time together. But there had been no love-making—not a
+hint or whisper of it!
+
+And now, by cruel chance, their names were linked by scandal in its
+most menacing form, since there was no gainsaying the fact that Doris’s
+star-gazing on that fatal Monday night was indissolubly bound up with
+the death of Adelaide Melhuish.
+
+For the first time, then, the notion peeped up in Grant’s mind that the
+whirligig of existence might see Doris his wife. But the conceit
+resembled the Gorgon’s teeth, which, when sown in the ground, sprang
+forth as armed men. The very accident which revealed a not unpleasing
+possibility had established a grave obstacle in the way of its ultimate
+realization. Already there was a cloud between him and the Martins,
+father and daughter. To what a tempest might not that cloud develop
+when the questionings and innuendoes of the inquest established an aura
+of suspicion and intrigue around a perfectly innocent meeting in the
+garden of _The Hollies_!
+
+Grant ate his breakfast in wrath. In wrath, too, he glanced through the
+morning newspapers, and saw his own name figuring large in the “story”
+of the “alleged” murder. The reporters had missed nothing. They had
+even got hold of the “peculiar coincidence” of his (Grant’s) glimpse of
+a face at the window. His play was recalled, and Adelaide Melhuish’s
+success in the title-rôle. Then Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman was introduced.
+He was described as “a man fairly well known in the City.” That was
+all. The press could say nothing as yet of marital disagreements, nor
+was any hint concerning Doris Martin allowed to appear. But these
+journalistic fire-works were only held in reserve. “Dramatic and
+sensational developments” were promised, and police activity in “an
+unexpected direction” fore-shadowed.
+
+All of which, of course, was mere journalistic paraphrasing of
+circumstances already known to the writers, and none the less galling
+to Grant on that account.
+
+And there was no answer from the Commissioner of Police at Scotland
+Yard. True, the overnight telegram might have reached the Department
+after office hours. Grant, like most members of the general public,
+held the vague belief that Government officials do very little work.
+Still, one might reasonably expect better things from the institution
+which was supposed to safeguard law-abiding citizens.
+
+Calm analysis of Ingerman’s nebulous threats had revealed a hostile
+force not to be despised. Possibly, the man was already in league with
+that narrow-minded village constable, so every passing hour made more
+urgent the need of a trained intelligence being brought to bear on the
+mystery of Adelaide Melhuish’s killing. Grant racked his brains to
+discover who could possibly have a motive for committing the crime.
+Naturally, his thoughts flew to Ingerman. Surely that sinister-looking
+person should be forced to give an account of himself instead of, as
+was probable, being allowed to instill further nonsense into the
+suspicious mind of P. C.  Robinson.
+
+There were two morning deliveries of London letters in Steynholme, one
+at eight and another at half past ten. Grant waited until the postman
+had left a publisher’s circular (the only letter for _The Hollies_ by
+the second mail). Then, in a fever of impatience, he jammed on a hat
+and went out. He would wait no longer. He would telegraph Scotland Yard
+again, and, incidentally, demand an audience at the post office.
+
+No sooner had he entered the highroad than he saw P. C.  Robinson on
+guard. That important person was standing on the bridge, apparently
+taking the air. He was nibbling the chin-strap of his helmet; both
+thumbs were locked in his belt. From that strategic position three
+roads came under observation.
+
+It was a fine morning, and Grant’s sense of humor was not proof against
+this open espionage. He smiled, and determined to take a rise out of
+“Sherlock,” as Bates had christened the policeman.
+
+The bridge lay a hundred yards to the left. The road was straight until
+it curved around the house and its shrubberies, so the view was blocked
+on that side. Grant filled and lighted a pipe with a deliberateness
+meant to be provoking, glancing several times doubtfully at P. C. 
+Robinson, who, of course, was grandly unaware of his presence. Then he
+strolled off to the right, and, when hidden, took to his heels for a
+hundred yards sprint. Turning into a winding bridle-path tucked between
+hedges of thorn and hazels, he walked to a point where it crossed a
+patch of furze. At a little distance a hand-bridge spanned the river,
+and gave access to the eastern end of the village by a steep climb of
+the wooded cliff. The path, in fact, was a short cut to that part of
+Steynholme.
+
+He sat on a hump of rock, and waited. It was a boyish trick, but very
+successful. Within three minutes, at the utmost, P. C.  Robinson
+hurried past, using a stalking, stealthy stride which was distinctly
+ludicrous.
+
+The eyes of the two men met, but Grant alone was prepared.
+
+“Hello, Robinson!” he cried cheerfully. “What’s the rush? Surely our
+rural peace has not been disturbed again?”
+
+Robinson knew he had been “sold,” but rose to the occasion.
+
+“Excuse me, Mr. Grant,” he puffed. “Can’t wait now. Have an
+appointment. I’ll see you later.”
+
+Honor demanded that he should not relax that swift pace. Unhappily, the
+path up the cliff was visible throughout from Grant’s rock, so, on
+reaching the summit, Robinson was a-boil in more ways than one.
+Moreover, peeping through the first screen of trees that offered, he
+had the mortification of seeing the man who had befooled him go back
+the way he came.
+
+Purple-faced with heat and anger, the policeman forgot his
+surroundings, and glowered at Grant with real fury. So he heard no one
+approaching along the main road until he was hailed a second time with,
+“Hello, Robinson!”
+
+He turned sharply. This was Mr. Elkin.
+
+“Good morning!” he said. “Have you seen the superintendent?”
+
+“What? Mr. Fowler? No. Is _he_ here so early?”
+
+“I must have missed him.”
+
+“Well, you’ll hardly find him on Bush Walk,” which was the name of the
+path.
+
+“You never can tell,” came the dark answer.
+
+At any rate, the policeman elected to abandon his self-imposed vigil,
+and the two walked together into the village.
+
+“My! You look as though you’d run a mile,” commented Elkin.
+
+“This murder has kept me busy,” growled the other, frankly mopping his
+forehead.
+
+“Ay, that’s so. And it isn’t done with yet, by a long way. Pity you
+weren’t in the Hare and Hounds last night. You’d have heard something.
+There’s a chap staying there, name of Ingerman—”
+
+“I’ve met him. The dead woman’s husband.”
+
+“Oh, perhaps you’ve got his yarn already?”
+
+“It all depends what he said to you.”
+
+“Well, he hinted things. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, you’ll soon be
+making an arrest.”
+
+“I believe I could put my hand on the murderer this very minute,” said
+Robinson vindictively.
+
+Elkin laughed, somewhat half-heartedly.
+
+“Lay you fifty to one against the time,” he said. “I’m the only one
+near enough for that limit, you know.”
+
+The policeman realized that he had allowed annoyance to shake his wits.
+He looked at Elkin rather sharply, and noticed that the horse-breeder
+seemed to be nervous and ill.
+
+“I didn’t quite mean that I could grab my man this minute,” he said,
+“but, if I can guess him, it amounts to nearly the same thing. What
+have you been doing to yourself, Mr. Elkin? You look peeky to-day.”
+
+“Too much whiskey and tobacco. I’ll call at Siddle’s for a
+‘pick-me-up.’ Am I wanted for the jury?”
+
+“Yes. I left a notice at your place last evening.”
+
+“I didn’t get it.”
+
+“Been away?”
+
+“No. Fact is, I went home late, and didn’t bother about letters this
+morning. What time is the inquest?”
+
+“Three o’clock, in the club-room of the Hare and Hounds.”
+
+“Will that fellow, Grant, be there?”
+
+“Rather. Dr. Foxton warned him yesterday.”
+
+“Good! What about Doris Martin? Will she be a witness?”
+
+“Not to-day.”
+
+They were entering the village, and could see down the long, wide slope
+of the hill. Grant had just come into sight at its foot.
+
+Both men scowled at the distant figure, but neither passed any comment.
+They parted, the policeman walking straight on, Elkin bearing to the
+left. The chemist’s shop stood exactly opposite the post office, so
+Elkin, arriving first, was aware of his unconscious rival’s
+destination.
+
+He had not answered Mr. Siddle’s greeting, but gazed moodily through a
+barricade of specifics piled in the window. Then he swore.
+
+“What’s wrong now?” inquired the chemist quietly.
+
+“That Grant. Got a nerve, hasn’t he?”
+
+“I can’t say, unless you explain.”
+
+“He’s just gone into the post office.”
+
+“Why shouldn’t he? He wants stamps, may be; plenty of ’em, I should
+imagine.”
+
+“Oh, you’re a fish, Siddle. You aren’t crazy about a girl, like I am.
+The sooner Grant’s in jail the better I’ll be pleased.”
+
+“If you take my advice, which you won’t, I know, you will not utter
+that sort of remark publicly.”
+
+“Can’t help it. Bet you a fiver I’m engaged to Doris Martin within a
+week.”
+
+Mr. Siddle took thought.
+
+“Why so quickly?” he asked, after a pause.
+
+“I’ll catch her on the hop, of course. If she’s engaged to me it’ll
+help her a lot when this case comes into court.”
+
+“I cannot believe that Doris would accept any man for such a reason.”
+
+“I’m not ‘any man.’ She knows I’m after her. Will you take my bet, even
+money?”
+
+“No. I don’t bet.”
+
+“Well, you needn’t put a damper on me. In fact, you can’t. Have you
+that last prescription of Dr. Foxton’s handy? My liver wants a tonic.”
+
+The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and
+retired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop.
+
+“Shall I send it?” came his voice.
+
+“No. I’ll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don’t mind.”
+
+For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and
+fretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause
+accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and
+had considered them in the “mixture.”
+
+The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a
+stranger, was seated at the telegraphist’s desk, tapping a new
+instrument. The G. P. O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with
+press messages.
+
+Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. His
+kindly, somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle.
+
+“Good morning, Mr. Martin,” said Grant.
+
+“Good morning. What can I do for you?” was the stiff reply. Grant was
+in no mind to be rebuffed, however.
+
+“I must have a word with you in private,” he said.
+
+“I’m sorry—but my time is quite full.”
+
+“I’m sorry, too, but the matter is urgent.”
+
+The click of the sounder became less businesslike. There was an element
+in the tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist’s
+attention. Martin, usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was
+obviously ill at ease. But he simply could not hold out against Grant’s
+compelling gaze.
+
+“Come into the back room,” he said nervously. “Call me if I’m needed,”
+he added, nodding to his assistant.
+
+Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the “back
+parlor” through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gave
+a delightful glimpse of _The Hollies_. A window-box of mignonette
+filled the air with its delicate perfume. Grant hoped that Doris would
+be there, but the only signs of her recent presence were a hat and an
+open book on the table.
+
+“Now, Mr. Martin,” he said gravely, “you and I should have a serious
+talk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certain
+malicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To
+me these things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter’s
+age they are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you
+can regulate your actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is
+why I am here to-day. That is why I came here yesterday, but your
+attitude took me aback, and I was idiot enough to go without a word of
+explanation. I was too shaken then to see my clear course, and follow
+it regardless of personal feelings. This morning I am master of myself,
+and I insist that you listen now while I tell you exactly what occurred
+on Monday night.”
+
+“Surely—these matters—are—for the authorities,” stammered the older
+man.
+
+“What? Your daughter’s good name?”
+
+Mr. Martin reddened. His agitation was pitiful.
+
+“That is hardly in question, sir,” he said brokenly.
+
+“I am speaking of the tongue of slander. Heaven help and direct me! I
+would suffer death rather than see Doris subjected to the leers and
+innuendoes of every lout in the village.”
+
+Grant’s earnestness could hardly fail to impress his friend. But Martin
+had either made up his mind or been warned not to discuss the murder,
+and adhered loyally to that line of conduct. He retreated toward the
+door leading to the post office proper.
+
+“It is too late to interfere now,” he said.
+
+“What on earth do you mean?” demanded Grant, yielding to a gust of
+anger.
+
+“The whole—of the circumstances—are being inquired into by the police,”
+came the hesitating answer.
+
+“Has that prying scoundrel, Robinson, dared to cross-examine Doris?”
+
+“He came here, of course, but Scotland Yard has taken up the inquiry.”
+
+“A detective—here?”
+
+“Yes. He is with Doris in the garden at this moment.”
+
+Grant knew the topography of the house. Without asking permission, he
+tore through yet a third door leading to a kitchen and scullery, nearly
+upsetting a tiny maid who had her ear or eye to the key-hole, and raced
+into the garden in which the postmaster kept his bees.
+
+Doris, standing with her hands behind her back, was looking at The
+Hollies, and deep in conversation with an alert and natty little man
+who was evidently absorbed in what she was saying.
+
+Grant, in a whirl of fury, was only conscious that Doris’s companion
+was slight, almost diminutive, of frame, very erect, and dressed in a
+well-fitting blue serge suit, neat brown boots and straw hat, when the
+two heard his footsteps.
+
+Doris was flustered. Her Romney face held a look of scare.
+
+“Oh, here is Mr. Grant!” she said, striving vainly to speak with
+composure.
+
+The little man pierced Grant with an extraordinarily penetrating glance
+from very bright and deeply-recessed black eyes.
+
+“Ah, Mr. Grant, is it!” he chirped pleasantly. “Good morning! So
+_you’re_ the villain of the piece, are you?”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter VI.
+Scotland Yard Takes a Hand
+
+
+It was a singular greeting, to say the least, and the person who
+uttered it was quite as remarkable as his queer method of expressing
+himself seemed to indicate.
+
+Grant, though in a fume of hot anger, had the good sense to choke back
+the first impetuous reprimand trembling on his lips. In fact, wrath
+quickly subsided into blank incredulity. He saw before him, not the
+conventional detective who might be described as a superior
+Robinson—not even the sinewy, sharp-eyed, and well-spoken type of man
+whom he had once heard giving evidence in a famous jewel-robbery
+case—but rather one whom he would have expected to meet in the bar of a
+certain well-known restaurant in Maiden Lane, a corner of old London
+where literally all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women
+merely players.
+
+During his theatrical experiences he had come across scores of such
+men, dapper little fellows, wizened of face yet curiously youthful in
+manner; but they, each and all, were labeled “low comedian.” Certainly,
+a rare intelligence gleamed from this man’s eyes, but that is an
+attribute not often lacking in humorists who command high salaries
+because of their facility in laughter-making. This man, too, had the
+wide, thin-lipped, mobile mouth of the actor. His ivory-white, wrinkled
+forehead and cheeks, the bluish tint on jaws and chin, his voice, his
+perky air, the very tilt of his straw hat, were eloquent of the
+footlights. Even his opening words, bizarre and cheerfully impertinent,
+smacked of “comic relief.”
+
+“I figure prominently in this particular ‘piece,’” snapped Grant. “May
+I ask your name, sir?”
+
+“A wise precaution with suspicious characters,” rejoined the other,
+smiling. Grant was suddenly reminded of a Japanese grinning at a joke,
+but he bent over a card which the stranger had whisked out of a
+waistcoat pocket. He read:
+
+Mr. Charles F. Furneaux,
+
+_Criminal Investigation Department_,
+
+New Scotland Yard, S.W.
+
+He could not control himself. He gazed at Mr. Charles F. Furneaux with
+a surprise that was not altogether flattering.
+
+“Did the Commissioner of Police send _you_ in response to my telegram?”
+he said.
+
+“That is what lawyers call a leading question,” came the prompt retort.
+“And I hate lawyers. They darken understanding, and set honest men at
+loggerheads.”
+
+“But it happens to be very much to the point at this moment.”
+
+“Well, Mr. Grant, if you really press for an answer, it is ‘Yes’ and
+‘No.’ The Commissioner received a certain telegram, but he may have
+acted on other grounds. Even Commissioners can be creatures of impulse,
+or expediency, just as the situation demands.
+
+“You are here, at any rate.”
+
+“That is what legal jargon terms an admitted fact.”
+
+“Then you had better begin by assuming that I am no villain.”
+
+“It is assumed. It couldn’t well be otherwise after the excellent
+character you have been given by this young lady.”
+
+“She, at least, will speak well of me, I do believe,” said Grant, with
+a strange bitterness, for his heart was sore because of the seeming
+defection of his friend, the postmaster. “What I actually had in mind
+was the stupidity of the local policeman, who is convinced that I am
+both a criminal and a fool.”
+
+“The two are often synonymous,” said Furneaux dryly. “But I acquitted
+you on both counts, Mr. Grant, on hearing, and even seeing, how you
+spent Monday evening.”
+
+Grant, who had cooled down considerably, found a hint of badinage in
+this comment.
+
+“You have evidently been told that Miss Martin and I were star-gazing
+in the garden of my house,” he said. “It happens to be true.”
+
+“Oh, yes. There was a very fine cluster of small stars in Canis Major,
+south of Sirius, that night.”
+
+“You know something about the constellations, then?” was the astonished
+query.
+
+“Enough for the purposes of Scotland Yard,” smirked Furneaux, who had
+checked P. C.  Robinson’s one-sided story by referring to Whitaker’s
+Almanack. “It may relieve your mind if I tell you that I have never
+seen a real live astronomer in the dock. Venus and Mars are often in
+trouble, but their devoted observers seldom, if ever.”
+
+Grant warmed to this strange species of detective, though, if pressed
+for an instant decision, he would vastly have preferred that one of
+more orthodox style had been intrusted with an inquiry so vital to his
+own happiness and good repute. Eager, however, to pour forth his
+worries into any official ear, he brought back the talk to a definite
+channel.
+
+“Will you come to my place?” he asked. “I have much to say. Let me
+assure you now, in Miss Martin’s presence, that she is no more
+concerned in this ghastly business than any other young lady in the
+village.”
+
+“But she is interested. And _you_ are. And I am. Why not discuss
+matters here, for the present, I mean? We have a glorious view of your
+house and grounds. We can see without being seen. None can overhear. I
+advise both of you to go thoroughly into this matter here and now.”
+
+Furneaux spoke emphatically. Even Doris put in a timid plea.
+
+“Perhaps that would be the best thing to do,” she said. “Mr. Furneaux
+has been most sympathetic. I am sure he understands things already in a
+way that is quite wonderful to me.”
+
+The very sound of her voice was comforting. Grant might have argued
+with the detective, but could not resist Doris. Without further demur
+he went through the whole story, giving precise details of events on
+the Monday night. Then the recital widened out into a history of his
+relations with Adelaide Melhuish. He omitted nothing. Doris gasped when
+she heard Superintendent Fowler’s version of the view a coroner’s jury
+might take of her presence in the garden of _The Hollies_ at a late
+hour. But Grant did not spare her. He reasoned that she ought to be
+prepared for an ordeal which could not be avoided. He was governed by
+the astute belief that his very outspokenness in this respect would
+weaken the inferences which the police might otherwise draw from it.
+
+Furneaux uttered never a word. He was a first-rate listener, though his
+behavior was most undetective-like, since he hardly looked at Grant or
+the girl, but seemed to devote his attention almost exclusively to the
+scenic panorama in front.
+
+However, when Grant came to the somewhat strenuous passage-at-arms of
+the previous night between Ingerman and himself, the little man broke
+in at once.
+
+“Isidor G. Ingerman?” he cried. “Is he a tall, lanky, cadaverous,
+rather crooked person, with black hair turning gray, and an absurdly
+melodious voice?”
+
+“You have described him without an unnecessary word,” said Grant.
+
+Furneaux clicked his tongue in a peculiar fashion.
+
+“Go on!” he said. “It’s a regular romance—quite in your line, Mr.
+Grant, of course, but none the less enthralling because, as you so
+happily phrased Miss Martin’s lesson in astronomy, it happens to be
+true.”
+
+Grant was scrupulously fair to Ingerman. He admitted the “financier’s”
+adroitness of speech, and made clear the fact that if the visit had the
+levying of blackmail for its object such a possible outcome was only
+hinted at vaguely. Being a novelist, one whose temperament sought for
+sunshine rather than gloom in life, he wound up in lighter vein. The
+ruse which tricked P. C.  Robinson into a breathless scamper of nearly
+a mile on a hot day in June was described with gusto. Doris, who knew
+the village constable well, laughed outright, while Furneaux cackled
+shrilly. None who might be watching the little group in that delightful
+garden, with its scent of old-world flowers and drone of bees, could
+have guessed that a grewsome tragedy formed their major theme.
+
+The girl was the first to realize that even harmless merriment was in
+ill accord with the presence of death, for the body of Adelaide
+Melhuish lay within forty yards of the place where they stood.
+
+“May I leave you now?” she inquired. “Father may be wanting help in the
+office.”
+
+“I shan’t detain you more than a few seconds,” said Furneaux briskly.
+“On Monday evening you two young people parted at half past ten. How do
+you fix the time?”
+
+Doris answered without hesitation:
+
+“The large window of Mr. Grant’s study was open, and we both heard a
+clock in the hall chime the half-hour. I said, ‘Goodness me, is that
+half past ten?’ and started for home at once. Mr. Grant came with me as
+far as the bridge. When I reached my room, in exactly five minutes
+after leaving _The Hollies_, I stood at the open window—that
+window”—and she pointed to a dormer casement above the
+sitting-room—“and looked out. It was a particularly fine night, mild,
+but not very clear, as a slight mist often rises from the river after a
+hot day in summer. I may have been there about ten minutes, no longer,
+when I saw the study window of _The Hollies_ thrown open, and Mr.
+Grant’s figure was silhouetted by the lamp behind him. He seemed to be
+listening for something, so I, who must have heard any unusual sound,
+listened too. There was nothing. I could hear the ripple of the river
+beneath the bridge, so everything was very still. After a minute, or
+two, perhaps—no longer—Mr. Grant went in, and closed the window. Then I
+went to bed.”
+
+“Did Mr. Grant draw any blind or curtains?”
+
+“There are muslin curtains attached to each side of the window. One
+cannot see into the room from a distance.”
+
+Furneaux measured an imaginary line drawn from Doris’s bedroom to the
+edge of the cliff, and prolonged it.
+
+“Nor can you see the river or foot of the lawn from your room,” he
+commented.
+
+“No. In winter I can just make out the edge of the lawn. When the trees
+are in leaf, all the lower part is hidden.”
+
+“You had actually retired to rest about eleven, I suppose?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“So if Mr. Grant came out again you would not know?” Doris blushed
+furiously, but her reply was unfaltering.
+
+“I would have known during the next half-hour, at least,” she said. “An
+inclined mirror hangs in my room. I use it sometimes for adjusting a
+hat. The square of light from Mr. Grant’s room is reflected in it, and
+any sudden increase in the illumination caused by opening the window or
+pulling the curtains aside would certainly have caught my eye.”
+
+“You have an unshakable witness in Miss Martin,” said Furneaux,
+stabbing a finger at Grant. “Now, I’ll hurry off. You and I, Mr. Grant,
+meet at Philippi, otherwise known as the crowner’s quest.”
+
+Any benevolent intent he may have had in leaving these young people
+together was, however, frustrated by Doris, whose composure seemed to
+have fled since her statement about the mirror. She resolutely
+accompanied the detective, and Grant had to follow. All three passed
+into the post office, Doris using the private door. Mr. Martin looked
+up from his desk when they appeared, and requested his daughter to
+check a bundle of postal orders. The pretext was painfully obvious, but
+Grant was not so wishful now to clear up matters with Doris’s father,
+as the girl herself might be trusted to pass on an accurate account of
+the affair from beginning to end.
+
+He was about to reach the street quick on Furneaux’s heels when the
+little man turned suddenly.
+
+“By the way, don’t you want a shilling’s worth of stamps?” he said.
+
+Grant smiled comprehension, and went back to the counter, where Doris
+herself served him. She did not try to avoid his glance, but rather met
+it with a baffling serenity oddly at variance with her momentary loss
+of self-possession in the garden.
+
+When he entered the street the detective had vanished.
+
+He walked down the hill at a rapid pace, disregarding the eyes peeping
+at him through open doorways, over narrow window-curtains, and covertly
+staring when people passed in the roadway. The sensitive side of his
+temperament shrank from this thinly-veiled hostility. He was by way of
+being popular in Steynholme, yet not a soul spoke to him. Before he
+reached the bridge, the other side of him, the man of action, of cool
+resource in an emergency, rose in rebellion against the league of silly
+clodhoppers. Back he strode to the post office and dashed off a
+telegram. It ran:
+
+“Walter Hart, Savage Club, Adelphi, London. Come here and help to lay a
+ghost.”
+
+He signed it in full, name and address. Doris was gone, but her father
+received it, and read the text in a bewildered way.
+
+“I find myself deserted by my Steynholme friends so I am trying to
+import one stanch one,” said Grant, almost vindictively.
+
+Martin murmured the cost, and Grant stormed out again. This time,
+passing the Hare and Hounds, he looked at door and windows. He caught a
+face scowling at him over a brown wire blind bearing the words “Wines
+and Spirits” on it in letters of dull gold. It was a commonplace type
+of face, small-featured, ginger-moustached, and crowned by a billy-cock
+hat set at a rakish angle. Its most marked characteristic was the
+positive hatred which glowed in the sharp, pale-blue eyes. Grant
+wondered who this highly censorious young man might be. At any rate, he
+meant to ascertain whether or not the critic was susceptible of satire
+at his own expense. He walked up to the window, elevated his eyebrows
+at the frowning person within, pretended to read the words on the
+screen, looked again at the man inside, and shook his head gravely in
+the manner of one who has accurately determined cause and effect.
+
+Fred Elkin was quick-witted enough to appreciate Grant’s unspoken
+comment. He was also unmannerly enough to put out his tongue. Then
+Grant laughed, and turned on his heel.
+
+Mr. Siddle, quietly observant of recent comings and goings, was
+standing at the door of the shop, and missed no item of this dumb show.
+He raised both hands in silent condemnation of Elkin’s childishness,
+whereupon the horse-dealer jerked a thumb toward Grant’s retreating
+figure, and went through a rapid pantomime of the hanging process. His
+crony disapproved again, and went in. Now, both those men were on the
+jury panel, so, to all appearance, Grant would be judged by at least
+one deadly enemy, whose animosity might or might not be fairly balanced
+by the chemist’s impartial mind.
+
+The tenant of _The Hollies_ actually dreaded the loneliness of his
+dwelling now, though it was that very quality which had drawn him to
+Steynholme a year earlier. Work or reading was equally out of the
+question that day. He sought the industrious Bates, who was trenching
+celery in the kitchen garden.
+
+“Have ’ee made out owt about un, sir?” inquired that hardy individual,
+pausing to spit on the handle of his spade.
+
+“No,” said Grant. “The thing is a greater mystery than ever.”
+
+“I’m thinkin’ her mun ha’ bin killed by a loony,” announced Bates.
+
+“Something of the kind, no doubt. But why are the little less dangerous
+loonies of Steynholme united in the belief that I am the guilty one?”
+
+“Ax me another,” growled Bates.
+
+“Who is spreading this rumor? Robinson?”
+
+“’E dussen’t, sir. ’E looks fierce, but ’e’ll ’old ’is tongue. T’super
+will see to that.”
+
+“Someone is talking. That is quite certain.”
+
+“There’s a chap in the ’Are an’ ’Ounds—kem ’ere last night.”
+
+“Ingerman?”
+
+“Ay, sir, that’s the name. ’E’s makin’ a song of it, I hear.”
+
+“Anybody else?”
+
+“Fred Elkin is gassin’ about. Do ’ee know un? Breeds ’osses at Mount
+Farm, a mile that-a-way,” and Bates pointed to the west.
+
+Grant hazarded a guess, and described the face of condemnation seen at
+the inn. Bates nodded.
+
+“That’s un,” he said. Then he drove the spade into the rich loam. “They
+do say,” he added, apparently as an after-thought, “as Fred Elkin is
+mighty sweet on Doris, but her’ll ’ave nowt to do wi’ un.”
+
+Grant whistled softly. This explanation threw light on a dark place.
+
+“The plot thickens,” he said. “Mr. Elkin becomes more interesting than
+he looks. Are there other disappointed swains in the offing?”
+
+“What’s that, sir?”
+
+“Has Miss Martin any other suitors?”
+
+“Lots of ’em ’ud be after her like wasps round a plum-tree if she’d
+give ’em ’alf a chance. But _you_ put a stopper on ’em.”
+
+Bates was blunt of speech, though a philosopher withal.
+
+“Elkin is my only serious rival, then?” laughed Grant, passing off as a
+joke a thrust which was shrewder than the gardener knew.
+
+“’E ’as plenty of brass, but I reckon nowt on ’im,” was the
+contemptuous answer.
+
+“Well, he is not a likely person to kill a woman he had never before
+seen. Miss Martin will marry whom she chooses, no doubt. The present
+problem is to find out who murdered Miss Melhuish. Now, had _I_ been
+the victim you would be thinking hard, Bates.”
+
+“I tell ’ee, sir, it wur a loony.”
+
+Nor was Bates to be moved from that opinion. He held to it, through
+thick and thin, for many days.
+
+Grant wandered into the front garden. His eyes rose involuntarily to
+the distant post office, and he noticed at once that the dormer window
+was closed. Yet Doris shared his own love of fresh air, and that window
+had always been open till that very hour. Somehow, this simple thing
+seemed to shut him out of her life. He walked to the river, and gazed
+at the spot where the body was drawn ashore. In the absence of rain the
+water ran clear as gin, and the marks made by the feet of Adelaide
+Melhuish’s murderer were still perceptible. If only those misshapen
+blotches could reveal their secret! If only some Heaven-sent ray of
+intuition would enable him to put the police on the track of the
+criminal! Theoretically, a novelist and essayist should be a first-rate
+detective, yet, brought face to face with an actual felony, here was
+one who perforce remained blind and dumb.
+
+Yet he was not blameworthy for failing to solve a mystery which was
+rapidly establishing a record for bewildering elements. Wherein he did
+err most lamentably was in his reading of a woman’s heart.
+
+No answering telegram came from his friend in London. The day wore
+slowly till it was time to attend the inquest. He found a crowd
+gathered in front of the Hare and Hounds. Superintendent Fowler was
+there, and quite a number of policemen, whose presence was explained
+when a buzz of excitement heralded Grant’s arrival. He decided not to
+stand this sort of persecution a moment longer.
+
+Before the superintendent could interfere, he leaped on to a set of
+stone mounting-steps which stood opposite the door. Instantly, seeing
+that he was about to speak, the angry murmuring of the mob was hushed.
+He looked into a hundred stolid faces, and stretched out his right
+hand.
+
+“I cannot help feeling,” he said, in slow, incisive accents which
+carried far, “that a set of peculiar circumstances has led you
+Steynholme folk to suspect me of being responsible, in some way, for
+the death of the lady whose body was found in the river near my house.
+Now, I want to tell you that I am not only an innocent but a
+much-maligned man. The law of the land will establish both facts in due
+season. But I want to warn some of you, too, I shall not trouble to
+issue writs for libel. If any blackguard among you dares to insult me
+openly, I shall smash his face.”
+
+He knew when to stop. Superintendent Fowler’s nudge was not called for,
+as the orator simply met the scrutiny of all those eyes without another
+word.
+
+Curiously enough, the sense of justice is inherent in every haphazard
+gathering of the public. Grant’s soldierly bearing, his calm defiance
+of hostile opinion, the outspoken threat which he so plainly meant, won
+instant favor. Someone shouted, “Hear, hear!” and the crowd applauded.
+From that moment he had little to complain of in the attitude of the
+community as a whole. There were subtle and dangerous enemies to be
+fought and conquered, but Steynholme looked on, keen to learn of any
+new sensation, of course, but placidly content that the final verdict
+should be left in the hands of the authorities.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter VII.
+“Alarums and Excursions”
+
+
+The inquest was surprisingly tame after the stirring events which had
+led up to it. Indeed, save for two incidents, the proceedings were
+almost dull.
+
+The coroner, a Knoleworth solicitor named Belcher, prided himself on
+conducting this _cause célèbre_ with as little ostentation as he would
+have displayed over an ordinary inquiry. Messrs. Siddle, Elkin, Tomlin
+and Hobbs, with eight other local tradesmen and farmers, formed the
+jurors, and the chemist was promptly elected foreman; no witnesses were
+ordered out of court; the formalities of “swearing in” the jury and
+“viewing” the body were carried through rapidly. Almost before Grant
+had time to assimilate these details Superintendent Fowler, who
+marshalled the evidence, called his name. The coroner’s officer
+tendered him a well-thumbed Bible, while the coroner himself
+administered the oath.
+
+Grant eyed the somewhat soiled volume, and opened it before putting it
+to his lips. The action probably did not please the jury. Elkin nudged
+Tomlin, and sniggered at the rest of his colleagues, as much as to say:
+“What did I tell you? The cheek of him!”
+
+Elkin, by the way, looked ill. When his interest flagged for an instant
+his haggard aspect became more noticeable.
+
+Ingerman was there, of course. Furneaux sat beside Mr. Fowler. A
+stranger, whom Grant did not recognize, proved to be the County Chief
+Constable. There was a strong muster of police, and the representatives
+of the press completely monopolized the scanty accommodation for the
+public. To Grant’s relief, Doris Martin was not in attendance.
+
+He told the simple facts of the finding of Adelaide Melhuish’s corpse.
+A harmless question by the coroner evoked the first “scene” which set
+the reporters’ pencils busy.
+
+“Did you recognize the body!” inquired Mr. Belcher.
+
+“I did.”
+
+“Then you can give the jury her name?”
+
+Before Grant could answer, Ingerman sprang up, his sallow face livid
+with passion.
+
+“I protest, sir, against this man being permitted to identify my wife,”
+he said.
+
+He was either deeply moved, or proved himself an excellent actor. His
+flute-like voice vibrated with an intense emotion. Thus might Mark
+Antony have spoken when vowing that Brutus was an honorable man.
+
+“Who are you?” demanded the coroner sharply.
+
+“Isidor George Ingerman, husband of the deceased lady,” came the
+clear-toned reply.
+
+“Well, sit down, sir, and do not interrupt the court again,” said the
+coroner.
+
+“I demand, sir, that you note my protest.”
+
+“Sit down! Were you any other person I would have you removed. As it
+is, I am prepared to regard your feelings to the extent of explaining
+that the witness is not identifying the body but relating a fact within
+his own knowledge.”
+
+Ingerman bowed, and resumed his seat.
+
+For some reason, Grant stared blankly at Furneaux. The latter did not
+meet his glance, but put a finger on those thin lips. It might, or
+might not, be a warning to repress any retort he had in mind. At any
+rate, obeying a nod from the coroner, he merely said:
+
+“She was a well-known actress, Miss Adelaide Melhuish.”
+
+Mr. Belcher’s pen hesitated a little. Then it scratched on.
+Undoubtedly, he was himself exercising the restraint he meant to impose
+on others.
+
+“You are quite sure?” he said, after a pause.
+
+“Quite.”
+
+“Thank you, Mr. Grant. Wait here until you sign your deposition. Of
+course, you are aware that this inquiry will stand adjourned, and the
+whole matter will be gone into fully at a later date.”
+
+“So I have been informed, sir.”
+
+Ingerman was the next witness. _He_, like a good democrat, kissed the
+cover of the Bible. The coroner began by giving him some advice.
+
+“This is a purely formal inquiry, to permit of a death certificate
+being issued. You will oblige me, therefore, by answering my questions
+without introducing any extraneous subject.”
+
+Ingerman adhered to these instructions. Having already shot a
+carefully-prepared bolt, he meant avoiding any further conflict with
+the authorities. His evidence was brief and to the point. The deceased
+was his wife. They were married at a London registrar’s office on a
+given date, six years ago. His wife acted under her maiden name. There
+was no family.
+
+The court was well lighted by four long windows in the eastern wall,
+which each witness faced, so Grant was free to study his avowed enemy
+at leisure. He thought he made out a crafty underlook in Ingerman which
+he had failed to detect the previous night. That slow, smooth voice
+seemed to weigh each syllable. Such a man would never blurt out an
+unconsidered admission. He was a foe to be reckoned with. The subtle
+malignancy of that well-timed outburst was proof positive in that
+respect.
+
+The jury, apparently, attached much weight to his words. On some faces
+there was an expectancy which merged into marked disappointment when
+his evidence came to an end. The foreman alone displayed the judicial
+attitude warranted by the oath he had taken. Somehow, Grant had faith
+in Mr. Siddle. The man looked intellectual. When spoken to in his shop
+his manner was invariably reserved. But that was his general repute in
+Steynholme—a quiet, uninterfering person, who had come to the village a
+young man, yet had never really entered into its life. For instance, he
+neither held nor would accept any public office. At first, people
+wondered how he contrived to eke out a living, but this puzzle was
+solved by his admitted possession of a small annuity.
+
+Dr. Foxton, general practitioner, who held undisputed sway in the
+district, told how he had conducted an autopsy on the body of the
+deceased. He found a deep, incised wound on the back of the skull, a
+wound which would have caused death in any event. The instrument used
+must have been a heavy and blunt one. Miss Melhuish was dead or dying
+when thrown into the river. The body was well nourished, and the vital
+organs sound. Undoubtedly she had been murdered.
+
+Bates followed, and evoked a snigger by the outspokenness of blunt
+Sussex.
+
+“I hauled ’um in,” he said, “an’ knew it wur a dead ’un by the feel of
+the rope.”
+
+The coroner was not curious. He merely wished to put on record the time
+and manner in which Mr. Grant summoned assistance.
+
+Then P. C. Robinson entered the box, and contrived to bring about the
+second “incident.”
+
+He told how, “from information received,” he went to _The Hollies_, and
+found Mr. Grant standing near the river with a dead body at his feet.
+
+“One side of Mr. Grant’s face was covered with blood,” he went on.
+
+If the policeman was minded to create a sensation, he certainly
+succeeded. A slight hum ran through the court, and then all present
+seemed to restrain their breathing lest a word of the evidence should
+be lost. The mention of “blood” in a murder case was a more adroit
+dodge than Robinson himself guessed, perhaps. Few of his hearers
+troubled to reflect that a smudge of fresh gore on Grant’s cheek could
+hardly have any bearing on the death of a woman whose body had
+admittedly lain all night in the river. It sufficed that Robinson had
+introduced a touch of the right color into the inquiry. Even the
+coroner was worried.
+
+“Well!” he said testily.
+
+“I took down his statement, sir,” said the witness, well knowing that
+he had wiped off Grant’s morning score in the matter of Bush Walk.
+
+“Never mind his statement. That must await the adjourned hearing. What
+did you do with the body?”
+
+“Took it to the stable of the Hare and Hounds, sir.”
+
+“Where it was viewed recently by the jury?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“It is the body identified by Mr. Ingerman as that of his wife?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“That will do.... Superintendent Fowler, will this day week at ten
+o’clock suit you?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said the superintendent.
+
+“Then the inquest stands adjourned until that day and hour. Gentlemen
+of the jury, you must be here punctually.”
+
+“Can’t we ask any questions?” cried Elkin, in an injured tone.
+
+“No. You cannot,” snapped the coroner emphatically.
+
+After a few formalities, which included the reading and signing of the
+depositions, the courthouse emptied. The whole thing was over in half
+an hour. Grant, determined to have a word with the representative of
+Scotland Yard, went openly to Furneaux, and asked him to come to The
+Hollies and join him in a cup of tea.
+
+“No,” was the curt answer. “I’m busy. I’ll see you later.”
+
+It was difficult to reconcile the detective’s present stand-off manner
+with his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly
+hint conveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman’s
+interruption.
+
+Rather sick at heart, Grant went out into the sunshine. He was
+snap-shotted a dozen times by press photographers. One man, backing
+impudently in front of him in order to secure a sharp focus, tripped
+over the raised edge of a cartway into a yard, and sat down violently.
+
+The onlookers laughed, but Grant helped the photographer to rise.
+
+“If you want a really good picture of the Steynholme murderer, come to
+my place, and I’ll give you one,” he said.
+
+The pressman was grateful, because Grant’s action had tended to
+mitigate his discomfiture.
+
+“No one but a fool thinks of you as a murderer, Mr. Grant,” he said.
+“What I really want is a portrait of ‘the celebrated’ author in whose
+grounds the body was found.”
+
+“Come along, then, and I’ll pose for you.”
+
+The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the
+gods gave. He could not guess that his host was pining for human
+companionship. He could not fathom Grant’s disappointment, on reaching
+_The Hollies_, at finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter
+Hart. And he was equally unconscious of the immense service he rendered
+by compelling his host to talk and act naturally. He enlightened Grant,
+too, in the matter of inquests.
+
+“Next week there will be a gathering of lawyers,” he said. “The police
+will be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is thought
+sufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ a
+solicitor, I expect, judging from his attitude to-day. In fact, any one
+whose interests are affected ought to secure legal assistance. One
+never knows how these inquiries twist and turn.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Grant, smiling at the journalist’s tact. “I’ll order
+tea to be got ready while you’re taking your pictures. By the way, what
+sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?”
+
+“A pocket marvel,” was the enthusiastic answer. “Haven’t you heard of
+him before? Well, you wouldn’t, unless you followed famous cases
+professionally. He seldom appears in the courts—generally manages to
+wriggle out of giving direct evidence. But I’ve never known him to
+fail. He either hangs his man or drives him to suicide. If I committed
+a crime, and was told that Furneaux was after me, I’d own up and save
+trouble, because I wouldn’t have the ghost of a chance of winning
+clear.”
+
+“He strikes one as too flippant for a detective.”
+
+“Yes. Lots of people have thought that, and they’re either disappearing
+in quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time at
+Portland. I wonder if Winter also is coming down on this job.”
+
+“Who is ‘Winter’?”
+
+“The Chief Inspector at the ‘Yard.’ A big, cheerful-looking fellow—from
+his appearance might be a gentleman-farmer and J. P., with a taste for
+horses and greyhounds. He and Furneaux are called the Big ’Un and the
+Little ’Un, and each is most unlike the average detective. But Heaven
+help any wrong-doer they set out to trail! They’ll get him, as sure as
+God made little apples.”
+
+“Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall be
+pleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard that
+fat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did
+it purposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, the
+literal truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose there
+caught my cheek as I entered this room on Tuesday morning—before I
+discovered the body—and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visible
+still? I saw it to-day while shaving.”
+
+“Yes,” said the other, chortling over the “copy” his colleagues were
+missing. “The mark is there right enough. Queer how inanimate objects
+like a rose-tree can make mischief. I remember a case in which a
+chestnut in a man’s pocket sent him to penal servitude. There was
+absolutely no evidence against him, except a possible motive, until
+that chestnut was found and proved to be one of a particular species,
+grown only in a certain locality.”
+
+“How fortunate that the Dorothy Perkins is popular!” laughed Grant.
+“Will your paper publish photographs of the principals in this affair?”
+
+“I expect so. I’ve a fine collection—the jury, all in a row—and you,
+making that speech to the mob.”
+
+“Oh! Will that appear?”
+
+“By Jove, yes, sir. It was wired off before the inquest opened.”
+
+Grant reddened slightly. His own impetuous action had blurted out to
+the whole world that which Steynholme was only thinking. No wonder
+Furneaux had warned him to go slow. Perhaps the little man was annoyed
+because of his challenge to the village crowd? Well, be it so. He
+meant, and would live up to, every word of it!
+
+The afternoon dragged after the pressman’s departure. What Grant really
+hungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and
+himself. But, short of a foolish attempt to carry the post office by
+storm, he saw no means of realizing his desire. He must, perforce,
+await the less troubled hours of the morrow or next day. Doris would
+surely give her father an exact account of the conversation between
+Grant, Furneaux, and herself that morning, and that greatly perplexed
+man could hardly fail to see how unjust was the tittle-tattle of the
+village.
+
+So, avoiding Mrs. Bates, whose fell intent it was to ask him what he
+wanted for dinner, he struck off along the road to Knoleworth, walked
+eight miles in two hours, and reached _The Hollies_ about seven
+o’clock, rather inclined for a meal and much more contented with life.
+
+Minnie announced that a gentleman “who brought a bag” had been awaiting
+him since half-past five, and was now asleep on the lawn! A glance at
+the aforesaid bag, still reposing in the entrance hall, sent Grant
+quickly into the garden. A long, broad-shouldered person was stretched
+on a wicker chair, and evidently enjoying a nap. A huge meerschaum pipe
+and tobacco pouch lay on the grass. The newcomer’s face was covered by
+a broad-brimmed, decidedly weather-beaten slouch hat, which, legend had
+it, was purchased originally in South America in the early nineties,
+and had won fame as the only one of its kind ever worn in the Strand.
+
+“Hullo! Wally! Glad to see you!” shouted Grant joyously.
+
+The sleeper stirred.
+
+“No, not another drop!” he muttered. “You fellows must have heads of
+triple brass and stomachs of leather!”
+
+“Get up, you rascal, or I’ll spill you out of the chair!” said Grant.
+
+A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright
+eyes gazed up into his.
+
+“Oh, it’s you, is it?” drawled a quiet voice. “Why the blazes did you
+send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I’ve
+had for a week?”
+
+“But why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have met the
+train.”
+
+“I did. Here’s the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had
+a fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected.”
+
+“You wired from Victoria, I suppose?”
+
+“Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn’t Victoria
+respectable?”
+
+Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer
+in existence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of
+rebellion was raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart
+post-haste by train, steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to
+death five times, and decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as
+often.
+
+“I’m a sort of outlaw. That’s why I sought your help,” explained Grant.
+
+“I know all about you, Jack,” said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe and
+filling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent the
+head of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use.
+
+“I felt like a pint of Sussex ale after a hot journey in the train, so
+hied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me
+your real name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a
+hobby of enlightening strangers as to your right place in society.”
+
+“I must interview Elkin.”
+
+“Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I might
+be doing you more harm than good, or I would have given him a thick ear
+this afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?”
+
+“Seven o’clock.”
+
+“A little fellow named Furneaux is coming here to dinner at
+seven-thirty. Said he would drop in by the back door, and mutter ‘Hush!
+I’m Hawkshaw, the detective.’ He resembles a cock-sparrow, so I asked
+him why he didn’t fly in through an attic window. He took my point at
+once, and remarked that he wanted none of my lip, or he would ask me
+officially what became of Don Ramon de Santander’s big pink pearl. It’s
+a queer yarn. There was a bust-up in Guatemala—”
+
+“Look here, Wally,” broke in Grant anxiously. “Are you serious? Did
+Furneaux really say he was coming here?”
+
+“He did, and more—he expressed a partiality for a chicken roasted on a
+spit. You have a spit in your kitchen, he says, and a pair of chickens
+in your larder.”
+
+“How did you contrive to meet him?”
+
+“You’re a poor guesser, Jack. _He_ met _me_. ‘That you, Mr. Hart?’ he
+said. ‘Mr. Grant’s house is the first on the right across the bridge.
+Tell him’—and the rest of it.”
+
+“Have you warned Mrs. Bates?”
+
+“Mrs. Bates being?”
+
+“My housekeeper.”
+
+“No, sir. If she’s anything like your housemaid, I’m glad I didn’t, or
+I should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a job to
+reach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in the
+village lockup.”
+
+Grant hurried away, and placated Mrs. Bates after a stormy interlude.
+Precisely at 7.30 p. m. Minnie came and said that “Mr. Hawkshaw” had
+arrived.
+
+“Bring him out here,” said Grant. “Fetch some sherry and glasses, and
+give us five minutes’ notice before dinner is served.”
+
+“Please, sir,” tittered Minnie, “the gentleman prefers to stay indoors.
+He said his complexion won’t stand the glare.”
+
+“Very well,” smiled Grant, rising. “Put the sherry and bitters on the
+sideboard.”
+
+“Say,” murmured Hart, “is this chap really a detective?”
+
+“Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard.”
+
+“Never more than five feet four, I’ll swear. But I wouldn’t have missed
+this for a pension. I have a revolver in my hip pocket, of course. One
+would feel lonely without it, even in England. But I hope you can stage
+a few knives and daggers, and a red light. I can cut masks out of a
+strip of black velvet. That girl will have a piece stowed away
+somewhere.”
+
+The two entered the dining-room study, where the table was now laid for
+dinner. Furneaux was seated on the edge of a chair in the darkest
+corner. His eyes gleamed at them strangely.
+
+“Can you trust Bates?” he said to Grant.
+
+It was a wholly unexpected question, and Grant answered sharply:
+
+“Of course, I can.”
+
+“Tell him to make sure that no one trespasses on your lawn between now
+and ten o’clock. Close that window, draw the blind and curtains, and
+block that small window, the one through which you saw the ghost.”
+
+“Ye gods!” cackled Hart ecstatically.
+
+“Why all these precautions?” demanded Grant, rather amused now.
+
+“I’m supposed to be on the very verge of arresting you, and it would
+weaken the faith of my allies if I were seen drinking your wines and
+eating your chicken.”
+
+“By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit on
+which to roast them?”
+
+“I looked you over at five-thirty this morning, having traveled from
+London by the mail train. I must lecture you on your inefficient
+window-catches, Mr. Grant. Several self-respecting burglars of my
+acquaintance would give your house the go-by as being too easy. And,
+one other matter. I suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme
+murder again before the coffee arrives shall be fined a sovereign for
+each offense, such fine, or fines, to form a fund for the relief of his
+hearers. _Cré nom d’un pipe_! Three intelligent men can surely discuss
+more interesting topics while they eat!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter VIII.
+An Interrupted Symposium
+
+
+“Have a cigarette,” said Grant to Furneaux, when the blinds were drawn,
+a lamp lighted, and the sherry dispensed.
+
+“Thank you.”
+
+The self-invited guest took one. He sniffed it, broke the paper
+wrapping, and crumbled some of the tobacco between finger and thumb.
+
+“Ah, those Greeks!” he said sadly. “They simply can’t go straight. This
+brand of Turk used to be made of a tobacco grown on a slope above
+Salonica. A strip of sun-baked soil built up a reputation which is now
+being bartered for filthy lucre by the use of Egyptian ‘fillings.’”
+
+“You’re a connoisseur, Mr. Hawknose—try these,” said Hart, proffering a
+case, from which the detective drew a cigarette, throwing the other one
+aside.
+
+“Why ‘Hawknose’?” he inquired.
+
+“A blend. First syllable of Hawkshaw and second of Furneaux—the latter
+Anglicized, of course.”
+
+“And vulgarized.”
+
+“You prefer Furshaw, perhaps?”
+
+“Either effort is feeble for a man who can write about South America,
+and be lucid. Do you smoke this stuff, may I ask?” While talking, he
+had smelt and destroyed the second cigarette.
+
+“If it’s a fair question, what the devil do _you_ smoke?” cried Hart.
+
+“Nothing. I’m a non-smoker. My profession demands a clear intellect,
+not a brain atrophied by nicotine.”
+
+“Piffle! Carlyle and Bismarck were smokers.”
+
+“Who reads Carlyle now-a-days? And what modern German pays heed to
+Bismarck’s dogmas? Look at that pipe of yours. It was once a pure ivory
+white. Now it is black—soiled by tobacco juice. Your lungs are slowly
+emulating it, and your wits will cloud in time. Read Tolstoi, Mr. Hart.
+He will teach you how nicotine deadens the conscience.”
+
+“At last I know why I smoke like a Thames tug,” laughed Hart, “but I’m
+blest if I can understand why _you_ make such a study of the vile
+weed.”
+
+“Most criminals are addicted to the habit. I classify them by their
+brand of tobacco. For instance, a clever forger would never descend to
+thick twist, while a swell mobsman would turn with horror from a
+woodbine.”
+
+Minnie entered, and nodded, whereupon Grant led the others upstairs to
+wash. From the bathroom he looked out over a darkening landscape.
+Doris’s dormer window was open. She was leaning on the sill, but he
+could not tell whether or not her eyes were turned his way. Her
+attitude was pensive, disconsolate, curiously forlorn for a girl
+normally high-spirited. He was on the point of signaling to her when he
+remembered Furneaux’s presence. There was something impish, almost
+diabolically clever, in that little man’s characteristics which induced
+wariness.
+
+The dinner was a marvel, considering the short notice given to the
+cook. Luckily, Mrs. Bates, a loyal soul, had resolved to tempt her
+employer’s appetite that evening. Village gossip had it that the police
+were about to arrest him, and she was determined he should enjoy at
+least one good meal before being haled to prison. Hence, the materials
+were present. The rest was a matter of quantities, and Sussex seldom
+stints itself in that respect.
+
+The chatter round the table was light and amusing. The three were well
+matched conversationally. Furneaux evidently held the opinion once
+expressed by a notable Walrus—that the time had come
+
+_To talk of many things:
+Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
+Of cabbages—and kings._
+
+
+He was in excellent form, and the others played up to him. Hart’s slow
+drawl was ever trenchant and witty, and Grant forgot his woes in
+congenial company. As for the mercurial detective himself, it might be
+said of him as of the school-master of Auburn:
+
+_And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
+That one small head could carry all he knew._
+
+
+It was he who dropped them with a bounce from the realm of fancy to the
+unpleasing region of ugly fact. No sooner had Minnie cleared the table,
+and brought in the coffee, than he whisked around on Grant as though
+hitherto he had been only awaiting an opportunity of scarifying him.
+
+“Now,” he said, propping an elbow on the table, and supporting his chin
+on a clenched fist, “the embargo is off the Steynholme affair. _You_
+didn’t kill Adelaide Melhuish, Mr. Grant. Who did?”
+
+“I wish I could tell you,” was the emphatic answer.
+
+“Do you suspect anybody? You needn’t fear the libel law in confiding
+your secret thought to me, and I assume that Mr. Hart is
+trustworthy—where his friends are concerned?”
+
+“Why that unkind differentiating clause, my pocket Vidocq?” put in
+Hart.
+
+“Because two Kings and a baker’s dozen of Presidents have, at various
+times, sent most unflattering reports to this country about you.”
+
+“I must have annoyed ’em most damnably.”
+
+“You had. I congratulate you, but Heaven only knows where I may convoy
+you some day on an extradition warrant....Proceed, Mr. Grant.”
+
+“I assure you, on my honor, that the only reasonable suggestion I can
+make is that put forward by my gardener to-day,” said Grant. “He thinks
+that the murder must have been committed by a lunatic. I can offer no
+other hypothesis.”
+
+“Your gardener may be right. But what lunatic, barring yourself and the
+horse-coper, Elkin, is in love with Doris Martin?”
+
+Like Elkin the previous night, Grant struck the table till things
+rattled.
+
+“Keep her name out of it,” he cried fiercely. “You are a man of the
+world, not a suspicious idiot of the Robinson type. You heard to-day
+the full and true explanation of her presence here on Monday night. It
+was a sheer accident. Why harp on Doris Martin rather than any member
+of the Bates family?”
+
+“Who, may I ask, is Doris Martin?” put in Hart.
+
+“The Steynholme postmaster’s daughter,” said Furneaux. “A remarkably
+pretty and intelligent girl. If her father was a peer she would be the
+belle of a London season. As it is, her good looks seem to have put a
+maggot in more than one nut in this village.”
+
+Hart waved the negro’s head in the air.
+
+“The lunatic theory for mine,” he declared. “If one woman’s lovely face
+could bring a thousand ships to Ilion, why should not another’s drive
+men to madness in Steynholme?”
+
+“Well phrased, sir,” cackled Furneaux delightedly. “I’ll wangle that in
+on a respected colleague of mine, who is a whale at deducing a
+proposition from given premises, but cannot induce a general fact from
+particular instances to save his life ... Now, stifle your romantic
+frenzy, Mr. Grant, and listen to me. If you were minded to instruct me
+in the art of writing good English, I would sit at your feet an
+attentive disciple. When I, Furneaux, of the ‘Yard,’ lay down a first
+principle in the investigation of crime, I expect deference on your
+part. I tell you unhesitatingly that if Doris Martin didn’t exist,
+Adelaide Melhuish would be alive now. That, as a thesis, is nearly as
+certain a thing as that the sun will rise to-morrow. I go farther, and
+hazard the guess, not the fixed belief, though my guesses are usually
+borne out by events, that if Doris Martin had not been in this garden
+at half past ten on Monday night, Adelaide Melhuish would not have been
+killed some twenty minutes later. It is useless for you to fume and
+rage in vain effort to disprove either of these presumptive facts. You
+are simply beating the air. This mystery centers in and around the
+postmaster’s daughter. Come, now, you are a reasonable person. Admit
+the cold, hard truth, and then give play to your fancy.”
+
+“Sir,” said Hart, brandishing his pipe again, “I suggest that you and
+I, here and now, form a mutual admiration society.”
+
+“It is a cruel and bitter thing that an innocent girl should be dragged
+into association with a foul crime,” said Grant stubbornly. “I am not
+disputing the force of your acumen, Mr. Furneaux. My only desire is to
+shield the good name of a very charming young lady.”
+
+“What’s done can’t be undone,” countered the detective, well knowing
+that Grant confessed himself beaten.
+
+“But what is all the bother about? You heard from Miss Martin’s own
+lips absolutely the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Put her in
+the witness-box, and what more can she tell you?”
+
+“I am not worrying about her appearance in the witness-box,” said
+Furneaux dryly. “Long before that stage is reached I shall be hunting a
+star burglar, or, perhaps, looking into the Foreign Office _dossier_ of
+our worthy friend here, as to-day’s papers hint at trouble in
+Venezuela. No, sir. The county police will get all the credit. P. C. 
+Robinson will be swanking about then, telling the yokels what _he_ did.
+I, with Olympic nod, say, ‘There’s your man!’ and the handcuffs’
+brigade do the rest. So far as I can foresee, Miss Martin’s name may be
+spared any undue prominence in this inquiry. I go even farther, and
+promise that anything I can do in that way shall be done.”
+
+“That is very kind and considerate of you,” said Grant gratefully.
+
+“Don’t halloo till you’re out of the wood.” said Furneaux, sitting back
+suddenly and nursing his left knee with clasped hands. “I can’t control
+other people’s actions, you know. What I insist on to-night is that you
+shall envisage this affair in its proper light. We have a long way to
+travel before counsel rises with his smug ‘May it please you, me lud,
+and gentlemen of the jury.’ But, having persuaded you to agree that,
+willy nilly, Miss Doris is the hub of our little universe for the hour,
+I now swear you and this fire-eater in as assistants. There must be no
+more speeches, no punching of heads, very little love-making, and that
+by order—”
+
+“Has the postmaster’s daughter a delectable sister, O Liliputian cop?”
+demanded Hart.
+
+“No. Two of ’em would have caused a riot long since. Mr. Grant will do
+all, and more than all, necessary in that direction.”
+
+Grant leaned forward. He spoke very earnestly.
+
+“I want you to believe me when I tell you,” he said, “that I never gave
+serious thought to the notion of marrying Miss Martin until such a
+possibility was suggested last night by that swab, Ingerman.”
+
+“Ah, Ingerman! You kept a record of what he said, I gather?”
+
+“Yes, here it is.”
+
+Grant rose, and went to a writing-desk with nests of drawers which
+stood against the wall on the left of the door. He never used it for
+its primary purpose. When the table was laid for meals, Minnie or her
+mother had orders to remove all papers and books to the top of the
+desk. The house contained no other living-room of size. The hall was
+spacious; a smoking den next the dining-room had degenerated into a
+receptacle of guns, fishing-rods, golf-clubs, Alpenstocks, skis and
+other such sporting accessories. The remainder of the ground-floor
+accommodation was given up to the Bateses.
+
+Unlocking a drawer, Grant produced a notebook, which he handed to
+Furneaux. The detective laid it on the table. He was sitting with his
+back to the large window. Hart faced him. Grant’s chair was between the
+two.
+
+“By the way, as you’re on your feet, Mr. Grant,” said Furneaux, “you
+might just show me exactly where you were standing when you saw the
+face at the window.”
+
+“For the love of Mike, what’s this?” gurgled Hart. “‘The face at the
+window’; ‘the postmaster’s daughter.’ How many more catchy cross-heads
+will you bring into the story?”
+
+“Poor Adelaide Melhuish undoubtedly came here on Monday night and
+looked in at me while I was at work,” said Grant sadly. “You know the
+history of my calf love three years ago, Wally.”
+
+“Shall I ever forget it? You bored me stiff about it. Then, when the
+crash came, you walked me off my legs in the Upper Engadine. Ugh! That
+night on the Forno glacier. It gives me a chill to think of it now.
+Furneaux, pass the port. Your name is wrongly spelt. It should be
+_fourneau_, not Furneaux. A little oven. Hot stuff. Got me?”
+
+“My _dear_ Hart, you flatter me,” retorted the detective instantly.
+
+“How long am I to pose here?” snapped Grant.
+
+“Sorry,” said Furneaux. “These interruptions are banal. Is that where
+you were?”
+
+“Yes. I had my hand outstretched for a book. It’s dark in this corner.
+When I want to find a book I light a candle, which is always placed on
+the ledge of the window for the purpose. The blind was not drawn that
+night. It seldom is. I had the book in my hand, and had found the
+required passage when I chanced to look at the window and saw _her_
+face.”
+
+“Do you mind reconstructing the scene. This lamp was on the table, I
+suppose?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, pull up the blind, light your candle, and find the book. Act the
+whole incident, in fact.”
+
+Grant obeyed. He held the candlestick until he had picked out the
+particular volume; then he placed it in the recess of the window, and
+searched through the pages of the book.
+
+Furneaux bent forward so as to watch the rehearsal and catch the effect
+of the light externally. The hour was not so late as when Adelaide
+Melhuish, or her ghost, gazed in through one of those narrow panes, but
+the night was dark enough to lend the necessary _vraisemblance_. Hart,
+deeply interested, looked on with rapt, eager eyes. For a full minute
+the tableau remained thus. Then, with a rapidity born of many a close
+’scape in wild lands, Hart drew a revolver from a hip pocket, and fired
+at the window.
+
+He alone was in a position to see through all parts of it. Grant was
+still thumbing a small brown volume in the manner of one who knew that
+a certain passage would be found therein but was ignorant of its exact
+place in the text. Furneaux, intent on his every movement, had only a
+side-long view of the window, which, it will be remembered, formed a
+tiny rectangle in a thick wall.
+
+The revolver was a heavy-caliber weapon, and the explosion blew out the
+lamp. The flame of the candle flickered, owing either to the passage of
+the bullet or the disturbance of the air. But it burnt steadily again
+within the fifth part of a second, and they all saw a starred hole in
+the center pane of glass of the second tier from the bottom.
+
+“What fool’s game are you playing?” shrilled Furneaux, nevertheless
+active as a wildcat in his spring to the French window, there to snatch
+at the blind and turn the knob which controlled a lever bolt.
+
+“Laying another ghost—one with whiskers,” said Hart coolly. “I got him,
+too, I think.”
+
+“You must be mad, mad!” shrieked the detective, tearing open the
+window, and vanishing.
+
+“For Heaven’s sake, Wally, no more shooting!” cried Grant, running
+after Furneaux.
+
+Minnie and her mother appeared at the dining-room door. Finding the
+place in semi-obscurity, and reeking with gunpowder, they screamed
+loudly.
+
+“You Steynholme folk are all on the jump,” said Hart. “Cheer up, fair
+dames! Thunder relieves the atmosphere, you know, and one live
+cartridge is often more effective than an ocean of talk.”
+
+“Bub-bub-but who’s shot, sir?” gasped Minnie.
+
+“A ghost, a most scoundrelly apparition, with fearsome eyes, offensive
+whiskers, and a hat which is a base copy of mine.”
+
+“Owd Ben!” sighed Mrs. Bates, collapsing straightway in a faint.
+
+Luckily, Minnie caught her mother and broke her fall, because the
+housekeeper was large and solid, and might have been seriously injured
+otherwise. Hart was distressed by this development, but, being
+eminently a ready person in an emergency, he rose to the occasion by
+extracting the empty case from the revolver, and holding it to the poor
+woman’s nostrils, while supporting her with an arm and a knee.
+
+“This is far more effective than burnt brown paper, Minnie,” he said.
+“Now, don’t get excited, but mix some brandy and water, and we’ll have
+your mother telling us who Owd Ben is, or was, before Hawk-eye comes
+back to disturb us. Judging by the noises I hear, he’s busy outside.”
+
+“That’s father!” shrieked Minnie hysterically.
+
+“Good Lord! Has your father—”
+
+For an instant, Hart was nearly alarmed, but Grant’s voice came
+authoritatively:
+
+“It’s all right, Bates. Let go, I tell you!”
+
+“Phew!” said Hart. “I was on the point of confusing your respected dad
+with Owd Ben ... That’s it, ma! Sniff hard! As a cook you’re worth your
+weight in gold, which is some cook.”
+
+Meanwhile, Furneaux, seeing that no dead body was stretched on the
+strip of grass beneath the window, dashed into the shrubbery to the
+right, and was clutched in a mighty embrace by an older but much more
+powerful man in Bates, who had hurried from the front of the house on
+hearing the pistol-shot. Most fortunately, the gardener, deeming his
+vigil a needless one, had not armed himself with a stick, or the
+consequences might have been grave. As it was, no one except Hart had
+been vouchsafed sight or sound of the latest specter, which, however,
+had left a very convincing souvenir of its visit in the shape of a soft
+felt hat with two bullet holes through the crown.
+
+Furneaux, quivering with silent wrath, soon abandoned the search when
+this _pièce de conviction_ was found at the root of the Dorothy Perkins
+rose-tree. Seeing the lamp relighted, he peremptorily bade Grant and
+Bates come in with him. He closed the window, adjusted the blind again,
+and poured generous measures of port wine into two glasses. Handing one
+to Bates, he took the other himself.
+
+“Friend,” he said, “some men have fame thrust upon them, but you have
+achieved it. To-night you pierced the heel of Achilles. Here’s to you!”
+
+“I dunno wot ’ee’s saying mister, but ‘good health’,” said Bates,
+swigging the wine with gusto.
+
+“Now, for your master’s sake, not a word to a soul about this hubbub.”
+
+“Right you are, sir! But that there pryin’ Robinson wur on t’ bridge
+five minutes since. And, by gum, here he is!”
+
+A determined knock and ring came at the front door. Minnie, helped by
+Hart, had just escorted Mrs. Bates to the kitchen.
+
+“Let _me_ go!” said Furneaux, darting out into the hall. He opened the
+door, and thrust his face into the police-constable’s, startling the
+latter considerably. Before Robinson could utter a syllable, the
+detective hissed a question.
+
+“Did anyone cross the bridge after that shot was fired?”
+
+“Nun—No, sir,” stuttered the other.
+
+“You saw no one running along the road?”
+
+“Saw nothing, sir.”
+
+“Very well. Glad to find you’re on the job. Don’t let on you met me
+here. Good-night!”
+
+Mighty is Scotland Yard with the provincial police. Robinson was back
+on his self-imposed beat before he well realized that he knew neither
+why nor by whom nor by what sort of weapon the commotion had been
+created. But he was quite sure the noise came from the garden front of
+Mr. Grant’s house.
+
+“That little hop-o’-me-thumb thinks he’s smart, dam smart,” he communed
+angrily, “but I’ve taken a line of me own, an’ I’ll stick to it, though
+the Yard sends down twenty men!”
+
+He heard footsteps coming down a paved footpath which ran like a white
+riband through the cobble-beaded width of the high-street, and withdrew
+swiftly to the shelter of a disused tannery adjoining the village end
+of the bridge. A cloaked female figure sped past. Though the night was
+rather dark for June, he had no difficulty in recognizing Doris
+Martin’s graceful movements. No other girl in Steynholme walked like
+her. She was slim enough to dispense with tight corsets, and tall
+enough to wear low-heeled shoes, nor did she need to pinch her toes in
+order to gain the semblance of small feet.
+
+After her went Robinson, keyed to exultation by this outcome of his
+watchfulness. She was going to _The Hollies_, of course. The road led
+to Knoleworth, and no young woman of her age in the village would dream
+of taking a lonely walk in the country at ten o’clock at night.
+
+For a man of his height and somewhat ponderous build, the policeman
+followed with real stealth. Thus, when she turned in at the gate, he
+was there by the time she had reached the front door. He heard her pull
+the bell. Curiously enough, to his thinking, Furneaux again appeared.
+
+“Is Mr. Grant at home?” he heard Doris say.
+
+“Yes. Will you come in?” replied the detective.
+
+“Is he—is all well here?”
+
+“Quite, I assure you. But _do_ come in. I’ll escort you home. I’m going
+to the inn in five minutes.”
+
+Doris, after hesitating a little, entered.
+
+Robinson crept on tiptoe over a stretch of gravel, and took to the
+shrubbery. It was high time, he thought, that the local constabulary
+learnt what was going on in that abode of mystery.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter IX.
+How Whom the Cap Fits—
+
+
+Several minutes had elapsed between the two unexpected visits. During
+those minutes a somewhat acrimonious discussion broke out in the
+dining-room. Bates went to reassure his wife, and Hart sauntered back
+from the kitchen. He was received by Furneaux and Grant more in sorrow
+than in anger, a pose on their part which he blandly disregarded. He
+helped himself to the remains of the decanter of port.
+
+“The next point of vital interest in the narrative is to establish, by
+such evidence as is available, who Owd Ben is, or was,” he said. “I
+presume, since he had attained local celebrity as a ghost, he has
+passed over, as the spiritists say.”
+
+“Sit down!” cried Furneaux savagely.
+
+Hart sat down, and began filling that portentous pipe.
+
+“You fellows merely ran into each other outside, I take it,” he said,
+apparently by way of a chatty remark. “The crack of the pistol-shot and
+the supposed resurrection of Owd Ben threw Mrs. Bates temporarily off
+her balance, so I helped in reviving her. Between such a cook and such
+a ghost, who would hesitate?”
+
+When Furneaux was really irritated, he swore in French.
+
+_“Nom d’un bon petit homme gris!”_ he almost squealed, “why did you
+whip out that infernal revolver? You spoiled everything, everything!
+Have you no sense in that picturesque head of yours? Your skull is big
+enough to hold brains, not soap-bubbles.”
+
+“Did your French father marry a Jap?” inquired Hart, with sudden
+interest.
+
+“And now you’re insulting my mother,” yelped the detective.
+
+“Not I. You know nothing about the finest race of little women in the
+world, or you would not even imagine such rubbish.”
+
+“But why, why, didn’t you tell me that you saw someone outside?”
+
+“You wouldn’t have believed me. The goblin was disappearing. I had to
+shoot quick.”
+
+“Why shoot at all?”
+
+“Sir, there are certain manifestations I object to on principle. What
+self-respecting ghost ever wore whiskers?”
+
+“This was no ghost. You shot the man’s hat off.”
+
+“Then what the blazes are you growling at? Had I, in blood-curdling
+whisper, told you that once again there was a face at the window, you
+would have scoffed at me. The ill-looking scamp caught my eye after his
+first glance at Grant. He was mizzling when I fired. You would have sat
+there and argued about hypnosis, with our worthy author’s skilled
+support. And there would have been no hat! I do an admirable bit of
+trick shooting, yet I am only reviled for my dexterity. Really, Charles
+François!”
+
+“Ah! You remember, at last,” and the detective smiled sourly.
+
+“_Parfaitement_! as they say in Paris, where you and I met once, though
+’twas in a crowd. But _I_ didn’t steal the blessed pearl. I believe it
+was that blatant patriot, Domengo Suarez.”
+
+“You’ve got _some_ brains, then. Why not use them? Don’t you see what a
+fix we three would have found ourselves in had you shot the man?”
+
+“But, consider, Carlo mio! A spook with whiskers! What court would find
+me guilty? Let me produce the authentic record of Owd Ben, and I have
+no doubt but that the Lord Chief Justice himself would have potted his
+representative. He’d be bound to confess it.”
+
+Furneaux was cooling down.
+
+“You’ve shaken my confidence,” he said. “Unless I have your promise
+that you will never do such a thing again while in my company, I shall
+ban you from this inquiry with bell, book, and candle.”
+
+“Very well. It’s a bargain. Now let us ponder Exhibit A.”
+
+He stretched a long arm over the table, and took the hat.
+
+“Put it on!” commanded the detective.
+
+Hart did so, and scowled frightfully. Furneaux bent forward and
+squinted.
+
+“Notice the line of those bullet-holes,” he said to Grant.
+
+“Any man wearing that hat must have had his scalp ploughed up,” said
+Grant instantly.
+
+“Well, we know that nothing of the kind happened. Why?”
+
+“It was perched on top of a wig,” drawled Hart.
+
+Furneaux was slightly disappointed—there was no denying it. Being a
+vain little person, he liked to show off in a minor matter such as
+this.
+
+“Yes,” he admitted, “and what’s the corollary?”
+
+“That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, a
+daring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristics of
+Owd Ben. Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of that hairy
+goblin.”
+
+“Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?” said the detective testily.
+
+“Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description.”
+
+“Her husband can tell us the story,” put in Grant. “I’ll fetch him.”
+
+He had not moved ere the front door bell rang a second time.
+
+“Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect,” said Hart.
+
+“If it’s that Robinson—” growled Furneaux vexedly, hastening to
+forestall Minnie.
+
+But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered the
+room, her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a very
+natural embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a
+stranger fixed on her.
+
+“I don’t quite know why I’m here,” she said, with a nervous laugh,
+addressing Grant directly. “You will think I am always gazing in the
+direction of _The Hollies_, but my room commands this house so fully
+that I cannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes
+ago I heard what I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw
+your window thrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle
+was showing in the smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire
+what had happened. You’ll pardon me, I’m sure.”
+
+“Say you don’t, Jack, I implore you, and let me apologize for you,”
+pleaded Hart.
+
+“Doris, this is my good friend, Wally Hart,” smiled Grant. “Won’t you
+sit down? We have an exciting story for you.”
+
+“Father will be horribly anxious if he knows I have gone out.”
+
+Nevertheless, there was sufficient spice of Mother Eve in Doris that
+she should take the proffered chair.
+
+“Sorry to interrupt,” broke in Furneaux. “Did you meet P. C. Robinson!”
+
+“No.”
+
+“You came by way of the bridge?”
+
+“There is no other way, unless one makes a detour by Bush Walk.”
+
+The detective whirled round on Grant.
+
+“What room is over this one?”
+
+“Minnie’s.”
+
+“She’s in the kitchen, with her mother. See that she doesn’t come
+upstairs while I’m absent. You three keep on talking.”
+
+“Thanks,” said Hart.
+
+Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly.
+
+“Mr. Grant has often spoken of you,” she said. “You talk, and we’ll
+listen.”
+
+“Not so, divinity,” came the retort. “I may be a parrot, but I don’t
+want my neck wrung when you’ve gone.”
+
+“Don’t encourage him, Doris,” said Grant, “or you’ll be here till
+midnight.”
+
+“If that’s the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to
+me,” laughed Hart.
+
+Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The
+casement window was open—he had noted that fact while in the garden. He
+peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux
+Indian on the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about
+to peer cautiously through the small window. The detective’s blood ran
+cold. What if Hart discovered yet another ghost?
+
+“Robinson—go home!” he said, in sepulchral tones.
+
+The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror.
+He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben.
+
+“Go home!” hissed Furneaux, leaning out.
+
+Then the other looked up.
+
+“Oh, it’s you, sir!” he gasped, sighing with relief.
+
+“Man, you’ve had the closest shave of your life! There’s a fellow below
+there who shoots at sight.”
+
+“But I’m on duty, sir.”
+
+“You’ll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be off!”
+
+“I—”
+
+“Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don’t do as I bid you. And
+that would be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has a
+particularly smart man in Steynholme.”
+
+“Very well, sir, if _you’re_ satisfied, I _must_ be.”
+
+And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear
+of the supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced.
+
+Furneaux tripped downstairs. The routing of Robinson had put him into a
+real good humor. He found the three in the dining-room gazing
+spell-bound at the felt hat.
+
+“Now, young lady, you’re coming with me,” he said, grinning amiably.
+“The Sussex constabulary is quelled for the hour.”
+
+“But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!” said Doris, and it was
+notable that even Hart remained silent.
+
+The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question.
+
+“I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society,”
+went on the girl. “It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played a
+burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold from
+walking about without shoes or stockings.”
+
+“Don’t tell me any more,” was Furneaux’s surprising comment. “I’ll do
+the rest. But let me remark, Miss Martin, that I experienced great
+difficulty, not so long ago, in persuading friend Grant that you were
+the only important witness this case has provided thus far. Playing in
+a burlesque, were you? We’ve been similarly engaged to-night. The farce
+must stop now. It makes way for grim tragedy. Not one word of
+to-night’s events to anyone, please.... Are you ready?”
+
+Doris stood up. Hart thrust the negro’s head at the detective.
+
+“Fouché,” he said, “do you honestly mean slinging your hook without
+making any inquiry as to Owd Ben?”
+
+“Oh, the ghost!” said Doris eagerly. “The Bateses would think of him,
+of course. An old farmer named Ben Robson used to live in this house
+about the time of Napoleon. He was suspected by the authorities to be
+an agent of the smugglers, and the story goes that his own daughter
+quarreled with him and betrayed him. He narrowly escaped hanging, owing
+to his age, I believe, and was sentenced to a long term of
+imprisonment. At last he was released, being then a very old man, and
+he came straight here and strangled his daughter. It is quite a
+terrible story. He was found dead by her side. Then people remembered
+that she had spoken of someone scaring her by looking in through that
+small window some nights previously. Naturally, a ghost was soon
+manufactured. I really wonder why the man who rebuilt and renamed the
+place in the middle of last century didn’t have the window removed
+altogether.”
+
+“Glad I began the work of demolition tonight,” said Hart, and, for
+once, his tone was serious.
+
+“Why did you never tell me that scrap of history, Doris?” inquired
+Grant.
+
+“You liked the place so much that father and I agreed not to mar your
+enthusiasm by recalling an unpleasant legend,” she said frankly. “Not
+that what I’ve related isn’t true. The record appears in a Sussex
+Miscellany of those years.... Oh, my goodness, can it be eleven
+o’clock!”
+
+The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the written
+notes regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table. Grant, for
+some reason, was aware that the detective repressed an obvious
+reference to the last occasion on which the girl had heard that same
+clock announce the hour.
+
+Furneaux would allow no other escort. He and Doris made off
+immediately.
+
+When they were gone, Hart stared fixedly at an empty decanter.
+
+“My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of many
+virtues and few vices,” he mused aloud.
+
+Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his
+crony poring over the book which, singularly enough, figured
+prominently on each occasion when the specter-producing window was
+markedly in evidence. Hart glanced up at his host, and nodded
+cheerfully at a dust-laden bottle.
+
+“What is there in ‘The Talisman’ which needed so much research?” he
+asked.
+
+“Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott,” was the answer.
+
+“Are these they?” And Hart read:
+
+_One thing is certain in our Northern land;
+Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit,
+Give each precedence to their possessor,
+Envy, that follows on such eminence,
+As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck’s trace,
+Shall pull them down each one._
+
+
+“Yes,” said Grant.
+
+“Love isn’t mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You’re in luck, my
+boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Gee
+whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist.
+What is a lyme-hound?”
+
+“‘Lyme,’ or ‘leam,’ is the old-time word for ‘leash.’”
+
+“Good!” said Hart. “That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinner
+every day, Jack. He’s a tonic!”
+
+Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany
+Doris to the post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the
+broad village street, more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he
+tapped her on the shoulder and said pleasantly:
+
+“Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don’t worry. The
+tangle will right itself in time.”
+
+“Poor Mr. Grant is suffering,” she ventured to murmur.
+
+“And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I’ll wait
+here till you are behind a locked door.”
+
+“No one in Steynholme will hurt me,” she said.
+
+“You never can tell. I’m not taking any chances to-night, however.”
+
+So Doris sped swiftly up the hill. Arrived at her house, she waved a
+hand to the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response. A fine
+June night in England is never really dark, so the two could not only
+see each other but, when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply
+on his heel, was able to make out the sudden straightening of a pucker
+in the blind of a ground-floor room in P. C.  Robinson’s abode.
+
+The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window.
+Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door.
+
+“Who’s there?” he demanded.
+
+“As if you didn’t know,” laughed Furneaux.
+
+Robinson turned a key, and looked out.
+
+“Oh, it’s you, sir?” he cried.
+
+“You’ll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme,” said the
+detective. “May I come in? No, don’t show a light here. Let’s chat in
+the back kitchen.”
+
+“I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir,” began Robinson
+apologetically. “It’s laid in the kitchen. On’y bread and cheese an’ a
+glass of beer. Will you join me?”
+
+“With pleasure, if I hadn’t stuffed myself at Grant’s place. Nice
+fellow, Grant. Pity you and he don’t seem to get on together. Of
+course, we policemen cannot allow friendship to interfere with duty,
+but, between you and me, Robinson—strictly in confidence—Grant had no
+more to do with the actual murder of Miss Melhuish than either of us
+two.”
+
+Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in his
+own easy-chair.
+
+“The ‘actual murder,’ you said, sir?” he repeated.
+
+“Yes. It was his presence at _The Hollies_ which brought an infatuated
+woman there, and thus directly led to her death. That is all. Grant is
+telling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to
+break bread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I’ll change my
+mind, and take a snack of your bread and cheese.”
+
+The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied
+tribute. What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his
+somewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective’s little
+finger.
+
+“Right you are, sir,” he cried cheerily. “But, if Mr. Grant didn’t kill
+Miss Melhuish, who did!”
+
+“In all probability, the man who wore that hat,” chirped Furneaux,
+taking a nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the
+table.
+
+Robinson started. This June night was full of weird surprises. He set
+down a jug of beer with a bang—his intent being to fill two glasses
+already in position, from which circumstance even the least observant
+visitor might deduce a Mrs. Robinson, _en negligé_, hastily flown
+upstairs.
+
+He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb.
+
+“By gum!” he muttered. “Are these bullet-holes?”
+
+“They are.”
+
+“An’ is this what someone fired at?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“But how in thunder—”
+
+He checked himself in time. He did not want to admit that he had been
+watching the only recognized road to Grant’s house all the evening.
+
+“Quite so!” chortled Furneaux, with admirable misunderstanding. “You’re
+quick on the trigger, Robinson—almost as quick as that friend of
+Grant’s who arrived by the 5.30 from London. You perceive at once that
+no ordinary head could have worn that hat without having its hair
+combed by the same bullet. It was stuck on to a thick wig. Now, tell me
+the man, or woman, in Steynholme, who wears a wig and a hat like that,
+and you and I will guess who killed Miss Melhuish.”
+
+Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg was
+being pulled rather violently. Furneaux read his face like a printed
+page. Chewing, much against his will, a mouthful of bread and cheese,
+he mumbled in solemn, broken tones:
+
+“Think—Robinson. Don’t—answer—offhand. Has—anybody—ever worn—such
+things—in a play?”
+
+Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were.
+
+“By gum!” he cried again. “Fred Elkin—in a charity performance last
+winter.”
+
+Furneaux choked with excitement.
+
+“A horsey-looking chap, on to-day’s jury,” he gurgled.
+
+“That’s him!”
+
+“The scoundrel!”
+
+“No wonder he looked ill.”
+
+“No wonder, indeed. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes
+ill deeds done!”
+
+“But, sir—”
+
+Robinson was flabbergasted. He could only murmur “Fred Elkin!” in a
+dazed way.
+
+“Have a drink,” said Furneaux sympathetically. “I’ll wet my whistle,
+too. Only half a glass, please. Now, we mustn’t jump to conclusions.
+This Elkin looks a villain, but may not be one. That is to say, his
+villainy may be confined to dealings in nags. But you see, Robinson,
+what a queer turn this affair is taking. We must get rid of
+preconceived notions. Superintendent Fowler and you and I will go into
+this matter thoroughly to-morrow. Meanwhile, breathe not a syllable to
+a living soul. If I were you, I’d let Mr. Grant understand that we
+regard him as rather outside the scope of our inquiry. This beer is
+very good for a country village. You know a good thing when you see it,
+I expect. Pity I don’t smoke, or I’d join you in a pipe. I must get a
+move on, now, or that fat landlord will be locking me out. Good night!
+Yes. I’ll take the hat. _Good_ night!”
+
+While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat.
+
+“One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from a
+good-natured ass!” he communed. “Here am I, Furneaux, plagued beyond
+endurance by a first-class murder case, and I must go and busy myself
+with the love affair of a postmaster’s daughter and a feather-headed
+novelist!”
+
+When Tomlin admitted him to the Hare and Hounds, he buttonholed the
+landlord, who, at that hour, was usually somewhat obfuscated.
+
+“Sir,” said the detective gravely, “I am told that you Steynholme folk
+indulge occasionally in such frivolities as amateur theatricals?”
+
+“Once in a way, sir. Once in a way. Afore I lock up the bar, will you—”
+
+“Not to-night. I’ve mixed port and beer already, and I’m only a little
+fellow. Now you, Mr. Tomlin, can mix anything, I fancy?”
+
+“I’ve tried a few combinations in me time, sir.”
+
+“But, about these theatrical performances—is there any scenery,
+costumes, ‘props’ as actors call them?”
+
+“Yes, sir. They’re stored in the loft over the club-room—the room where
+the inquest wur held.”
+
+“What, _here_?”
+
+Furneaux’s shrill cry scared Mr. Tomlin.
+
+“Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered.
+
+“Is that my candle?” said the detective tragically. “I’m tired, dead
+beat. To-night, Mr. Tomlin, you are privileged to see the temporary
+wreck of a noble mind. God wot, ’tis a harrowing spectacle.”
+
+Furneaux skipped nimbly upstairs. Tomlin proceeded to lock up.
+
+“It’s good for trade,” he mumbled, “but I’ll be glad when these ’ere
+Lunnon gents clears out. They worry me, they do. Fair gemme a turn, ’e
+did. A tec’, indeed! He’s nothin’ but a play-hactor hisself!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter X.
+The Case Against Grant
+
+
+Next morning, after a long conference with Superintendent Fowler, from
+which, to his great chagrin, P. C. Robinson was excluded, Furneaux went
+to the post office, dispatched an apparently meaningless telegram to a
+code address, and exchanged a few orthodox remarks with Doris and her
+father about the continued fine weather. While he was yet at the
+counter, Ingerman crossed the road and entered the chemist’s shop.
+
+“Let me see,” said the detective musingly, “by committing a slight
+trespass on your left-hand neighbor’s garden, can I reach the yard of
+the inn?”
+
+“What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over,” smiled Doris.
+“Mrs. Jefferson went to Knoleworth early to-day, and took her maid. By
+shopping at the stores there, they save their fares, and have a day out
+each week.”
+
+“May I go that way, then?” he said. “Suppose you send that goggle-eyed
+skivvy of yours on an errand.”
+
+This was done, and Furneaux made the desired transit.
+
+Now, Tomlin, to whom the comings and goings of all and sundry formed
+the staple of the day’s gossip, had seen the detective go out, but
+could “take his sollum davy” that the queer little man had not
+returned. He, too, had watched Ingerman going to Siddle’s. Ten minutes
+later Elkin came down the hill, and headed for the same rendezvous.
+Five minutes more, and Hobbs, the butcher, joined the others. Tomlin
+was seething with curiosity, but there were some casual customers in
+the “snug,” so he could not abandon his post.
+
+Soon, however, Ingerman led Elkin and Hobbs to the inn. Evidently, the
+“financier” had been making some small purchases. He was in high
+spirits. Ordering appetizers before the mid-day meal, he announced that
+he was returning to London that afternoon, but would be in Steynholme
+again for the adjourned inquest.
+
+“No matter how my business suffers, I mean to see this affair through,”
+he vowed. “You gentlemen can pretty well guess my private convictions.
+You were good enough to give me your friendship, so I spoke as openly
+as one dares when no charge has actually been laid against any
+particular person.”
+
+“Ay,” said Elkin, with whom sunshine seemed to disagree, because he
+looked miserably ill. “We know what you mean, Mr. Ingerman. If the
+police were half sharp they’d have nabbed their man before this ... Did
+you put any water in this gin, Tomlin?”
+
+“Water?” wheezed Tomlin indignantly. _“Water?”_
+
+“Well, no offense. I can’t taste anything. I believe I could swallow
+dope and not feel it on my tongue.”
+
+“You do look bad, an’ no mistake, Fred,” agreed Hobbs. “Are you vettin’
+yerself? Don’t. Every man to his trade, sez I. Give Dr. Foxton a call.”
+
+“I’m taking his medicine regular. Perhaps I need a change.”
+
+“’Ave a week-end in Lunnon,” said Hobbs, with a broad wink.
+
+“Change of medicine, I mean. I’m not leaving Steynholme till things
+make a move. My next trip to London will be my honeymoon.”
+
+“You look like a honeymooner, I don’t think,” guffawed Hobbs.
+
+“You wouldn’t laugh if I told _you_ what you really look like,” cried
+Elkin angrily. “Bet you a level fiver I’m married this year. Now, put
+up or shut up!”
+
+Furneaux peeped in, through a door, always open, which led to the
+stairs.
+
+“Can I have my account, Mr. Tomlin?” he said. “I’m going to town by the
+next train.”
+
+“You don’t mean to say, Mr. Furneaux, that you are abandoning the case
+so soon?” broke in Ingerman.
+
+“Did I say that?” inquired the detective meekly.
+
+“No. One can’t help drawing inferences occasionally.”
+
+“Great mistake. Look at our worthy landlord. He’s been drawing
+inferences as well as corks, and he’s beat to the world.”
+
+Tomlin was, indeed, gazing at his smaller guest open-mouthed.
+
+“S’elp me!” he gurgled. “I could ha’ sworn—”
+
+“Bad habit,” and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. “Even
+the wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. I
+really fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do
+you think it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box
+of old clothes at that. Silly, isn’t it?”
+
+“Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin’ things?”
+
+“Exactly.”
+
+Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh.
+
+“Not so sharp for a London ’tec, I must say,” he cried. “Why, those
+props have been there since before Christmas.”
+
+“Yes. I know now,” was the downcast reply. “Twelve hours ago I thought
+differently. Didn’t I, Mr. Tomlin?”
+
+Tomlin tried hard to look knowing.
+
+“Oh, is that wot you wur drivin’ at?” he said. “Dang me, mister, I
+could soon ha’ put you right ’ad you tole me.”
+
+“Well, well. Can’t be helped. I may do better in London. What do _you_
+say, Mr. Ingerman? The City is the real mint of money and crime. Who
+knows but that a stroll through Cornhill may have some bearing on the
+Steynholme mystery?”
+
+“May be you’d get a bit nearer if you took a stroll along the
+Knoleworth Road, and not so very far, either,” guffawed Elkin.
+
+“Who knows?” repeated Furneaux sadly. “Good-day, gentlemen. Some of
+this merry party will meet again, of course, if not here, at the
+Assizes. Don’t forget my bill. Mr. Tomlin. By the way, one egg at
+breakfast had seen vicissitudes. It shouldn’t be rated too highly.”
+
+“I’m traveling by your train,” cried Ingerman.
+
+“So I understood,” said Furneaux over his shoulder.
+
+There was silence for a moment after he had gone. Ingerman looked
+thoughtful, even puzzled. He was casting back in his mind to discover
+just how and when the detective “understood” that his departure was
+imminent, since he himself had only arrived at a decision after leaving
+the chemist’s.
+
+“That chap is no good,” announced Elkin. “I’ll back old Robinson
+against him any day.”
+
+“Sh-s-sh! He may ’ear you,” muttered the landlord.
+
+“Don’t care if he does. Cornhill! What the blazes has Cornhill to do
+with the murder at _The Hollies_?”
+
+Ingerman appreciated the value of that concluding phrase. Elkin had
+used it once before in Siddle’s shop, and was quietly reproved by the
+chemist for his outspokenness.
+
+Ingerman, however, did not inform the company that his office lay in an
+alley off Cornhill. He elected to rub in Elkin’s words.
+
+“Mr. Siddle seemed to object to _The Hollies_ being mentioned as the
+scene of the crime,” he said. “I wonder why?”
+
+“Because he’s an old molly-coddle,” snapped the horse-dealer. “Thinks
+everyone is like himself, a regular slow-coach.”
+
+Tomlin closed the door into the passage, closed it for the first time
+in living memory, whereat Furneaux, on the landing above, grinned
+sardonically, and ran downstairs.
+
+“Wot’s this about them amatoor clo’es?” he inquired portentously. “Oo
+’as the key of that box?”
+
+“_I_ have,” said Elkin. “I locked it after the last performance, and,
+unless you’ve been up to any monkey tricks, Tomlin, the duds are there
+yet.”
+
+“You’re bitin’ me ’ead off all the mornin’, Fred,” protested the
+aggrieved landlord. “Fust, the gin was wrong, an’ now I’m supposed to
+’ave rummidged yur box. Wot for?”
+
+Furneaux popped in.
+
+“My bill ready?” he squeaked.
+
+“No, sir. The train—”
+
+“Leaves at two, but I’m driving to Knoleworth with Superintendent
+Fowler.”
+
+The door closed behind him. Tomlin shook his head.
+
+“Box! Jack-in-the-box, I reckon,” he said darkly, turning to a
+dog-eared ledger.
+
+Neither at Knoleworth nor Victoria did Ingerman catch sight of the
+detective, though he was anxious either to make the journey in the
+company of the representative of Scotland Yard or arrange an early
+appointment with him. True, he was not inclined to place the
+strange-mannered little man on the same high plane as that suggested by
+certain London journalists to whom he had spoken. But he wanted to win
+the confidence of “the Yard” in connection with this case, and the
+belief that he was being avoided was nettling. He found consolation, of
+a sort, in the illustrated papers. One especially contained two pages
+of local pictures. “Mr. Grant addressing the crowd,” with full text,
+was very effective, while there were admirable studies of _The Hollies_
+and the “scene of the tragedy.” His own portrait was not flattering.
+The sun had etched his Mephistophelian features rather sharply, whereas
+Grant looked a very fine fellow.
+
+Ingerman would have been more than surprised were he privileged to
+overhear a conversation which began and ended before he reached his
+flat in North Kensington.
+
+Furneaux, who had jumped into the fore part of the train at Knoleworth,
+and was out in a jiffy at Victoria, handed his bag to a station
+detective, and turned into Vauxhall Bridge Road, one of the quietest of
+London’s main thoroughfares. There he met a big man, dressed in tweeds,
+whose manifest concern at the moment seemed to center in a rather bad
+wrapping of a very good cigar.
+
+“Ah! How goes it, Charles?” cried the big man heartily, affecting to be
+aware of Furneaux’s presence when the latter had walked nearly a
+hundred yards down a comparatively deserted street.
+
+“What’s wrong with the toofa?” inquired Furneaux testily.
+
+“My own carelessness. Stupid things, bands on cigars.... Well, what’s
+the rush?”
+
+“There’s a train to Steynholme at five o’clock. I want you to take
+hold. I must have help. Like your cigar, this case has come unstuck.”
+
+Mr. James Leander Winter, Chief Inspector under the Criminal
+Investigation Department, whistled softly.
+
+“Tut, tut!” he said. “One can never trust the newspapers. Reading this
+morning’s particulars, it looked dead easy.”
+
+“Tell me how it struck you. Sometimes the uninformed brain is
+vouchsafed a gleam of unconscious genius.”
+
+Winter appeared to be devoting his mind to circumventing the vagaries
+of a fragile tobacco-leaf. He was a man of powerful build, over forty,
+heavy but active, deep-chested, round-headed, with bulging blue eyes
+which radiated kindliness and strength of character. The press
+photographer described him accurately to Grant. The average Londoner
+would have taken him for a county gentleman on a visit to the
+Agricultural Show at Islington, with a morning at Tattersall’s as a
+variant. Yet, Sam Weller’s extensive and peculiar knowledge of London
+compared with his as a freshman’s with a don’s of a university. It
+would be hard to assess, in coin of the realm, the value of the
+political and social secrets stowed away in that big head.
+
+“First, I must put a question or two,” he said, smiling at a baby which
+cooed at him from the shaded depths of a passing perambulator. “Is
+there another woman?”
+
+“Yes, the postmaster’s daughter, Doris Martin.”
+
+“Shy, pretty little bird, of course?”
+
+“Everything that is good and beautiful.”
+
+“Is Grant a Lothario?”
+
+“Excellent chap. Quarter of an hour before the murder he was giving
+Doris a lesson in astronomy in the garden of _The Hollies_.”
+
+“Never heard it called _that_ before.”
+
+“This time the statement happens to be strictly accurate.”
+
+“Honest Injun?”
+
+“I’m sure of it. If anything, the death of Adelaide Melhuish cleared
+the scales off their eyes. Those two have never kissed or squeezed—yet.
+They’ll be starting quite soon now.”
+
+“How old is Doris?”
+
+“Nineteen.”
+
+“But a really good-looking girl of nineteen must have had admirers
+before Grant went to the village.”
+
+“She had, and has. Having educated herself out of the rut, however, she
+left many runners at the post. One is persistent—a youngish horse-coper
+named Elkin. Adelaide Melhuish probably saw her with Grant. Neither
+Doris nor Grant knew that Adelaide Melhuish, as such, was in
+Steynholme. That is to say, the girl had seen Miss Melhuish in the post
+office, and recognized her as a famous actress, but that is all. And
+now I shan’t tell you any more, or you’ll know all that I know, which
+is too much.”
+
+The cigar was behaving itself at last, having burnt down to the
+fracture, so Winter’s thoughts could be given exclusively to the less
+important matter of the Steynholme affair.
+
+“To begin with,” he said instantly. “Ingerman can establish a cast-iron
+alibi.”
+
+“So I imagined. But he’s a bad lot. I throw in that item gratuitously.”
+
+The oddly-assorted pair walked in silence until Vauxhall Bridge was in
+sight. Winter pulled out a watch.
+
+“What time did you say my train left Victoria?” he inquired.
+
+“Plenty of time yet to make your guess and listen to further details,”
+scoffed Furneaux.
+
+“Frankly, I give it up. But, if I must share in the hunt, I tell you
+now that, metaphorically speaking, I shall cling to the postmaster’s
+daughter till torn away by sheer force of evidence.”
+
+Furneaux dug his colleague in the ribs.
+
+“That’s the effect of constant association with me, James,” he cackled
+gleefully. “Ten years ago you would have pounced on Elkin. You’ve hit
+it! I’m a prood mon the day. The pupil is equaling the master.”
+
+“You little rat, I had hanged my first murderer before you knew the
+meaning of _habeas corpus_! Let’s turn now, and get to business.”
+
+Few Treasury barristers, leading for the Crown, could have marshaled
+the facts with such lucidity and fairness as Furneaux during that
+saunter to Victoria Station.
+
+“Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice,” said Othello to
+Lodovico, and these Scotland Yard men, charged with so great a
+responsibility, never forgot the great-hearted Moor’s advice.
+
+When Winter took his seat in the train at five o’clock he could have
+drawn a plan of Steynholme, which he had never seen, and marked thereon
+the exact position of each house mentioned in this record. Moreover, he
+was acquainted with the chief characters by sight, as it were. And,
+finally, he and Furneaux had arranged a plan of campaign.
+
+Furneaux refreshed a jaded intellect by an evening at the opera. Next
+morning, at eleven o’clock, he was inquiring for Mr. Ingerman at an
+office in a certain alley off Cornhill.
+
+A smart youth interposed a printed formula between the visitor and a
+door marked “Private.” Furneaux wrote his name, and put “Steynholme” in
+the space reserved for “business.” He was admitted at once. Mr.
+Ingerman, apparently, was immersed in a pile of letters, but he swept
+them all aside, and greeted the caller affably.
+
+“Glad to see you, Mr. Furneaux,” he said. “I missed you on the train
+yesterday. Did you—”
+
+“Nice quiet place you’ve got here, Mr. Ingerman,” interrupted the
+detective.
+
+“Yes. But, as I was about to—”
+
+“Artistically furnished, too,” went on Furneaux dreamily. “Oak,
+self-toned carpets and rugs, restful decorations. Those etchings, also,
+show taste in the selection. ‘The Embankment—by Night.’ Fitting sequel
+to ‘The City—by Day.’ I’m a child in such matters, but, ’pon my honor,
+if tempted to pour out my hard-earned savings into the lap of a City
+magnate, I would disgorge here more readily than in some saloon-bar of
+finance, where the new mahogany glistens, and the typewriters click
+like machine-guns.”
+
+Ingerman was nettled. He glanced at his correspondence.
+
+“You have a somewhat far-fetched notion of my position,” he said, with
+a staccato quality in his velvet voice. “I am not a magnate, and I toil
+here to make, not to lose, money for my clients.”
+
+“A noble ideal. Forgive me if my rhapsody took the wrong line.”
+
+“And I’m sure you will forgive me if I now put the question which leads
+to the probable cause of your visit. Did you travel by the two o’clock
+train yesterday?”
+
+“Yes. I avoided you purposely.”
+
+“May I ask, why?”
+
+“My mind was weary. I wanted my wits about me when I tackled you.”
+
+Ingerman smiled, and leaned back, resting both elbows on the arms of
+the chair, and bringing the tips of his fingers together.
+
+“Proceed,” he said.
+
+“You prefer that I should drag out a statement piecemeal rather than
+receive it _en bloc_?”
+
+“Put it that way, if you like.”
+
+“I shall even enjoy it. To clear the ground, are you the Isidor G.
+Ingerman who exploited the A1 Mine in Abyssinia?”
+
+Ingerman’s finger-tips whitened under a sudden pressure, but his voice
+remained calm.
+
+“An unfortunate episode,” he said.
+
+“And the Aegean Transport Company, Limited?”
+
+“Into which I was inveigled by Greeks. But why this history of ruined
+enterprises?”
+
+“It’s a sort of schooling. I have noticed that the smartest counsel
+invariably begin with a few fireworks in order to induce the proper
+frame of mind in a witness.”
+
+“Does that mean that you want me to blurt out bitter and prejudiced
+accusations against Mr. Grant?”
+
+“I want to hear what you have to say about the death of your wife. You
+forced the cross-examining role on me. I’m doing my best.”
+
+Ingerman kept silent during many seconds. When he spoke, his cultured
+voice was suave as ever.
+
+“Perhaps it was my fault, Mr. Furneaux,” he said. “You gave me a strong
+hint. I should have taken it, and we might have started an interesting
+chat on pleasanter lines. So, with apologies for my insistence about
+the train, I make a fresh start. I believe firmly that Grant was
+directly concerned in the murder. And I shall justify my belief. Within
+the past fortnight a _rapprochement_ between my wife and myself became
+possible. It was spoken of, even reduced to the written word. I have
+her letters. Mine should be found among her belongings. May I take it
+that they _have_ been found?”
+
+“Yes,” said Furneaux.
+
+“Ah. So far, so good. My poor wife reached the parting of the ways. She
+saw that her life was becoming an empty husk. I think the theater was
+palling on her. But I see now that she still cherished the dream of
+winning the man she loved—not me, her husband, but that handsome
+dilettante, Grant. I take it, therefore, that she went to Steynholme to
+determine whether or not the glamour of the past was really dead.
+Unfortunately, she witnessed certain idyllic passages between her
+one-time lover and a charming village girl. Imagine the effect of this
+discovery on one of the artistic temperament. ‘Hell hath no fury like a
+woman scorned,’ and my unhappy wife would lash herself into an
+emotional frenzy. She would tear a passion to rags. Her very training
+on the stage would come to her aid in scathing words—perhaps threats.
+If Grant remained cold to her appeal the village beauty should be made
+to suffer. Then _he_ would flame into storm. And so the upas-tree of
+tragedy spread its poisonous shade until reason fled, and some demon
+whispered, ‘Kill!’ I find no flaw in my theory. It explains the
+inexplicable. Now, how does it strike you, Mr. Furneaux?”
+
+“As piffle.”
+
+“Is that so? I have the advantage, of course, in knowing my wife’s
+peculiarities. And I have made some study of Grant. He admits already
+that he is under suspicion. Why, if he is innocent? Mind you, I pay
+little heed to the crude disposal of the body. Horace, I think, has a
+truism that art lies in concealing art. My wife’s presence in
+Steynholme was no secret. She would have been missed from the inn.
+Search would be made. The murder must be revealed sooner or later, and
+the murderer himself was aware that by no twisting or turning could his
+name escape association with that of his victim. Why not face the music
+at once? he would argue. The very simplicity of the means adopted to
+fasten a kind of responsibility on him might prove his best safeguard.
+Even now I doubt whether any jury will find him guilty on the evidence
+as it stands, but my duty to my unhappy wife demands that I shall
+strengthen the arm of justice by every legitimate means in my power.”
+
+“Is that your case, Mr. Ingerman?”
+
+“At present, yes.”
+
+“It assumes that the police adopt your view.”
+
+“Not necessarily. The police must do their work without fear or favor.
+But Grant can be committed for trial on a coroner’s warrant.”
+
+“Grant is certainly in an awkward place.”
+
+“Only a little while ago you dismissed my theory of the crime as airy
+persiflage.”
+
+“That was before you quoted Horace. I have a great respect for Horace.
+His ode to the New Year is a gem.”
+
+“Would you care to see my wife’s recent letters?”
+
+“If you please.”
+
+“They are at my flat, I’ll send you copies. The originals are always at
+your disposal for comparison, of course. Now may I, without offense,
+ask a question?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Is it wise that the emissary of Scotland Yard should leave
+Steynholme?”
+
+“But didn’t I tell you that I might obtain light in the neighborhood of
+Cornhill?”
+
+“True. I could have given you the facts in Steynholme.”
+
+“I’m a greater believer in what the theater people call ‘atmosphere.’
+Some of your facts, Mr. Ingerman, remind me of an expert’s report in a
+mining prospectus. When tested by cyanide of potassium the gold in the
+ore often changes into iron pyrites. But don’t hug the delusion that I
+shall neglect Steynholme. The murderer is there, not in London, and,
+unless my intellect is failing, he will be tried for his life at the
+next Lewes Assizes. Meanwhile, may I give you a bit of advice?”
+
+“By all means.”
+
+“Employ a sound lawyer, one who will avoid needless mud-slinging. Good
+day! Send those letters to the Yard by to-night’s post if practicable.”
+
+“It shall be done.”
+
+When the door closed on Furneaux, Ingerman smiled.
+
+“I’ve given that little Frenchman furiously to think,” he murmured.
+
+But the “little Frenchman” was smiling, too. He had elaborated the
+scheme already discussed with Winter. It was much to his liking, though
+unorthodox, rather crack-brained, more than risky, and altogether
+opposed to the instructions of the Police Manual. Each of these
+drawbacks was a commendation to Furneaux. In fact, the Steynholme
+mystery had taken quite a favorable turn during that talk with
+Ingerman.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XI.
+P. C. Robinson Takes Another Line
+
+
+About the time Furneaux was whisked past _The Hollies_ in
+Superintendent Fowler’s dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing
+luncheon, and planning a long walk to the sea. Grant would dearly have
+liked to secure Doris’s company, but good taste forbade that he should
+even invite her to share the ramble. Thus, the death of a woman with
+whom he had not exchanged a word during three years had already set up
+a barrier between Doris and himself. Though impalpable, it was
+effective. It could neither be climbed nor avoided. Quiet little
+Steynholme had suddenly become a rigid censor of morals and etiquette.
+Until this evil thing was annihilated by slow process of law, Doris and
+he might meet only by chance and never remain long together.
+
+When the two were ready to start, Hart elected to dispense with his
+South American sombrero.
+
+“I am sensitive to ridicule,” he professed. “The village urchins will
+christen me ‘Owd Ben,’ and the old gentleman’s character was such that
+I would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I’ll join the no hat brigade.”
+
+“I wonder if we’ll meet Furneaux,” said Grant, selecting a
+walking-stick. “It’s odd that we should have seen nothing of him this
+morning.”
+
+“It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions he
+took not to be observed coming here last night.”
+
+“Well, that’s so. I forgot to ask the reason. There was one, I
+suppose.”
+
+“Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He’s
+wasted on Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an ambassador.”
+
+“Quaint alternatives, those.”
+
+“Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in
+coining cute phrases. I’ve met scores of both tribes, and they’re like
+as peas in a pod.”
+
+A bell rang.
+
+“That’s the front door,” said Grant. “It’s Furneaux himself, I hope.”
+
+But the visitor was P. C.  Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted.
+
+“Glad I’ve caught you before you went out, sir,” he said. “Mr. Furneaux
+asked me to tell you he had to hurry back to London. I was also to
+mention that he had got the whiskers.”
+
+“What whiskers? Whose whiskers?”
+
+“That’s all he said, sir—he’d got the whiskers.”
+
+“Why, Owd Ben’s whiskers, of course. How dense you are, Jack!” put in
+Hart.
+
+Now, this was the first Robinson had heard of whiskers in connection
+with the crime. He remembered Elkin’s make-up as Svengali, of course,
+and could have kicked himself for not associating earlier a set of
+sable whiskers with the black wig and the bullet-torn hat.
+
+But, Owd Ben! What figure did that redoubtable ghost cut in the
+mystery?
+
+“There are certain _lacunae_ in your otherwise vigorous and thrilling
+story, constable,” went on Hart.
+
+“Very likely, sir,” agreed Robinson, much to the surprise of his
+hearers. He had not the slightest notion what a _lacuna_, or its
+plural, signified. He was only adopting Furneaux’s advice, and trying
+to be civil.
+
+“Ah, you see that, do you?” said Hart. “Well, fill ’em in. When, where,
+and how did the midget sleuth obtain the specter’s hairy adornments?”
+
+The policeman, whose wits were thoroughly on the alert, realized that
+he had scored a point, though he knew not how.
+
+“He did not tell me, sir,” he answered. “It’s a rum business, that’s
+what it is, no matter what way you look at it.”
+
+Grant, agreeably aware of the village constable’s change of front,
+accepted the olive branch readily.
+
+“We’re just going for a walk,” he said. “If you have ten minutes to
+spare, Mrs. Bates will find you some luncheon, I have no doubt.”
+
+“Well, sir, meals are a trifle irregular during a busy time like this,”
+admitted Robinson, feeling that his luck was in, because tongues would
+surely be loosened in the kitchen to an official guest introduced by
+the master of the establishment. He was right. No member of the Bates
+family dreamed of reticence, now that the household was restored to
+favor with “the force.” Before Robinson departed, he was full of
+information and good food.
+
+What more natural, then, an hour later, than that he should contrive to
+meet Elkin as the horse-dealer was taking home a lively two-year-old
+pony he had been “lungeing” on a strip of common opposite his house?
+
+Each was eager to question the other, but Elkin opened fire.
+
+“Anything fresh?” he cried. “You have a fair course now, Robinson. That
+little London ’tec has bunked home.”
+
+“Has he?” In the language of the ring, Robinson thought fit to spar for
+an opening.
+
+“Oh, none of your kiddin’,” said Elkin, stroking the nervous colt’s
+neck. “You know he has. You don’t miss much that’s going on. Bet you
+half a thick ’un you’d have put someone in clink before this if the
+murder at _The Hollies_ had been left in your hands.”
+
+“That’s as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped you
+for fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin’ badly?”
+
+“Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night.”
+
+“You shouldn’t be out so late. Why, on’y a week ago you were in bed
+regular at 10.15.”
+
+“That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed at
+Knoleworth.”
+
+“What time did you reach home?”
+
+“Dashed if I know. After twelve before I was in bed. By the way, what’s
+this about things missing from a box owned by the Amateur Dramatic
+Society? That silly josser of a detective—What’s his name?”
+
+“Furneaux,” said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear too
+secretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the
+very topic he wanted to discuss.
+
+“Ay, Furneaux. I remember now. He worried old Tomlin last night about
+that box, which is kept in the loft over the club-room. So Tomlin and
+I, and Hobbs, just to satisfy ourselves, went up there as soon as
+Furneaux left to-day. And, what do you think? The box was unlocked,
+though I locked it myself, and have the key; and a hat and wig and
+whiskers I wore when we played a skit on ‘Trilby’ were missing. If that
+isn’t a clew, what is?”
+
+“A clew!” repeated the bewildered Robinson.
+
+“Yes. I’m telling you, though I kept dark before the other fellows.
+Didn’t you say Grant’s cheek was bleeding on Tuesday morning?”
+
+“I did.”
+
+“Well, the whiskers were held on by wires that slip over the ears. One
+wire was sharp as a needle. I know, because it stuck into a finger more
+than once. Why shouldn’t it scratch a man’s cheek, and the cut open
+again next morning?”
+
+“By jing, you’ve got your knife into Mr. Grant, an’ no mistake,”
+commented Robinson.
+
+“You yourself gave him a nasty jab at the inquest,” sneered Elkin.
+
+“I was just tellin’ the facts.”
+
+“So am I. I think you ought to know about that hat and the other
+things. I would recognize them anywhere. Furneaux had something up his
+sleeve, too, or he wouldn’t have pumped Tomlin... Woa, boy! So long,
+Robinson! I must put this youngster into his stall.”
+
+“I’ll wait, Mr. Elkin,” said Robinson solemnly. “I want to have a word
+with you.”
+
+The policeman was glad of the respite. He needed time to collect his
+thoughts. The story of the dinner-party and its excitement disposed
+completely of Elkin’s malicious theory with regard to Grant, but, since
+the horse-dealer was minded to be communicative, it would be well to
+encourage him.
+
+“Come in, and have a drink,” said Elkin, when the colt had been
+stabled.
+
+“No, thanks—not when I’m on duty.”
+
+Elkin raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He could not possibly guess
+that Robinson was adopting Furneaux’s pose of never accepting
+hospitality from a man whom he might have to arrest.
+
+“Well, blaze away. I’m ready.”
+
+The younger man leaned against a gate. He looked ill and physically
+worn.
+
+“Your business has kept you out late of a night recently, you say, Mr.
+Elkin,” began the other, speaking as casually as he could contrive.
+“Now, it might help a lot if you can call to mind anyone you met on the
+roads at ten or eleven o’clock. For instance, last night—”
+
+Elkin laughed in a queer, croaking way.
+
+“Last night my mare brought me home. I was decidedly sprung, Robinson.
+Glad you didn’t spot me, or there might have been trouble. What between
+the inquest, an’ no food, an’ more than a few drinks at Knoleworth, I’d
+have passed Owd Ben himself without seeing him, though I believe I did
+squint in at _The Hollies_ as I went by.”
+
+“What time would that be?”
+
+“Oh, soon after eleven.”
+
+“Sure.”
+
+“I can’t be certain to ten minutes or so. The pubs hadn’t closed when I
+left Knoleworth. What the devil does it matter, anyhow?”
+
+It mattered a great deal. Robinson could testify that Elkin did not
+cross Steynholme bridge “soon after eleven.”
+
+“Nothing much,” was the answer. “You see, I’m anxious to find out who
+might be stirring at that hour, an’ you know everybody for miles
+around. I’d like to fix your journey by the clock, if I could.”
+
+“Dash it all, man, I was full to the eyes. There! You have it
+straight.”
+
+“Were you out on Monday night?”
+
+“The night of the murder?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I left the Hare and Hounds at ten, and came straight home.”
+
+“Who was there with you?”
+
+“The usual crowd—Hobbs, and Siddle, and Bob Smith, and a commercial
+traveler. Siddle went at half past nine, but he generally does.”
+
+“You met no one on the road?”
+
+“No.”
+
+The monosyllable seemed to lack Elkin’s usual confidence. It sounded as
+if he had been making up his mind what to say, yet faltered at the last
+moment.
+
+Robinson ruminated darkly. As a matter of fact, long after eleven
+o’clock on that fateful night, he himself had seen Elkin walking
+homeward. He was well aware that the licensing hours were not strictly
+observed by the Hare and Hounds when “commercial gentlemen” were in
+residence. Closing time was ten o’clock, but the “commercials,” being
+cheery souls, became nominal hosts on such occasions, and their guests
+were in no hurry to depart. Robinson saw that he had probably jumped to
+a conclusion, an acrobatic feat of reasoning which Furneaux had
+specifically warned him against. At any rate, he resolved now to leave
+well enough alone.
+
+“Well, we don’t seem to get any forrarder,” he said. “You ought to take
+more care of your health, Mr. Elkin. You’re a changed man these days.”
+
+“I’ll be all right when this murder is off our chests, Robinson. You
+won’t have a tiddley? Right-o! So long!”
+
+Robinson walked slowly toward Steynholme. At a turn in the road he
+halted near the footpath which led down the wooded cliff and across the
+river to Bush Walk. He surveyed the locality with a reflective frown.
+Then, there being no one about, he made some notes of the chat with
+Elkin. The man’s candor and his misstatements were equally puzzling.
+None knew better than the policeman that the vital discrepancy of fully
+an hour and a half on the Monday night would be difficult to clear up.
+Tomlin, of course, would have no recollection of events after ten
+o’clock, but the commercial traveler, who could be traced, might be
+induced to tell the truth if assured that the police needed the
+information solely for purposes in connection with their inquiry into
+the murder. That man must be found. His testimony should have an
+immense significance.
+
+That evening, shortly before seven o’clock, a stalwart,
+prosperous-looking gentleman in tweeds “descended” from the London
+express at Knoleworth. The local train for Steynholme stood in a bay on
+the opposite platform, and this passenger in particular was making for
+it when he nearly collided with another man, younger, thinner,
+bespectacled, who hailed him with delight.
+
+“You, too? Good egg!” was the cry.
+
+The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality.
+
+“Where the deuce are you off to?” he demanded.
+
+“To Steynholme—same as you, of course.”
+
+“Look here, Peters, a word in your ear. If you know me during the next
+few days, you’ll never know me again. I suppose you’ll be staying at
+the local inn—there’s only one of any repute in the place?”
+
+“That’s so. I’ve got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate when
+the time comes?”
+
+“Have I ever failed you?”
+
+“No. We meet as strangers.”
+
+Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest “writer
+up” in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested
+both him and a shrewd news-editor.
+
+The pair arrived at the Hare and Hounds within a few minutes of each
+other. The big man registered as “Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina.” Peters
+ordered a chop, and went off at once to interview the local policeman.
+Mr. Franklin took more pains over the prospective meal.
+
+“Have you a nice chicken?” he inquired.
+
+Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder at that
+moment.
+
+“And do you think your cook could provide a _tourne-dos_?”
+
+“A what-a, sir?” wheezed Tomlin.
+
+The visitor explained. He liked variety, he said. Half the chicken
+might be deviled for breakfast. The two dishes, with plain boiled
+potatoes and French beans, would suit him admirably. He was sorry he
+dared not try Tomlin’s excellent claret, but a dominating doctor had
+put him on the water-cart. In effect, Mr. Franklin impressed the
+landlord as a man of taste and ample means.
+
+Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room,
+but they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs
+anent his carryin’s on in Knoleworth the previous night.
+
+Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitués
+had the place to themselves.
+
+Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purpose
+exactly, so he gave the conversation the right twist.
+
+“I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this
+sensational murder?” he said.
+
+Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at
+his neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the
+stranger, and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely:
+
+“The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Three
+days gone, and nothing done!”
+
+“What murder are you discussing, may I ask?” put in Franklin.
+
+Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly
+mobile face.
+
+“Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven’t heard of the Steynholme
+murder?” he gasped.
+
+“I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I
+landed in England only a week ago from France, my ignorance, though
+abyssmal, is pardonable. Moreover, I can say truly that I am far more
+interested in pedigree horses than in vulgar criminals.”
+
+Peters explained fluently. This was no ordinary crime. A beautiful and
+popular actress had been done to death in a brutal way, and the country
+was already deeply stirred by the story.
+
+Elkin waited impatiently till the journalist drew breath. Then he broke
+in.
+
+“Pedigree horses you mentioned, sir,” he said, his rancor against Grant
+being momentarily conquered by the pertinent allusion to his own
+business. “What sort? Racing, coaching, roadsters, or hacks?”
+
+“All sorts. The Argentine, where I have connections, offers an
+ever-open door to good horseflesh.”
+
+“Are you having a look round?”
+
+“Yes. There are several decent studs within driving distance of
+Steynholme. Isn’t that so, landlord?”
+
+“Lots, sir,” said Tomlin. “An’ the very man you’re talkin’ to has some
+stuff not to be sneezed at.”
+
+“Is that so?” Mr. Franklin gazed at Elkin in a very friendly manner.
+“May I ask your name, sir?”
+
+Elkin produced a card. Every hoof in his stables appreciated in value
+forthwith, but he was far too knowing that he should appear to rush
+matters.
+
+“Call any day you like, sir,” he said. “Glad to see you. But give me
+notice. I generally have an appetizer here of a morning about eleven.”
+
+“An’ you want it, too, Fred,” said Hobbs. “Dash me, you’re as thin as a
+herrin’. Stop whiskey an’ drink beer, like me.”
+
+“And you might also follow that gentleman’s example,” interposed Siddle
+quietly, nodding towards Mr. Franklin.
+
+“What’s that?” snapped Elkin.
+
+“Don’t worry about murders.”
+
+“That’s a nice thing to say. Why should _I_ worry about the d—d
+mix-up?”
+
+The chemist made no reply, but Hobbs stepped into the breach valiantly.
+
+“Keep yer ’air on, Fred,” he vociferated. “Siddle means no ’arm. But
+wot else are yer a-doing of, mornin’, noon, an’ night?”
+
+Elkin laughed, with his queer croak.
+
+“If you stay here a day or two, you’ll soon get to know what they’re
+driving at, sir,” he said to Franklin. “The fact is that this chap,
+Grant, who found the body, and in whose garden the murder was
+committed, has been making eyes at the girl I’m as good as engaged to.
+That would make anybody wild—now, wouldn’t it?”
+
+“Possibly,” smiled Franklin. “Of course there is always the lady’s
+point of view. The sex is proverbially fickle, you know. ‘Woman, thy
+vows are traced in sand,’ Lord Byron has it.”
+
+“Ay, an’ some men’s, too,” guffawed Hobbs. “Wot about Peggy Smith,
+Fred?”
+
+Elkin blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the butcher.
+
+“What about that tough old bull you bought at Knoleworth on Monday?” he
+retorted.
+
+Hobbs’s face grew purple. Mr. Franklin beckoned to Tomlin.
+
+“Ask these gentlemen what they’ll have,” he said gently. The landlord
+made a clatter of glasses, and the threatened storm passed.
+
+“You’ve aroused my curiosity,” remarked Franklin to Peters, but taking
+the company at large into the conversation. “This does certainly strike
+one as a remarkable case. Is there no suspicion yet as to the actual
+murderer?”
+
+“None whatever,” said Peters.
+
+“That’s what you may call the police opinion,” broke in Elkin. “We
+Steynholme folk have a pretty clear notion, I can assure you.”
+
+“The matter is still _sub judice_, and may remain so a long time,” said
+Siddle. “It is simply stupid to attach a kind of responsibility to the
+man who happens to occupy the house associated with the crime. I have
+no patience with that sort of reasoning.”
+
+Hobbs, who did not want to quarrel with Elkin, suddenly championed him.
+
+“That’s all very well,” he rumbled. “But the hevidence you an’ me
+’eard, Siddle, an’ the hevidence we know we’re goin’ to ’ear, is a lot
+stronger than that.”
+
+“I’m sure you’ll pardon me, friends,” said Siddle, rising with an
+apologetic smile, “but I happen to be foreman of the coroner’s jury,
+and I feel that this matter is not for me, at any rate, to discuss
+publicly.”
+
+Out he went, not even heeding Tomlin’s appeal to drink the ginger-ale
+he had just ordered.
+
+“Just like ’im,” sighed Hobbs. “Good-’earted fellow! Would find
+hexcuses for a black rat.”
+
+Elkin talked more freely now that the chemist’s disapproving eye was
+off him. Ultimately, Mr. Franklin elected to smoke a cigar in the open
+air, and strolled forth. He sauntered down the hill, stood on the
+bridge, and admired the soft blue tones of the landscape in the half
+light of a summer evening. Shortly before closing time, Robinson
+appeared, it being part of his routine duty to see that no noisy
+revelers disturbed the peace of the village. He noticed the stranger at
+once, and elected to walk past him.
+
+Thus, he received yet another shock when Mr. Franklin addressed him by
+name.
+
+“Good evening, Robinson,” said the pleasant, clear-toned voice. “I’ve
+been expecting you to turn up. Kindly go back home, and leave the door
+open. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, of
+Scotland Yard.”
+
+“You don’t say so, sir!” stammered Robinson.
+
+“But I do say it, and will prove it to you, of course. I’ll be with you
+in a minute or two. There’s someone coming. You and I must not be seen
+together.”
+
+Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He met
+Bates, going to the post with letters.
+
+Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he
+kept a sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even
+walked quickly to the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished.
+
+Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates
+thrust his head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some
+weight on his mind.
+
+“Beg pardon,” he said, “but I thought you’d like to know. The place is
+just swarmin’ with ’em.”
+
+“Bees?” inquired Hart.
+
+Bates stared fixedly at the speaker for a second or two.
+
+“No, sir, ’tecs,” he said. “There’s a big ’un now—just the opposite to
+the little ’un, Hawkshaw. I ’ope I ’aven’t to tackle this customer,
+though. He’d gimme a doin’, by the looks of ’im.”
+
+Bates had disappeared before Grant remembered that the press
+photographer had mentioned the Big ’Un and the Little ’Un of the Yard.
+
+“Now, I wonder,” he said.
+
+His wonder could hardly have equaled Winter’s had he heard the
+gardener’s words. The guess was a distinct score for blunt Sussex,
+though it was founded solely on the assumption that all comers now,
+unless Bates was personally acquainted with them, were limbs of the
+law.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XII.
+Wherein Winter Gets to Work
+
+
+Winter had identified Bates at the first glance. The letters in the
+man’s hand, too, showed his errand, so, while the gardener was climbing
+the hill, the detective slipped into Robinson’s cottage.
+
+He found the policeman awaiting him in the dark, because a voice said:
+
+“Beg pardon, sir, but the other gentleman from the ‘Yard’ asked me to
+take him into the kitchen. A light in the front room might attract
+attention, he thought.”
+
+“Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him,” said
+Winter, quite alive to the canny discretion behind those words, “the
+other gentleman.”
+
+Robinson led the way. Supper was laid on the table. Poor Mrs. Robinson
+had again beaten a hasty retreat.
+
+“Now, Robinson,” said the Chief Inspector affably, “before we come to
+business I’ll prove my bona fides. Here is my official card, and I’ll
+run quickly through events until 1.30 p.m. to-day. I met Mr. Furneaux
+at Victoria, and he posted me fully up to that hour.”
+
+So the policeman listened to a clear summary of the Steynholme case as
+it was known to the authorities.
+
+“I did not warn either Mr. Fowler or you of my visit because a telegram
+could hardly be explicit enough,” concluded Winter. “At the inn I am
+Mr. Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line.
+At this moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who is
+aware of my official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged to
+secrecy. To-morrow or any other day until further notice, you and I
+meet as strangers in public. By the way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell
+you that he found the wig and the false beard in the river early this
+morning. The wearer had apparently flung them off while crossing the
+foot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that they would
+not sink readily. Perhaps he didn’t care. At any rate, Mr. Hart’s
+bullet seems to have laid Owd Ben’s ghost. Now, what of this fellow,
+Elkin? He worries me.”
+
+“Can I offer you a glass of beer, sir?”
+
+“With pleasure. May I smoke while you eat? You see, I differ from Mr.
+Furneaux in both size and habits.”
+
+Robinson poured out the beer. He was preternaturally grave. The
+somewhat incriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer
+that afternoon lay heavy upon him. But he told his story succinctly
+enough. Winter nodded to emphasize each point, and congratulated him at
+the end.
+
+“You arranged that very well,” he said. “I gather, though, that Elkin
+spoke rather openly.”
+
+“Just as I’ve put it, sir. He tripped a bit over the time on Monday
+night. But it’s only fair to say that he might have had Tomlin’s
+license in mind.”
+
+“That issue will be settled to-morrow. I’ll find out the commercial
+traveler’s name, and send a telegram from Knoleworth before noon....
+Who is Peggy Smith?”
+
+Robinson set down an empty glass with a stare of surprise.
+
+“Bob Smith’s daughter, sir,” he answered.
+
+“No doubt. But, proceed.”
+
+“Well, sir, she’s just a village girl. Her father is a blacksmith. His
+forge is along to the right, not far. She’ll be twenty, or
+thereabouts.”
+
+“Frivolous?”
+
+“Not more than the rest of ’em, sir.”
+
+“Have you seen her flirting with Elkin?”
+
+Robinson took thought.
+
+“Now that I come to think of it, she might be given a bit that way. Her
+father shoes Elkin’s nags, so there’s a lot of comin’ an’ goin’ between
+the two places. But folks would always look on it as natural enough.
+Yes, I’ve seen ’em together more than once.”
+
+“In that case, he can hardly grumble if the postmaster’s daughter has
+an eye for another young man.”
+
+“Miss Martin!” snorted Robinson. “She wouldn’t look the side of the
+road he was on. Fred Elkin isn’t her sort.”
+
+“But he said to-night in the Hare and Hounds that he and Miss Martin
+were practically engaged.”
+
+“Stuff an’ nonsense! Sorry, sir, but I admire Doris Martin. I like to
+see a girl like her liftin’ herself out of the common gang. She’s the
+smartest young lady in the village, an’ not an atom of a snob. No, no.
+She isn’t for Fred Elkin. Before this murder cropped up everybody would
+have it that Mr. Grant would marry her.”
+
+“How does the murder intervene?”
+
+Robinson shifted uneasily in his chair. He knew only too well that he
+himself had driven a wedge between the two.
+
+“Steynholme’s a funny spot, sir,” he contrived to explain. “Since it
+came out that Doris an’ Mr. Grant were in the garden at _The Hollies_
+at half past ten on Monday night, without Mr. Martin knowin’ where his
+daughter was, there’s been talk. Both the postmaster an’ the girl
+herself are up to it. You can see it in their faces. They don’t like
+it, an’ who can blame ’em!”
+
+“Who, indeed? But this Elkin—surely he had some ground for a definite
+boast, made openly, among people acquainted with all the parties?”
+
+“There’s more than Elkin would marry Doris if she lifted a finger,
+sir.”
+
+“Can you name them?”
+
+“Well, Tomlin wants a wife.”
+
+Winter laughed joyously.
+
+“Next?” he cried.
+
+“They say that Mr. Siddle is a widower.”
+
+“The chemist? Foreman of the jury?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“From appearances, he is a likelier candidate than either Elkin or
+Tomlin. Anybody else?”
+
+“I shouldn’t be far wrong if I gave you the name of most among the
+young unmarried men in the parish.”
+
+“Dear me! I must have a peep at this charmer. But I want those names,
+Robinson.”
+
+Winter produced a note-book, so he was evidently taking the matter
+seriously. The policeman, however, was flustered. His thoughts ran on
+Elkin, whereas this masterful person from London insisted on discussing
+Doris Martin.
+
+“My difficulty is, sir, that she has never kep’ company with any of
+’em,” he said.
+
+“Never mind. Give me the name of every man who, no matter what his
+position or prospects, might be irritated, if no more, if he knew that
+Miss Martin and Mr. Grant were presumably spooning in a garden at a
+rather late hour.”
+
+It was a totally new line of inquiry for Robinson, but he bent his wits
+to it, and evolved a list which, if published, would certainly be
+regarded with incredulous envy by every other girl in the village than
+the postmaster’s daughter; as for Doris herself, she would be mightily
+surprised when she saw it, but whether annoyed or secretly gratified
+none but a pretty girl of nineteen can tell.
+
+Winter departed soon afterwards. Before going to the inn he had a look
+at the forge. A young woman, standing at the open door of the adjoining
+cottage, favored him with a frank stare. There was no light in the
+dwelling. When he returned, after walking a little way down the road,
+the door was closed.
+
+Next morning, Bates heard of Peters as the detective and of Mr.
+Franklin as a “millionaire” from South America. Moreover, he
+scrutinized both in the flesh, and saw Robinson salute Peters but pass
+the financial potentate with indifference.
+
+Alas, that a reputation, once built, should be destroyed!
+
+“I was mistook, sir,” he reported to Grant later. “There’s another ’tec
+about, but ’e ain’t the chap I met last night. They say this other
+bloke is rollin’ in money, an’ buyin’ hosses right an’ left.”
+
+“Then he’ll soon be rolling in the mud, and have no money,” put in
+Hart.
+
+“Who is he?” inquired Grant carelessly.
+
+“A Mr. Franklin, from South America, sir.”
+
+Grant and Hart exchanged glances. Curiously enough, Hart remained
+silent till Bates had gone.
+
+“I must look this joker up, Jack,” he said then. “To me the mere
+mention of South America is like Mother Gary’s chickens to a sailor, a
+harbinger of storm.”
+
+But Hart consumed Tomlin’s best brew to no purpose—in so far as seeing
+Mr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying
+a famous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher in
+troubled waters was not inclined to return without a bag of some sort.
+
+He walked straight into the post office. Doris and her father were
+there, the telegraphist being out.
+
+“Good day, everybody,” he cried cheerfully. “Grant wants to know, Mr.
+Martin, if you and Miss Doris will come and dine with him, us, this
+evening at 7.30?”
+
+The postmaster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Doris
+laughed, and blushed a little.
+
+“This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant’s, dad,” she explained. “I’m
+afraid we cannot accept the invitation. We are so busy.”
+
+“The worst of excuses,” said Hart.
+
+“But there is a London correspondent here who hands in a long telegram
+at that hour.”
+
+“What’s his name?”
+
+“Mr. Peters.”
+
+“Great Scott! Jimmie Peters here? I’ll soon put a stopper on him. He’ll
+come, too—jumping. See if he doesn’t. Is it a bargain? Short telegram
+at six. Dinner for five at 7.30. Come, now, Mr. Martin. It’s up to you.
+I can see ‘Yes’ in Doris’s eye. Over the port—most delectable, I assure
+you—I’ll give full details of the peculiar case of a man in
+Worcestershire whose crop of gooseberries increased fourfold after
+starting an apiary. And what does it matter if you do lose a queen or
+two in June? The drones will attend to that trifle.... It’s a fixture,
+eh? Where’s Peters? In the Pull and Push? I’ll rout him out.”
+
+The whirlwind subsided, but quickly materialized again.
+
+“Peters nearly fell on his knees and wept with joy,” announced Hart.
+“He believes he was given a bull steak for luncheon. He pledges himself
+to have only five hundred words on the wire at five o’clock.”
+
+Meanwhile, father and daughter had decided that there was no valid
+reason why they should not dine with Mr. Grant. Martin already
+regretted his aloofness on the day of the inquest, though, truth to
+tell, Hart’s expert knowledge of bee-culture was the determining
+factor. On her part, Doris was delighted. Her world had gone awry that
+week, and this small festivity might right it.
+
+Not one word of the improvised dinner-party did Hart confide to Grant.
+He informed the only indispensable person, Mrs. Bates, and left it at
+that. Grant, a restless being these days, took him for another long
+walk. It chanced that their road home led down the high-street. The
+hour was a quarter past seven, and Peters hailed them.
+
+Hart introduced the journalist, saying casually:
+
+“Jimmie is coming to dinner, Jack.”
+
+“Delighted,” said Grant, of course.
+
+Peters looked slightly surprised, but passed no comment. Then Doris and
+her father appeared. They joined the others, shook hands, and, to
+Grant’s secret perplexity, the whole party moved off down the hill in
+company. When the Martins turned with the rest to cross the bridge,
+Grant began to suspect his friend.
+
+“Wally,” he managed to whisper, “what game have you been playing?”
+
+“Aren’t you satisfied?” murmured Hart. “Sdeath, as they used to say in
+the Surrey Theater, you’re as bad as Furshaw!”
+
+There were others far more perturbed by that odd conjunction of diners
+than the puzzled host, who merely expected Mrs. Bates to belabor him
+with a rolling pin. Mr. Siddle, for instance, had just closed his shop
+when the five met. That is to say, the dark blue blind was drawn, but
+the door was ajar. He came to the threshold, and watched the party
+until the bridge was neared, when one of them, looking back, might have
+seen him, so he stepped discreetly inside. Being a non-interfering,
+self-contained man, he seemed to be rather irresolute. But that
+condition passed quickly. Leaning over the counter, he secured a hat
+and a pair of field-glasses, and went out. He, too, knew of Mrs.
+Jefferson’s weakness for shopping in Knoleworth, and that good lady had
+gone there again. Her train was due in ten minutes. A wicket gate led
+to a narrow passage communicating with the back door of her residence.
+He entered boldly, reached the garden, and hurried to the angle on the
+edge of the cliff next to the Martins’ strip of ground.
+
+Yes, a spacious dinner-table was laid at _The Hollies_. Doris, Mr.
+Martin, and Peters soon strolled out on to the lawn. The pedestrians
+had obviously gone upstairs to wash after their tramp.
+
+Mr. Siddle rather forgot himself. He stared so long and earnestly
+through the field-glasses that he ran full tilt into Mrs. Jefferson and
+maid before regaining the high-street. But the chemist was a ready man.
+He lifted his hat with an inquiring smile.
+
+“Didn’t you say you wanted some anti-arthritic salts early in the
+week?” he asked.
+
+“Yes,” said Mrs. Jefferson, “but I got some to-day in Knoleworth, thank
+you.”
+
+“Well, I was just making up an indent, and might as well include your
+specific if you really needed it.”
+
+Which was kind and thoughtful of Mr. Siddle, but not quite true, though
+it fully explained his presence at Mrs. Jefferson’s gate.
+
+Mr. Franklin, escorting a fragrant Havana up the hill (he had traveled
+by the same train) saw the meeting, and, being aware of Mrs.
+Jefferson’s frugal habits, since Furneaux had omitted no item of his
+movements in Steynholme, remembered it later during the nightly
+gathering in the inn.
+
+Elkin greeted Mr. Franklin respectfully when the great man joined the
+circle.
+
+“Did you see anything worth while at Knoleworth, sir?” he said.
+
+“No. I was unlucky. All the principals were at a race meeting.”
+
+“By gum! That’s right. It’s Gatwick today. Dash! I might have saved you
+a journey.”
+
+“Oh, it doesn’t matter. In my business there is no call for hurry.”
+
+Elkin looked around.
+
+“Where’s our friend, the ’tec?” he said.
+
+“I think you’re wrong about ’im, meanin’ Mr. Peters,” said Tomlin.
+“’E’s ’ere for a noospaper, not for the Yard.”
+
+“That’s his blarney,” smirked Elkin. “A detective doesn’t go about
+telling everybody what he is.”
+
+“Whatever his profession may be,” put in Siddle’s quiet voice, “I
+happen to know that he is dining with Mr. Grant. So are Mr. Martin and
+Doris. By mere chance I called at Mrs. Jefferson’s. I went to the back
+door, and, finding it closed, looked into the garden. From there I
+couldn’t help seeing the assembly on the lawn of _The Hollies_.”
+
+“Dining at Grant’s?” shouted Elkin in a fury. “Well, I’m—”
+
+“’Ush, Fred!” expostulated Tomlin with a shocked glance at Mr.
+Franklin. “Wot’s wrong wi’ a bit of grub, ony ways? A very nice-spoken
+young gent kem ’ere twiced, an’ axed for Mr. Peters the second time.
+He’s a friend o’ Mr. Grant’s, I reckon.”
+
+“What’s wrong?” stormed the horse-dealer. “Why, everything’s wrong! The
+bounder ought to be in jail instead of giving dinner-parties. Imagine
+Doris eating in that house!”
+
+“Ay! Sweetbreads an’ saddle o’ lamb,” interjected Hobbs with the air of
+one imparting a secret.
+
+Elkin was pallid with wrath. He glared at Hobbs.
+
+“What I had in my mind was the impudence of the blighter,” he said
+shrilly. “That poor woman’s body leaves here to-morrow for some
+cemetery in London, and Grant invites folk to a small dinner to-night!”
+
+A sort of awe fell on the company. None of the others had as yet put
+the two events in juxtaposition, and they had an ugly sound. Even Mr.
+Siddle stifled a protest. Elkin had scored a hit, a palpable hit, and
+no one could gainsay him. He felt that, for once, the general opinion
+was with him, and drove the point home.
+
+“Hobson—the local joiner and undertaker”—he explained for Mr.
+Franklin’s benefit—“came this morning to borrow a couple of horses for
+the job. It’s to be done in style—‘no expense spared’ was Mr.
+Ingerman’s order—and the poor thing is in her coffin now while Grant—”
+
+He stopped. Mr. Siddle coughed.
+
+“You’ve said enough, Elkin,” murmured the chemist. “This excitement is
+harmful. You really ought to be in bed for the next forty-eight hours,
+dieting yourself carefully, and taking Dr. Foxton’s mixture regularly.
+He has changed it, I noticed.”
+
+“Bed! Me! Not likely. I’m going to kick up a row. What are the police
+doing? A set of blooming old women, that’s what they are. But I’ll stir
+’em up, if I have to write to the Home Secretary.”
+
+“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Franklin, smiling genially, “I cannot help taking
+a certain interest in this affair. May I, then, as a complete stranger
+to all concerned, tell you how this minor episode strikes me. Mr.
+Grant, I understand, denies having seen or spoken to Miss Melhuish
+during the past three years. None of the others now in his house had
+met her at all. Really, if a man may not give a dinnerparty in these
+conditions, dining-out would become a lost art.”
+
+Elkin was obviously seeking for some retort which, though forcible,
+would not offend a possible patron. But Siddle answered far more deftly
+than might be looked for from the horse-dealer.
+
+“Your contention, sir, is just what the man of the world would hold,”
+he said, “but, in this village, where we live on neighborly terms, such
+an incident would be impossible in almost any other house than _The
+Hollies_.”
+
+Mr. Franklin nodded. He was convinced. Tomlin, Hobbs, and a local
+draper bore out the chemist’s reasonable theory. Next morning
+Steynholme was again united in condemning Grant, while the postmaster
+and his daughter were not wholly exempted from criticism.
+
+The dinner itself was an altogether harmless and cheery meal. By common
+consent not one word was said about the murder. Hart was amusing on the
+question of bees—almost flippant, Mr. Martin deemed him. Peters had a
+wide store of strange experiences to draw on, while Grant, if rather
+silent in deference to two such brilliant talkers, found much
+satisfaction in regarding Doris as a hostess.
+
+The next day being Saturday, or market day, the village was busy. At
+eleven o’clock there was a somewhat unnecessary display of nodding
+plumes and long-tailed black horses at the removal of the coffin to the
+railway station. For some reason, the funeral arrangements had not been
+bruited about until Elkin made that envenomed attack on Grant in the
+Hare and Hounds the previous night. Ingerman had sent a gorgeous
+wreath, the only one forthcoming locally. This fact, of course, invited
+comment, though no whisperer in the crowd troubled to add that the
+interment was only announced in that day’s newspapers.
+
+Peters, meeting Mr. Franklin on the stairs of the inn, put a note into
+his hand. It read:
+
+“Why don’t you have a chat with Grant? The public mind is being
+inflamed against him. It’s hardly fair.”
+
+Mr. Franklin, meeting Peters in the passage, winked at him, and the
+journalist tortured his brains to turn out some readable stuff which
+should grip the million on Sunday yet not to be damaging to the man
+whose hospitality he enjoyed over night.
+
+In a word, the passing of Adelaide Melhuish was exploited thoroughly as
+an indictment of her one-time lover, and the only two in Steynholme not
+aware of the fact were Grant, himself, and Wally Hart.
+
+By a singular coincidence, not ridiculously beyond the ken of a verger,
+when Doris went to church on Sunday morning, she found herself beside
+Mr. Franklin.
+
+At the close of the service the same big man whom she had noticed as a
+neighbor in the pew overtook her at the post office door. He lifted his
+hat. A passer-by heard him say distinctly:
+
+“Pardon me for troubling you, but can you tell me at what time the mail
+closes for London?”
+
+“At four-thirty,” said Doris.
+
+No other person overheard Mr. Franklin’s next words:
+
+“I am now going to drop a letter in the box. It’s for you. Get it at
+once. It is of the utmost importance.”
+
+Doris was startled, as well she might be. But—she went straight for the
+letter. It was marked: “Private and Urgent,” and ran:
+
+_Dear Miss Martin.
+
+I am here_ vice _Mr. Furneaux, who is engaged on other phases of the
+same inquiry. My business is absolutely unknown. I figure at the inn as
+“Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina.” Indeed, Mr. Furneaux left the village
+because he realized the difficulties facing him in that respect. Now, I
+trust you, and I hope you will justify my faith. You know
+Superintendent Fowler. I want you to meet me and him this afternoon at
+two o’clock at the crossroads beyond the mill. A closed car will be in
+waiting, and we can have half an hour’s talk without anyone in
+Steynholme being the wiser. Remember that this village, like the night,
+has a thousand eyes. Naturally, I would not trouble you in this way if
+the cause was not vital to the ends of justice. Whether or not you
+decide to keep this appointment, I have every confidence that you will
+respect my wish that_ no one_, other than yourself, shall be informed
+of my identity. But I believe you will be wise, and come._
+
+
+_I am,
+Yours faithfully,
+J. L. Winter,
+Chief Inspector, C. I. D., Scotland Yard, S. W._
+
+
+A card was inclosed, as a sort of credential. But, somehow, it was not
+needed. Doris had seen “Mr. Franklin” more than once, and she had heard
+him singing the hymns in church. He looked worthy of credence. His
+written words had the same honest ring. She resolved to go.
+
+Her father, sad to relate, had found three dead queens in the hives. He
+was busy, but spared a moment to tell her that Mr. Siddle was coming to
+tea at four o’clock. Doris was rather in a whirl, and seemed to be
+unnecessarily astonished.
+
+“Mr. Siddle! Why?” she gasped.
+
+“Why not!” said her father. “It’s not the first time. You can entertain
+him. I’ll look after the letters.”
+
+“I must get some cakes. We have none.”
+
+“Well, that’s simple. I wonder if that fellow Hart really understands
+apiaculture? You might invite him, too.”
+
+With that letter in her pocket Doris had suddenly grown wary. Hart and
+Siddle would not mix, and her woman’s intuition warned her that Siddle
+had chosen the tea-hour purposely in order to have an uninterrupted
+conversation with her. She disliked Mr. Siddle, in a negative way, but
+the very nearness of the detective was stimulating. Let Mr. Siddle
+come, then, and come alone!
+
+“No, dad,” she laughed. “Mr. Hart’s knowledge will be available
+to-morrow. In his presence, poor Mr. Siddle would be dumb.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XIII.
+Concerning Theodore Siddle
+
+
+Winter, being a cheerful cynic, had not erred when he appealed to that
+love of mystery which, especially if it is spiced with a hint of
+harmless intrigue, is innate in every feminine heart. Indeed, he was so
+assured of the success of his somewhat dramatic move that as he walked
+to a rendezvous arranged with Superintendent Fowler on the Knoleworth
+road he reviewed carefully certain arguments meant to secure Doris’s
+assistance.
+
+Passing _The Hollies_, he smiled at the notion that Furneaux would
+undoubtedly have brought Grant to the conclave. It was just the sort of
+difficult situation in which his colleague would have reveled. But the
+Chief Inspector was more solid, more circumspect, even, singularly
+enough, more sensitive to the probable comments of a crusty judge if
+counsel for the defense contrived to elicit the facts.
+
+“Anything fresh?” inquired the superintendent, when a smart car drew
+up, and Winter entered.
+
+Mr. Fowler was in plain clothes, and the blinds were half drawn. No one
+could possibly recognize either of the occupants unless the car was
+halted, and the inquisitor literally thrust his head inside. The motor
+was a private one, borrowed for the occasion.
+
+“Yes, a little,” said Winter, as the chauffeur put the engine in gear.
+“Your man, Robinson, has been drawing Elkin, or Elkin drew him—I am not
+quite sure which, but think it matterless either way.”
+
+He sketched Robinson’s activities briefly, but in sufficient outline.
+
+“A new figure has come on the screen—Siddle, the chemist,” he added
+thoughtfully.
+
+“Siddle!” Mr. Fowler was surprised. “Why, he is supposed to be a model
+of the law-abiding citizen.”
+
+“I don’t say he has lost his character in that respect,” said Winter.
+“Still, he puzzles me. Elkin is a loud-mouthed fool. The verbal bricks
+he hurls at Grant are generally half baked, and crumble into dust.
+Hitherto, Siddle has tried to repress him, with a transparent honesty
+that rather worried me. On Friday night, however, Siddle attacked Grant
+with poisoned arrows. He did more damage in two minutes than Elkin
+could achieve in as many months.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“He showed very clearly that Grant was guilty of gross bad taste in
+inviting Mr. Martin and his daughter to dinner that evening. I’m
+inclined to agree with him, if the story has been told fairly. But that
+is beside the main issue. Siddle aroused the sleeping dogs of the
+village, and the pack is in full cry again. Grant seems to have been
+popular here; he had almost recovered from the blow of Miss Melhuish’s
+death by the straightforward speech he made before the inquest. But
+Siddle threw him back into the mud by a few skillful words. What is
+Siddle’s record? Is he a local man?”
+
+“I think not. Robinson can tell us.”
+
+“Robinson says he ‘believes’ Siddle is a widower. That doesn’t argue
+long and close knowledge.”
+
+“We must look into it. Robinson has been stationed here four years.
+Siddle is not old, but he has been in business in Steynholme more years
+than that. But—you’ll pardon me, I’m sure, Mr. Winter—may I take it
+that you are really interested in the chemist’s history?”
+
+The superintendent was perplexed, or he would not have adopted his
+professional method of semi-apologetic questions with a man from the
+C.I.D.
+
+“I hardly know what I’m interested in,” laughed Winter. “Grant didn’t
+kill the lady. I shall be slow to credit Elkin with being the scoundrel
+he looks. Siddle, and Tomlin, if you please, are regarded as starters
+in the Doris Martin Matrimonial Stakes, and I don’t think Tomlin could
+ever murder anything but the King’s English. It is Siddle’s _volte
+face_ that bothers me.”
+
+“Um!” murmured Mr. Fowler. He was not an uneducated man, but _volte
+face_, correctly pronounced, was unfamiliar in his ears.
+
+“The change was so marked,” went on the detective. “I gather that
+Siddle is a stickler for charity and fair dealing. He didn’t abandon
+the role, of course. It was the sheer ingenuity of his method that
+caught my attention. So I simply catalogue him for research.”
+
+“Has Miss Martin promised to meet us?” inquired the other, feeling that
+he was on the track of _volte face_.
+
+“No. But there she is!” cried Winter. “She has just heard the car. Tell
+your chauffeur to slow up. The road is empty otherwise. By the way, you
+help her in. She might be a bit shy of me, and I don’t want a second’s
+delay.”
+
+Winter’s judgment was not at fault. Doris _was_ feeling a trifle
+uncertain, seeing that she was about to encounter a complete stranger.
+Moreover, she had come a good half mile from the shop whence the cakes
+for tea were to be procured at the back door, and as a favor. Her eyes
+were fixed on the slowing car with a timid anxiety that betrayed no
+small degree of doubt as to the outcome of this Sunday afternoon
+escapade. She was pale and nervous. At that moment Doris wished herself
+safe at home again.
+
+“One word,” broke in the superintendent hurriedly. “Why are you so sure
+that Grant is innocent, Mr. Winter?”
+
+“I’m sure of nothing with regard to this case. But I have great faith
+in Furneaux’s flair for the true scent. It has never failed yet.”
+
+Mr. Fowler wished his companion would not use such uncommon words.
+However, he got out, and took off his hat with a courteous sweep. Doris
+had to look twice at him. Hitherto, she had always seen him in uniform.
+Winter smiled at the unmistakable expression of relief in her face. She
+was almost self-possessed as she took the seat by his side.
+
+“Good day, Mr. Winter,” she said.
+
+“Mr. Franklin, please. Better become used to my pseudonym.... Plenty of
+room for your feet, Mr. Fowler? That’s it. Now we’re comfy. The
+chauffeur will bring us back here in half an hour, Miss Martin. Will
+that suit your convenience?”
+
+“Oh, yes. I am free till nearly four o’clock. We have a guest to tea
+then.”
+
+“I have a well-developed bump of curiosity these days. Who is it, may I
+ask?”
+
+“Mr. Siddle, the local chemist.”
+
+“Indeed. An old friend, I suppose?”
+
+“We have known him seven years, ever since he came to Steynholme.”
+
+“Ah. He is not a native of the place?”
+
+“No. He bought Mr. Benson’s business. He’s a Londoner, I believe.”
+
+“Is there—a Mrs. Siddle?”
+
+“No. I—er—that is to say, gossip has it that he was married, but his
+wife died.”
+
+“He doesn’t speak of her? Is that it? One would have thought that in a
+house where he is well known—”
+
+“We don’t really know him well. No one does, I think.”
+
+“You’ve invited him to tea, at any rate,” laughed Winter.
+
+“No,” said Doris. “He invited himself. At least, so I gathered from
+dad.”
+
+“Ah, well. He feels lonely, no doubt, and wishes to chat about recent
+strange events in Steynholme. And that brings me to the reason why I
+sought this chat under such peculiar conditions. You realize my
+handicap, Miss Martin? If I were seen talking to you, or even entering
+your house as apart from the post office, people would begin to wonder.
+You follow that, don’t you?”
+
+Yes, Doris did follow it. What she did not follow was the veiled
+admiration in Superintendent Fowler’s glance at the detective. Those
+few inconsequential questions had shed a flood of light on Siddle’s
+past and present, yet the informant was blissfully unaware of their
+real purport. And the way was opened so deftly. The purchase of a
+chemist’s business would almost certainly be negotiated through a local
+lawyer. Let him be found, and Siddle’s pre-Steynholme days could be
+“looked into,” as the police phrase has it. The superintendent had the
+rare merit of being candid with himself. He had no previous experience
+of Scotland Yard men or methods, and was inclined to be skeptical about
+Furneaux. But Winter’s prompt use of a chance opening, and the
+restraint which cut off the investigation before the girl could suspect
+any ulterior motive, displayed a technique which the Sussex
+Constabulary had few opportunities of acquiring.
+
+“Now, Miss Martin,” began Winter, “if ever you have the misfortune to
+fall ill—touch wood, please—and call in a doctor, you’ll tell him the
+facts, eh?”
+
+“Why consult him at all, if I don’t?” she smiled.
+
+“Exactly. To-day I’m somewhat in the position of a Harley-street
+specialist, summoned to assist an eminent local practitioner in Dr.
+Fowler. That’s a sort of gentle preliminary, leading up to the
+disagreeable duty of putting some questions of a personal nature. What
+you may answer will not go beyond ourselves. I promise you that. You
+will not be quoted, or requested to prove your statements. Such a thing
+would be absurd. If I were really a doctor, and you needed my advice,
+you might easily describe your symptoms all wrong. It would be my
+business to listen, and deduce the truth, and I would never dream of
+rating you for having misled me. You see my point?”
+
+“Yes, but Mr. Win—Mr. Franklin, I know nothing whatever about the
+murder.”
+
+“I’m sure you don’t. It was a wicked trick of Fate that took you to Mr.
+Grant’s garden last Monday night.”
+
+“It was really an astronomical almanac,” retorted Doris, who now felt a
+growing confidence in this nice-spoken official. “Sirius is a star
+remarkable for its beautiful changing lights, and on Monday evening was
+at its best. I think I ought to explain,” and she blushed delightfully,
+“that the village gossip about Mr. Grant and me is entirely mistaken.
+We are not—well, I had better use plain English—we are not lovers. My
+father and I are just on close, friendly terms with Mr. Grant. I—my
+position hardly warrants even that relationship with an author of some
+distinction. But please set aside any notion of us as likely to become
+engaged. For one thing, it is preposterous. For another, I shall not
+leave my father.”
+
+Poor Doris! She little guessed how accurately this skilled student of
+human nature read the hidden thought behind that vehement protest. Even
+the note of vague rebellion against social disabilities was pathetic
+yet illuminating. Of course, he took her quite seriously.
+
+“Let us keep to the hard road of fact,” he said. “What you really mean
+is that Mr. Grant has never made love to you. But I must be candid,
+young lady. There is no earthly reason why he shouldn’t, though I could
+name offhand half a dozen why he should.... Well, well, I must not pay
+compliments. My friend, Mr. Furneaux, can manage that with much greater
+facility, being half a Frenchman. And now I’m going to say an
+unpleasant thing. I ask your forgiveness in advance. Both Mr. Furneaux
+and I agree in the opinion that your imaginary love affair is
+indissolubly bound up with the mystery of Miss Melhuish’s death. In a
+word, I have brought you here today to discuss your prospective
+marriage, and nothing else. That astonishes you, eh? Well, it’s the
+truth, as I shall proceed to make clear. There’s a Mr. Fred Elkin, for
+instance—”
+
+Doris uttered a little laugh of dismay. Winter’s emphatic words had
+astounded her, but the horse-dealer’s name acted as comic relief.
+
+“I can’t bear the man,” she protested.
+
+“I have no doubt. But you ought to know that he is loudly proclaiming
+his determination to marry you before the year is out.”
+
+The girl’s face reddened again, and her eyes sparkled.
+
+“I wouldn’t marry him if he were a peer of the realm,” she said
+indignantly.
+
+“Quite so. But he is an avowed suitor. Now don’t be vexed. Has he never
+declared his intentions to _you_?”
+
+“He would never dare. I sing and act a little, at village concerts and
+dramatic performances, and he has annoyed me at times by an officious
+pretense that he was deputed by my father to see me home. I came here
+quite a little girl, so people learnt to use my Christian name. I don’t
+object to it at all. But I simply hate hearing it on Mr. Elkin’s lips.”
+
+“Exit Fred!” said Winter solemnly. “Next!”
+
+Doris, after a period of calm, was now profoundly uncomfortable. This
+kind of prying was the last thing she had expected. She had come
+prepared to defend Grant, but, beyond one exceedingly personal
+reference, the detective had studiously shut him out of the
+conversation.
+
+“What am I to say?” she cried. “Do you want a list of all the young men
+who make sheep’s eyes at me?”
+
+“No. I can get that from the Census Bureau. Come, now, Miss Martin.
+_You_ know. Has any man in the village led you to suspect, shall we put
+it? that sometime or other, he might ask you to become his wife?”
+
+Lo, and behold! Doris’s pretty eyes filled with tears. Superintendent
+Fowler was so pleased at hearing Scotland Yard introducing a
+parenthetical query into its sentences that he, sitting opposite, was
+taken aback when Winter said in a fatherly way:
+
+“I’ve been rather clumsy, I’m afraid. But it cannot be helped. I must
+go blundering on. I’m groping in the dark, you know, but it’s a
+thousand pities I shall have to tread on _your_ toes.”
+
+“It isn’t that,” sobbed Doris. “I hate to put my thoughts into words.
+That’s all. There _is_ a man whom I’m—afraid of.”
+
+“Siddle?”
+
+She turned on Winter a face of sudden awe.
+
+“How can you possibly guess?” she said wonderingly, and sheer
+bewilderment dried her tears.
+
+“My business is nine-tenths guesswork. At any rate, we are on firm
+ground now. If you could please yourself, I suppose, Mr. Siddle would
+not come to tea to-day!”
+
+“He certainly would not,” declared the girl emphatically.
+
+“You believe he is coming for a purpose?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Elkin—I must drag him in again for an instant—pretends that the
+commotion aroused in the village by this murder would incline you
+favorably to a proposal of marriage. Mr. Siddle may have discovered
+some virtue in the theory.”
+
+“Did Mr. Elkin really hint that I needed _him_ as a shield?”
+
+Doris was genuinely angry now. She little imagined that Winter was
+playing on her emotions with a master hand.
+
+“Don’t waste any wrath on Elkin,” he soothed her. “The fellow isn’t
+worth it. But his crude idea might be developed more subtly by an abler
+man.”
+
+“I think it odd that Mr. Siddle should choose to-day, of all days, for
+a visit,” she admitted.
+
+Winter relapsed into silence for a while. The car was running through a
+charming countryside, and a glimpse of the sea was obtainable from the
+crest of each hill. Mr. Fowler was too circumspect to break in on the
+thread of his coadjutor’s thoughts. The inquiry had taken a curious
+turn, and was momentarily beyond his grasp.
+
+“It’s singular, but it’s true,” said the detective musingly when next
+he spoke, “that I am now going to ask you to act differently than was
+in my mind when I sought this interview. I should vastly like to be
+present when Siddle bares his heart to you this afternoon.
+
+“I can invite you to tea.”
+
+“Alas! that won’t serve our ends. But, if you feel you have a purpose,
+you will be nerved to deal with him. Bring him out into that secluded
+garden of yours—”
+
+“The first thing he will suggest,” and Doris’s voice waxed
+unconsciously bitter. “He knows that dad will be busy with the mails
+for an hour after tea.”
+
+“Good!”
+
+“I think it bad, most disagreeable.”
+
+“You won’t find the position so awkward if you are playing a part. And
+that is what I want—a bit of clever acting. Lean on those railings, and
+make Siddle believe that your heart is on Mr. Grant’s lawn. You know
+the kind of thing I mean. Dreamy eyes, listless manner, inattention,
+with smiling apologies. You will annoy Siddle, and a cautious man in a
+temper becomes less cautious. Force him to avow his real thoughts. You
+will learn something, trust me.”
+
+“About what?”
+
+There were no tears in Doris’s eyes. They were wide open in wonderment.
+
+“About his attitude to this tragedy. Do this, and you will be giving
+Mr. Grant the greatest possible help. He needs it. Next Wednesday, at
+the adjourned inquest, he will be put on the rack. Ingerman will fee
+counsel to be vindictive, merciless. Such men are to be hired. Their
+reputation is built up on the slaughter of reputations. I want to
+understand Siddle before Wednesday. By the way, what’s his other name?”
+
+“Theodore.”
+
+“Theodore Siddle. Unusual. Well, your half hour is nearly up. Will you
+do what I ask?”
+
+“I’ll try. May I put one question?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You said you had something altogether different in view before we met.
+What was it?”
+
+“I’ll tell you—let me see—I’ll tell you on Thursday.”
+
+“Why not now?”
+
+“Because it is the hardest thing in the world for a woman to be
+single-minded, in the limited sense of concentration, I mean. Focus
+your wits on Siddle to-day. I don’t suggest any plan. I leave that to
+your own intelligence. Vex him, and let him talk.”
+
+“Vex him!”
+
+“Yes. What man won’t get mad if he notices that his best girl is
+thinking about a rival.”
+
+This time Doris did not blush. She was troubled and serious, very
+serious.
+
+“I’ll do what I can,” she promised. “When shall I see you again?”
+
+“Soon. There’s no hurry. All this is preparatory for Wednesday.”
+
+“Am I to tell my father nothing?”
+
+“Please yourself. Not at present. I recommend you.”
+
+The car had stopped. It sped on when Doris alighted. She would be home
+with her cakes at three o’clock, and Mr. Martin would never have
+noticed her absence.
+
+“A fine bit of work, if I may say so,” exclaimed Fowler appreciatively.
+“But I am jiggered if I can imagine what you’re driving at.”
+
+Winter was cutting the end off a big cigar. He finished the operation
+to his liking before answering earnestly:
+
+“We stand or fall by the result of that girl’s efforts. Furneaux thinks
+so, and I agree with him absolutely. After five days, where are we, Mr.
+Fowler? In the dark, plus a brigand’s hat and hair. But there’s a queer
+belief in some parts of England that a phosphorescent gleam shows at
+night over a deep pool in which a dead body lies. That’s just how I
+feel about Siddle. The man’s an enigma. What sort of place is
+Steynholme for a chemist of his capacities? Dr. Foxton has the highest
+regard for him professionally, and I’m told he doctors people for miles
+around. Yet he lives the life of a recluse. An old woman comes by day
+to prepare his meals, and tidy the house and shop. His sole relaxation
+is an hour of an evening in the village inn, his visits there being
+uninterrupted since the murder. He was there on the night of the
+murder, too. For the rest, he is alone, shut off from the world.
+Without knowing it, he’s going to fall into deep waters to-day, and
+he’ll emit sparks, or I’m a Chinaman.... I’ll leave you here. Good-by!
+See you on Tuesday, after lunch.”
+
+The superintendent drove on alone. He pondered the Steynholme affair in
+all its bearings, but mostly did he weigh up Winter and Furneaux. At
+last, he sighed.
+
+“London ways, and London books, and London detectives!” he muttered.
+“We’re not up to date in Sussex. Now, if I could please myself, I’d be
+hot-foot after Elkin. I see what Winter has in his mind, but surely
+Elkin fills the bill, and Siddle doesn’t.... What was that word—volt
+what!”
+
+Doris was lucky. She met Mr. Siddle as she emerged from the back
+passage to the cake-shop. Resolving instantly that if an unpleasant
+thing had to be done it should at least be done well, she smiled
+brightly.
+
+“See what you have driven me to—breaking the Sabbath,” she cried,
+holding up the bag of cakes.
+
+“Tea and bread-and-butter with you would be a feast for the gods,” said
+Siddle.
+
+“Now you’re adapting Omar Khayyam.”
+
+“Who’s he?”
+
+“A Persian poet of long ago.”
+
+“I never read poetry. But, if your tastes lie that way, I’ll accomplish
+some more adaptation.”
+
+“Oh, no, please. Cakes for you, Mr. Siddle; poets for giddy young
+things like me.”
+
+There was a sting in the words. Doris preened herself on having carried
+out the detective’s instructions to the letter thus far.
+
+Arrived in the house she found her father still in the garden,
+examining some larvae under a microscope. He looked severe rather than
+studious. He might have been an omnipotent being who had detected a
+malefactor in a criminal act. Was Steynholme and its secret felon being
+regarded in that way by the providence which, for some inscrutable
+purpose, permitted, yet would infallibly punish, a dreadful murder? She
+was a girl of devout mind, and the notion was appalling in its direct
+application to current events.
+
+In the meantime the chemist, evidently taking a Sunday afternoon
+constitutional, came on Winter, who was leaning on a wall of the bridge
+and looking down stream—Grant’s house being on the left.
+
+He would have passed, in his wonted unobtrusive way, but the detective
+hailed him with a cheery “Good day, Mr. Siddle. Are you a fisherman?”
+
+“No, Mr. Franklin, I’m not,” he answered.
+
+“Well, now, I’m surprised. You are just the sort of man whom I should
+expect to find attached to a rod and line—even watching a float.”
+
+“I tried once when I was younger, but I could neither impale a worm nor
+extract a hook. My gorge rose against either practice. I am a
+vegetarian, for the same reason. If it were not for this disturbing
+tragedy you would have heard Hobbs, the butcher, rallying me about my
+rabbit-meat, as he calls my food.”
+
+“Well, well!” laughed Winter. “Your ideas and mine clash in some
+respects. I look on a well-grilled steak as a gift from Heaven, and
+after it, or before it—I don’t care which—let me have three hours
+whipping a good trout stream. With the right cast of flies I could show
+a fine bag from this very stretch of water.”
+
+“Why not ask Mr. Grant’s permission? It would be interesting to learn
+whether he will allow others to try their luck.”
+
+Mr. Siddle strolled on. Winter bent over, keen to discern the
+gray-backed fish which must be lurking in those clear depths and
+rippling shallows.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XIV.
+On Both Sides of the River
+
+
+The sun, transmuted into Greenwich time, exercised an extraordinary
+influence on the seemingly humdrum life of Steynholme that day. A few
+minutes after three o’clock—just too late to observe either Winter or
+Siddle—P. C.  Robinson strolled forth from his cottage. He glanced up
+the almost deserted high-street, in which every rounded cobble and
+white flagstone radiated heat. A high-class automobile had dashed past
+twice in forty minutes, but the pace was on the borderland of doubt, so
+the guardian of the public weal had contented himself with recording
+its number on the return journey.
+
+But his thoughts were far a-field from joyriders, stray cattle, hawkers
+without licenses, and other similar small fry which come into the
+constabulary net. It would be a feather in his cap if he could only
+strike the trail of the veritable Steynholme murderer. The entrancing
+notion possessed him morning, noon, and night. Mrs. Robinson declared
+that it even dominated his dreams. Robinson was sharp. He knew quite
+well that the brains of the London detectives held some elusive quality
+which he personally lacked. They seemed to peer into the heart of a
+thing so wisely and thoroughly. He did not share Superintendent
+Fowler’s somewhat derogatory estimate of Furneaux, with whom he was
+much better acquainted than was his superior officer, while Chief
+Inspector Winter’s repute stood so high that it might not be
+questioned. Still, to the best of his belief, the case had beaten both
+these doughty representatives of Scotland Yard; there was yet a chance
+for the humble police-constable; so Robinson squared his shoulders,
+seamed his brows, and marched majestically down the Knoleworth road.
+
+He had an eye for _The Hollies_, of course, though neither he nor
+anybody else could discern more than the bare edge of the lawn from
+bridge or road, owing to the dense screen of evergreen trees and shrubs
+planted by the tenant who remodeled the property.
+
+But the spot where the body of Adelaide Melhuish was drawn ashore was
+visible, and the sight of it started a dim thesis in the policeman’s
+mind which took definite shape during less than an hour’s stroll. Thus,
+at four o’clock exactly, he was pulling the bell at _The Hollies_.
+Almost simultaneously, Mr. Siddle knocked modestly on the private door
+of the post office, to reach which one had to pass down a narrow yard.
+
+“Mr. Grant at home?” inquired Robinson, when Minnie appeared.
+
+Yes, the master was on the lawn with Mr. Hart. The policeman found the
+two there, seated in chairs with awnings. They had been discussing, of
+all things in the world, the futurist craze in painting. Hart held by
+it, but Grant carried bigger guns in real knowledge of the artist’s
+limitations as well as his privileges.
+
+Hart was the first to notice the newcomer’s presence, and greeted him
+joyously.
+
+“Come along, Robinson, and manacle this reprobate,” he shouted. “He’s
+nothing but a narrow-minded pre-Rafaelite. A period in prison will dust
+the cobwebs out of his attic.”
+
+“Hello, Robinson!” said, Grant. “Anything stirring?”
+
+“Not much, sir. I just popped in to ask if you remembered exactly how
+the body was roped?”
+
+“Indeed, I do not. Some incidents of that horrible half hour have gone
+into a sad jumble. I recollect you calling attention to the matter, but
+what your point was I really cannot say now. Perhaps it may come back
+if you explain.”
+
+“Well, we don’t seem to be making a great deal of progress, sir, and I
+was wondering whether you two gentlemen might help. I don’t want it
+mentioned. I’m taking a line of me own.”
+
+Grant repressed a smile. He recalled well enough the first “line” the
+policeman took, and the mischief it had caused. Being an even-minded
+person, however, he admitted that his own behavior had not been above
+suspicion on the day the crime was discovered. In allotting blame, as
+between Robinson and himself, the proportion was six of one and half a
+dozen of the other.
+
+“Propound, justiciary,” said Hart. “You’ve started well, anyhow. The
+connection between a line and a rope should be obvious even to a
+judge.... As a pipe-opener, have a drink!”
+
+Robinson had removed his helmet, and was flourishing a red
+handkerchief, not without cause, the day being really very hot.
+
+“Not for a few minutes, thank you, sir,” said the policeman. “May I ask
+Bates for a sack and a cord?”
+
+He went to the kitchen. Hart was “tickled to death,” he vowed.
+
+“We are about to witness the reconstruction of the crime, a procedure
+which the French delight in, and the intellect of France is a hundred
+years ahead of our effete civilization,” he chortled.
+
+Grant was not so pleased. The memory of a distressing vision was
+beginning to blur, and this ponderous policeman must come and revive
+it. Yet, even he grew interested when Robinson illustrated a nebulous
+idea by knotting a clothesline around a sack stuffed with straw, having
+brought Bates to bear him out in the matter of accuracy.
+
+“There you are, gentlemen!” he said, puffing after the slight exertion.
+“That’s the way of it. How does it strike you?”
+
+“It’s what a sailor calls two half hitches,” commented Hart instantly.
+“A very serviceable knot, which will resist to the full strength of the
+rope.”
+
+“We have no sailors in Steynholme, sir,” said the policeman.
+
+“Oh, it’s used regularly by tradesmen,” put in Grant. “A draper, or
+grocer—any man accustomed to tying parcels securely, in fact—will
+fashion that knot nine times out of ten.”
+
+“How about a—a farmer, sir?” That was as near as Robinson dared to go
+to “horse-dealer.”
+
+“I think a farmer would be more likely to adopt a timber hitch, which
+is made in several ways. Here are samples.” And Grant busied himself
+with rope and sack.
+
+Robinson watched closely.
+
+“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ve seen those knots in a farmyard.... Well, it’s
+something—not much—but a trifle better than nothing.... All right,
+Bates. You can take ’em away.”
+
+“Have you shown that knot to Mr. Furneaux?” inquired Grant.
+
+“No, sir. I’ve kept that up me sleeve, as the sayin’ is.”
+
+“But why?”
+
+Robinson shuffled uneasily on his feet.
+
+“These Scotland Yard men will hardly listen to a uniformed constable,
+sir,” he said. “I’ll tell ’em all about it at the inquest on
+Wednesday.”
+
+“In effect, John P. Robinson he sez they didn’t know everythin’ down in
+Judee,” quoted Hart.
+
+“You’ve got my name pat,” grinned the policeman, whose Christian names
+were “John Price.”
+
+“My name is Walter, not Patrick,” retorted Hart. Robinson continued to
+smile, though he failed to grasp the joke until late that evening.
+
+“Did you make up that verse straight off, sir,” he asked.
+
+“No. It’s a borrowed plume, plucked from an American quill pen.”
+
+Hart gave “plume” a French sound, and Robinson was puzzled to know why
+Grant bade his friend stop profaning a peaceful Sunday afternoon.
+
+“You’ll have a glass of beer now?” went on the host.
+
+“I don’t mind if I do, sir, though it’s tea-time, and I make it a rule
+on Sundays to have tea with the missis. A policeman’s hours are broken
+up, and his wife hardly ever knows when to have a meal ready.”
+
+Minnie was summoned. It took her a couple of minutes to draw the beer
+from a cool cellar. So it chanced that when Doris led Mr. Siddle to the
+edge of the cliff about twenty-five minutes past four, the first thing
+they saw was the local police-constable on the lawn of _The Hollies_
+putting down a gill of “best Sussex” at a draught.
+
+“Well!” cried the chemist icily, “I wonder what Superintendent Fowler
+would say to that if he knew it?”
+
+“What is there particularly wrong about Robinson drinking a glass of
+beer?” demanded Doris, more alive to the insinuation in Siddle’s words
+than was quite permissible under the role imposed on her by Winter.
+
+She waved her hand to the party on the lawn. Grant, whose eyes ever
+roved in that direction, had seen her white muslin dress the moment she
+appeared.
+
+“Who the deuce is that with Miss Martin?” he said, returning her
+signal.
+
+“Siddle, the chemist,” announced Robinson, not too well pleased himself
+at being “spotted” so openly. “Well, gentlemen, I’ll be off,” and he
+vanished by the side path through the laurels.
+
+“Siddle!” repeated Grant vexedly. “So it is. And she dislikes the man,
+for some reason.”
+
+“Let’s go and rescue the fair maid,” prompted Hart.
+
+“No, no. If Doris wanted me she would let me know.”
+
+“How? At the top of her voice?”
+
+“You’re far too curious, Wally.”
+
+“Semaphore, of course,” drawled Hart. “When are you going to marry the
+girl, Jack!”
+
+“As soon as this infernal business has blown over.”
+
+“You haven’t asked her, I gather?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Tell me when you do, and I’ll hie me to London town, though in torrid
+June. You’re unbearable in love.”
+
+“The lash of your wit cuts deeply sometimes,” said Grant quietly.
+
+“Dash it all, old chap, I was talking at random. Very well. I’ll do
+penance in sackcloth and ashes by remaining here, and applauding your
+poetic efforts. I’ll even help. I’m a dab at sonnets.”
+
+Meanwhile, Mr. Siddle had regained his poise.
+
+“I meant nothing offensive to the donor of the beer,” he said, tuning
+his voice to an apologetic note. “But I take it Robinson is conducting
+certain inquiries, and I imagine that his superiors demand a degree of
+circumspection in such conditions. That is all.”
+
+“Surely you do not rank with the stupid crowd in its suspicions of Mr.
+Grant?” said the girl.
+
+“I’m pleased to think you refuse to class me with the gossip-mongers of
+Steynholme, Doris,” was the guarded answer.
+
+There had been no reference to the murder during tea, which was served
+as soon as the chemist came in. The visitor had tabled a copy of a
+current medical journal containing an article on the therapeutic
+qualities of honey, so the talk was lifted at once into an atmosphere
+far removed from crime. Doris was grateful for his tact. When her
+father went to the office she brought Mr. Siddle into the garden solely
+in pursuance of her promise to the detective, though convinced that
+there would be no outcome save a few labored compliments to herself.
+And now, by accident, as it were, the death of Adelaide Melhuish thrust
+itself into their conversation. Perhaps it was her fault.
+
+“No,” she said candidly. “No one who has known you for seven years, Mr.
+Siddle, could possibly accuse you of spreading scandal.”
+
+“Seven years! Is it so long since I came to Steynholme? Sometimes, it
+appears an age, but more often I fancy the calendar must be in error.
+Why, it seems only the other day that I saw you in a short frock,
+bowling a hoop.”
+
+“A tom-boy occupation,” laughed Doris. “But dad encouraged that and
+skipping, as the best possible means of exercise.”
+
+“He was right. Look how straight and svelte you are! Few, if any, among
+our community can have watched your progress to womanhood as closely as
+I. You see, living opposite, as I do, I kept track of you more
+intimately than your other neighbors.”
+
+Siddle was trimming his sails cleverly. The concluding sentence robbed
+his earlier comments of their sentimental import.
+
+“If we live long enough we may even see each other in the sere and
+yellow leaf,” said Doris flippantly.
+
+“I would ask no greater happiness,” came the quiet reply, and Doris
+could have bitten her tongue for according him that unguarded opening.
+Suddenly availing herself of the advice which the detective, like
+Hamlet, had given to the players, she gazed musingly at the fair
+panorama of The Hollies and its gardens, with the two young men seated
+on the lawn. By this time Minnie was staging tea, and the picture
+looked idyllic enough. Doris saw, out of the tail of her eye, that her
+companion was watching her furtively, though apparently absorbed in the
+scene. He moistened his thin lips with his tongue.
+
+“As a study in contrasts, that would be hard to beat,” he said, after a
+long pause.
+
+“Contrasts!” she echoed.
+
+“Well, yes. Even an uncontentious man like myself can hardly fail to
+compare Sunday afternoon with Tuesday morning.”
+
+“Why not Monday night?” she flashed.
+
+“Monday night, in part, remains a mystery yet to be unveiled. I blot
+Monday night from my mind. I have no alternative, being on the jury
+which has to arrive at a just verdict. Now, if Fred Elkin were here, he
+would foam at the mouth.”
+
+“Happily, Fred Elkin is _not_ here.”
+
+“Ah, I am glad, glad, to hear you say that. You don’t like him?”
+
+“I detest him.”
+
+“He makes out, to put it mildly, that you are great friends.”
+
+“You will oblige me by contradicting the statement. Or—no. One treats
+that sort of man with contempt.”
+
+“I agree with you most heartily. I’m sorry I ever mentioned him.”
+
+Yet Doris was well aware that the chemist had dragged in Elkin by the
+scruff of the neck, probably for the sake of getting him disposed of
+thoroughly and for all time. Rather on the tiptoe of expectation, she
+awaited the next move. It was slow in coming, so again she looked
+wistfully at the distant tea-drinkers. She found slight difficulty in
+carrying out this portion of the stage directions. Truth to tell, she
+would gleefully have gone and joined them.
+
+Siddle was not altogether at ease. The conversation was too spasmodic
+to suit his purpose. Though slow of speech he was nimble of brain, and,
+knowing Doris so well, he had anticipated a livelier duel of wits. In
+all likelihood, he cursed the tea-party on the lawn. He had not
+foreseen this drawback. But, being a masterful man, he tackled the
+situation boldly.
+
+“I seized the opportunity of a friendly chat with you to-day, Doris,”
+he went on, leaning over the fence to inhale the scent of a briar rose.
+“The story runs through the village that you and your father dined at
+The Hollies on Friday evening. Is that true?”
+
+Now, Doris had it on reliable authority that Siddle himself had been
+the runner who spread that story, and the knowledge steeled her heart
+against him.
+
+“Yes,” she said composedly.
+
+“It was kind and neighborly of you to accept the invitation, but a
+mistake.”
+
+She turned and faced him. His expression was baffling. She thought she
+saw in his sallow, clean-cut features the shadow of a confident smile.
+
+“You mean that this horrid murder should make some difference in the
+friendship between ourselves and Mr. Grant?” she cried.
+
+“Yes. To you, though to no one else would I speak so plainly, I have no
+hesitation in saying that Mr. Grant is far, very far, from being clear
+of responsibility in that matter. Three days from now you will
+understand what I mean. Evidence will be forthcoming which will put him
+in a most unenviable light. I am not alleging, or even hinting, that he
+may be deemed guilty of actual crime. That is for the law to determine.
+But I do tell you emphatically that his present heedless attitude will
+give place to anxiety and dejection. It cannot be otherwise. A somewhat
+sordid history will be revealed, and his pretense that relations
+between him and the dead woman ceased three years ago will vanish into
+thin air. Believe me, Doris, I am actuated by no motive in this matter
+other than a desire to further your welfare. I cannot bear even to
+think of your name being associated, in ever so small degree, with that
+of a man who must be hounded out of his own social circle, if no worse
+fate is in store for him.”
+
+“Good gracious!” cried Doris, genuinely amazed. “How do you come to
+know all this?”
+
+“I listen to the words of those qualified to speak with knowledge and
+authority. I have mixed in varied company this past week, wholly on
+your account. Don’t be led away by the mere formalities of the opening
+day of the inquest. The coroner deliberately shut off all real evidence
+except as to the cause of death. On Wednesday the situation will
+change, and you cannot fail to be shocked by what you hear, because you
+will be there.”
+
+“I am given to understand that, even if I am called, my testimony will
+be of no importance.”
+
+“Such may be the police view. Mr. Ingerman will press for a very
+different estimate.”
+
+“Has he told you that?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“So, although foreman of the jury, you have not declined to hobnob with
+a man who is avowedly Mr. Grant’s enemy?”
+
+“I would hobnob with worse people if, by so doing, I might serve you.”
+
+Grant, “fed up,” as he put it to Hart, with watching the _tête à tête_
+between Doris and the chemist, sprang to his feet and went through a
+pantomime easy enough to follow save for one or two signs. Doris held
+both hands aloft. Well knowing that anything in the nature of a
+pre-arranged code would be gall and wormwood to Siddle, she explained
+laughingly:
+
+“Mr. Grant signals that he and Mr. Hart are going for a walk; he wants
+me to accompany them. But I can’t, unfortunately. I promised dad to
+help with the accounts.”
+
+“If you really mean what you say, my warning would seem to have fallen
+on deaf ears.”
+
+Siddle’s voice was well under control, but his eyes glinted
+dangerously. His state was that of a man torn by passion who
+nevertheless felt that any display of the rage possessing him would be
+fatal to his cause.
+
+But, rather unexpectedly, Doris took fire. Siddle’s innuendoes and
+protestations were sufficiently hard to bear without the added
+knowledge that a ridiculous convention denied her the companionship of
+a man whom she loved, and who, she was beginning to believe, loved her.
+She swept round on Siddle like a wrathful goddess.
+
+“I have borne with you patiently because of the acquaintance of years,
+but I shall be glad if this tittle-tattle of malice and ignorance now
+ceases,” she said proudly. “Mr. Grant is my friend, and my father’s
+friend. In the first horror of the crime which has besmirched our dear
+little village, we both treated Mr. Grant rather badly. We know better
+to-day. Your Ingermans and your Elkins, and the rest of the busybodies
+gathered at the inn, may defame him as they choose, or as they dare. As
+for me, I am his loyal comrade, and shall remain so after next
+Wednesday, or a score of Wednesdays. I am going in now, Mr. Siddle, and
+shall be engaged during the remainder of the evening. Your shop opens
+at six, and I am sure you will find some more profitable means of
+spending the time than in telling me things I would rather not hear.”
+
+Siddle caught her arm.
+
+“Doris,” he said fiercely, “you must not leave me without, at least,
+learning my true motive. I—”
+
+The girl wrested herself free from his grip. She realized what was
+coming, and forestalled it.
+
+“I care nothing for your motive,” she cried. “You forget yourself!
+Please go!”
+
+She literally ran into the house. The chemist, unless he elected to
+behave like a love-sick fool, had no option but to follow, and make his
+way to the street by the side door.
+
+The only other happening of significance that Sunday was an unheralded
+visit by Winter to the policeman’s residence.
+
+He popped in after dusk, opening the door without knocking.
+
+“You in, Robinson?” he inquired.
+
+“Yes, sir. Will you—”
+
+“Shan’t detain you more than a minute. At the inquest you said that you
+personally untied the rope which bound Miss Melhuish’s body. Here are a
+piece of string and a newspaper. Would you mind showing me what sort of
+knot was used?”
+
+Robinson was nearly struck dumb, and his fingers fumbled badly, but he
+managed to exhibit two hitches.
+
+“Ah, thanks,” said Winter, and was off in a jiffy.
+
+From the window of a darkened room Robinson watched the erect, burly
+figure of the detective until it was merged in the mists of night.
+
+“Well, I’m—,” he exclaimed bitterly.
+
+“John, what are you swearing about?” demanded his wife from the
+kitchen.
+
+“Something I heard to-day,” answered her husband. “There was a chap of
+my name, John P. Robinson, an’ he said that down in Judee they didn’t
+know everything. And, by gum, he was right. They knew mighty little
+about London ’tecs, I’m thinking. But, hold on. Surely—”
+
+He bustled into his coat, and hastened to _The Hollies_. No, neither
+Mr. Grant nor Mr. Hart had spoken to a soul about the knot. Nor had
+Bates. Of course, Robinson did not venture to describe Winter. Finally,
+he put the incident aside as a clear case of thought-reading.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XV.
+A Matter of Heredity
+
+
+Shortly before noon on Monday occurred two events destined to assume a
+paramount importance in the affair which was wringing the withers of
+Steynholme. As in the histories of both men and nations, these first
+steps in great developments began quietly enough. For one thing,
+Furneaux returned to the village. For another, the London telegraphist,
+who expected the day to prove practically a blank, was reading a
+newspaper when the telegraph instrument clicked the local call.
+
+Doris was checking and distributing the stock of stamps which had
+arrived that morning; her father was counting mail-bags in a small
+annex to the main room, the Knoleworth office having acquired a habit
+of making up shortages by docking the country branches. No member of
+the public happened to be present. The girl could have heard what the
+Morse code was tapping forth had she chosen, but she had trained
+herself to disregard the telegraph when occupied on other work.
+
+Suddenly, however, the telegraphist’s pencil paused.
+
+“Hello!” he said. “Theodore Siddle! That’s the chemist opposite, isn’t
+it!”
+
+“Yes,” said Doris, suspending her calculations at mention of the name.
+
+“Well, his mother’s dead.”
+
+“Dead?” she echoed vacantly. Somehow, it had never hitherto dawned on
+her that the chemist might possess relatives in some part of the
+country.
+
+“That’s what it says,” went on the other.
+
+_“‘Regret inform you your mother died this morning. Superintendent,
+Horton Asylum.’”_
+
+
+“In an asylum, too,” said the girl, speaking at random.
+
+“Yes. Horton is the place for epileptic lunatics, near Epsom, you
+know.”
+
+“I didn’t know. Does it mean that—that she was an epileptic lunatic?”
+
+“So I should imagine, from the wording. If a nurse, or a matron, they’d
+surely describe her as such.”
+
+“I suppose we ought not to discuss Mr. Siddle’s telegram,” said Doris,
+after a pause.
+
+“Well, no. But where’s the harm? I wouldn’t have yelled out the news if
+we three weren’t alone. Where’s that boy?”
+
+“Gone to his dinner. Father will take it. By the way, say nothing to
+him as to the contents. Would you mind calling him?”
+
+Doris hurried swiftly to the sitting-room, and thence upstairs. The
+telegraphist explained the absence of a messenger, so Mr. Martin
+delivered the telegram in person.
+
+Crossing the street, he detected a dead bee. He picked it up, horrified
+at the thought that the Isle of Wight disease might have reached
+Sussex. So it was an absent-minded postmaster who handed the telegram
+over Siddle’s counter, inquiring laconically:
+
+“Is there any answer?”
+
+Siddle opened the buff envelope, and read. He glanced sharply at
+Martin.
+
+“No,” he said. “What’s wrong with that bee?”
+
+“I don’t know. I have my doubts. When I have a moment to spare I’ll put
+it under the microscope.”
+
+Siddle examined the telegram again. The handwriting was that beloved of
+Civil Service Commissioners. Unquestionably, it was not Doris’s. No
+sooner had his friend gone off, still intent on the dead insect, than
+Siddle followed. He knew that the bee would undergo scientific scrutiny
+at once, so gave Martin just enough time to dive into the sitting-room
+before entering the post office.
+
+“Did you receive this telegram a few minutes ago!” he inquired.
+
+The young man became severely official.
+
+“Which telegram?” he said stiffly.
+
+“This one,” and Siddle gave him the written message.
+
+“Yes,” was the answer.
+
+“Excuse me, but—er—are its contents known to you only?”
+
+“What do you mean, sir? It would cost me my berth if I divulged a word
+of it to anyone.”
+
+“I’m sorry. Pray don’t take offense. I—I’m anxious that my friends, Mr.
+and Miss Martin, should not hear of it. That is what I really have in
+mind.”
+
+The telegraphist cooled down.
+
+“You may be quite sure that neither they nor any other person in
+Steynholme will ever see the duplicate,” he said confidentially. “I
+make up a package containing duplicates each evening, and it is sent to
+headquarters. If it will please you, I’ll lock the copy now in my
+desk.”
+
+“That is exceedingly good of you,” said Siddle gratefully. “You, as a
+Londoner, will understand that such a telegram from—er—Horton is not
+the sort of thing one would like to become known even in the most
+limited circle.”
+
+“You can depend on me, sir.”
+
+Siddle hastened back to his shop. The telegraphist looked after him.
+
+“Queer!” he mused. “Miss Doris guessed him at once. Phi-ew, I must be
+careful! This village contains surprises.”
+
+Doris, watching from an upper room, saw the visitor, and timed him. She
+imagined he had dispatched an answer. Being a woman, she sought
+enlightenment a few minutes later.
+
+“Mr. Siddle came in,” she said tentatively.
+
+“Yes,” said the specialist, smiling. “And I agree with you, Miss
+Martin. We mustn’t talk about telegrams, even among ourselves, unless
+it is necessary departmentally.”
+
+Doris was silenced, but she read the riddle correctly. The chemist was
+particularly anxious that no Steynholme resident should be made aware
+of his mother’s death. She wondered why.
+
+She was enlightened when Furneaux paid a call about tea-time. She took
+him into the garden. The lawn at _The Hollies_ was empty.
+
+“Well, you entertained an acquaintance yesterday?” he began.
+
+“Yes. Am I to tell you what happened?”
+
+“Not a great deal, I imagine,” he said, with a puzzling laugh.
+
+“No, but I annoyed him, as Mr.——”
+
+“No names!” broke in the detective hastily. “Names, especially modern
+ones, destroy romance. Even the Georgian method of using initials, or
+leaving out vowels, lend an air of intrigue to the veriest balderdash.”
+
+“But no one can overhear us,” was the somewhat surprised comment.
+
+“How true!” said Furneaux. “Pardon me, Miss Martin. Tell the story in
+your own way.”
+
+Doris had a good memory. She was invariably letter-perfect in a play
+after a couple of rehearsals, and could prompt others if they faltered.
+The detective listened in silence while she repeated the conversation
+between Siddle and herself. He took no notes. In fact, he hardly ever
+did make any record in a case unless it was essential to prove the
+exact words of a suspected person.
+
+“Good!” he said, when she had finished. “That sounds like the complete
+text.”
+
+“I don’t think I have left out anything of importance—that is, if a
+single word of it _is_ important.”
+
+“Oh, heaps,” he assured her. “It’s even better than I dared hope. Can
+you tell me if Siddle’s mother is dead yet?”
+
+The question found Doris so thoroughly unprepared that she blurted out:
+
+“Have you had a telegram, too, then?”
+
+“No. But Siddle has had one, eh? Don’t be vexed. I’m not tricking you
+into revealing post office secrets. I knew she was dying, and, when I
+saw your father take a message to the chemist’s shop I simply made an
+accurate guess.... Now, I’m going to scare you, purposely and of malice
+aforethought, because I want you to be a good little girl, and obey
+orders. Mrs. Siddle, senior, now happily deceased, was an epileptic
+lunatic of a peculiarly dangerous type. She suffered from what is
+classed by the doctors as _furor epilepticus_, a form of spasmodic
+insanity not inconsistent with a high degree of bodily vigor and long
+periods of apparently complete mental saneness. Now, if I were not
+speaking to one who has shared her father’s studies in bee-life, I
+would not introduce the subject of heredity. But _you_ know, Miss
+Martin, that such racial characteristics are transmitted, or
+transmissible, I should say, by sex opposites. Thus, an epileptic
+mother is more likely to give her taint to a son than to a daughter....
+Yes, I mean all that, and more,” he went on, seeing the look of horror,
+not unmixed with fear, in Doris’s eyes. “There must be no more
+irritating of Siddle, or playing on his feelings—by you, at any rate.
+Treat him gently. If he insists on making love to you, be as firm as
+you like in a non-committal way. I mean, by that, an entire absence on
+your part of any suggestion that you are repulsing him because of a
+real or supposed preference for any other man.”
+
+“Do you want me to believe that he is liable to attack me?” demanded
+the girl, her naturally courageous spirit coming to her aid.
+
+“I do,” said Furneaux, speaking with marked earnestness.
+
+“Yet you ask me to endure his company if he chooses to force himself on
+me?”
+
+“For a few days.”
+
+“But it may be a few years?”
+
+“No. That is not to be thought of. Leave it to me to devise a way.
+Besides, you need not allow him so many opportunities that the strain
+would become unbearable. You are busy, owing to the certain increase of
+work brought about by this murder. Your time will be greatly occupied.
+But, don’t render him morbidly suspicious. For instance, no more
+dinners at _The Hollies_. No more gadding about by night, if you hear
+weird noises on the other side of the river. And you must absolutely
+deny yourself the pleasurable excitement of Mr. Grant’s company.”
+
+“You are carrying a warning to its extreme limit.”
+
+“Exactly.”
+
+“And am I to keep this knowledge to myself?”
+
+“In whom would you confide?”
+
+“My father, of course.”
+
+“I know you better,” and the detective’s voice took on a profoundly
+serious note. “Your father would never admit that what he knows to be
+true of bees is equally true of humanity. You can trust the police to
+keep a pretty sharp eye on Siddle, of course, but the present is a
+strenuous period, both for us and for people with maniacal tendencies,
+so accidents may happen.”
+
+“You have distressed me immeasurably,” said the girl, striving to
+pierce the mask of that inscrutable face.
+
+“I meant to,” answered Furneaux quietly. “No half measures for me. I’ve
+looked up the asylum record of Mrs. Siddle, senior, and it’s not nice
+reading.”
+
+“There was a Mrs. Siddle, junior, then?”
+
+“A Mrs. Theodore Siddle, if one adopts the conventional usage. Yes. She
+died last month.”
+
+“Last month!” gasped Doris, feeling vaguely that she was moving in a
+maze of deceit and subterfuge.
+
+“On May 25th, to be precise. She lived apart from her husband. I have
+reason to believe she feared him.”
+
+“Yet—”
+
+She hesitated, hardly able to put her jumbled thoughts into words.
+
+“Yes. That’s so,” said the detective instantly. “Never mind. It’s a
+fairly decent world, taken _en bloc_. I ought to speak with authority.
+I see enough of the seamy side of it, goodness knows. Now, forewarned
+is forearmed. Don’t be nervous. Don’t take risks. Everything will come
+right in time. Remember, I’m not far away in an emergency. Should I
+chance to be absent if you need advice, send for Mr. Franklin. You can
+easily devise some official excuse, a mislaid letter, or an error in a
+telegram.”
+
+“I think I shall feel confident if both of you are near,” and the ghost
+of a smile lit Doris’s wan features.
+
+“We’re a marvelous combination,” grinned Furneaux, reverting at once to
+his normal impishness. “I am all brain; he is all muscle. Such an
+alliance prevails against the ungodly.”
+
+“Is Mr. Grant in any danger?” inquired Doris suddenly.
+
+“No.”
+
+The two looked into each other’s eyes. Doris was eager to ask a
+question, which Furneaux dared her to put. The detective won. She
+sighed.
+
+“Very well,” she said. “I’m to behave. Am I to regard myself as a decoy
+duck?”
+
+“A duck, anyhow.”
+
+She laughed lightly. Furneaux would vouchsafe no further information,
+it would appear. For a girl of nineteen, Doris was uncommonly gifted
+with clear, analytical reasoning powers.
+
+The detective returned to the Hare and Hounds, and went upstairs. He
+met Peters on the landing.
+
+“The devil!” he cried.
+
+“My _dear_ pal!” retorted the journalist.
+
+“Are you living here?”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Why not, indeed? Where the eagles are there is the carcase.”
+
+“Your misquotation is offensive.”
+
+“It was so intended.”
+
+“Come and have a drink.”
+
+“No.”
+
+“I say ‘yes.’ You’ll thank me on your bended knees afterwards. The
+South American gent is having the time of his life. I’ve just been to
+my room for _Whitaker’s Almanack_, wherewith a certain Don Walter Hart
+purposes flooring him.”
+
+Wally Hart had, indeed, succeeded in running to earth the Argentine
+magnate, and was giving Winter a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour.
+
+“Ha!” shouted Hart, when Furneaux came in with Peters. “Here’s the
+pocket marvel who’ll answer any question straight off. What is the
+staple export of the Argentine!”
+
+“How often have you been there?” demanded the detective dryly.
+
+“Six times.”
+
+“And you’ve lived there?” This to Winter.
+
+“Yes,” glowered the big man, fearing the worst.
+
+“Then the answer is ‘fools,’” cackled Furneaux.
+
+Wally laughed. He had remembered, just in time, that he had no right to
+claim acquaintance with the representative of Scotland Yard, and there
+were some farmers present, each of whom had a “likely animal” to offer
+the buyer of blood stock.
+
+“Gad, I think you’re right,” he said.
+
+“You wanted me to say ‘sheep,’ I suppose?”
+
+“Got it, at once.”
+
+“As though one valuable horse wasn’t worth a thousand sheep.”
+
+“Just what my friend, Don Manoel Alcorta, of Los Andes ranch,
+Catamarca, always held,” put in Winter, drawing the bow at a venture.
+
+Hart cocked an eye at him.
+
+“Sir,” he said, “I would take off my hat, if I wore one in Steynholme,
+to any man who claims the friendship of Don Manoel Alcorta, a sincere
+patriot. I suggest that we crack a bottle to his immortal memory.”
+
+“My doctor forbids me to touch wine,” said Winter mournfully.
+
+“But these bucolic breeders of browns and bays employ wiser medicos,
+I’ll go bail. Landlord, a quart of the best, and six out, as they say
+in London.”
+
+Six glasses were duly filled with champagne. When it was consumed, Hart
+buttonholed Peters.
+
+“A word with you, scribe,” he said. “Good-day, gentlemen. I leave you
+to your nags. Treat Mr. Franklin fairly. The friend of Don Manoel
+Alcorta must be a true man.”
+
+Winter heaved a sigh of relief when the professional revolutionist had
+vanished.
+
+“He’s a funny ’un,” commented one of the farmers.
+
+“A bit touched, I reckon,” said another. “Wot’s ’e doin’ now to the
+other one?”
+
+They looked through the window. The two were standing in the middle of
+the road, and Wally was shaking Peters violently. The argument was not
+so fierce as it appeared to be. Peters had been commanded to bring both
+detectives to dinner that evening; when he demurred, trying to hedge on
+the question of Winter’s identity, Hart grabbed him by the shoulder.
+
+“Do as I tell you,” he hissed. “Of course, I know now that the big
+fellow is the man Grant heard of a week ago. I was an idiot to take him
+seriously about the Argentine. Bring the pair of ’em, I tell you. We’ll
+make a night of it.”
+
+“I’ll try,” said Peters faintly, “but if you stir up that wine so
+vigorously I won’t answer for the consequences.”
+
+Winter, wishing devoutly that would-be sellers of horseflesh were not
+so numerous in the district, noted the names and addresses of the local
+men, and promised to write when he could make an appointment. Then he
+escaped upstairs, whither Furneaux soon followed. Winter had secured an
+extra bedroom, overlooking the river, which Tomlin had converted into a
+sitting-room. Thus, he held a secure observation post both in front and
+rear of the hotel.
+
+“Well, how did she take it?” inquired the Chief Inspector, when he and
+his colleague were safe behind a closed door.
+
+“Sensible girl,” said Furneaux. “By the way, Siddle’s mother is dead.
+Telegram came this morning. Things should happen now.”
+
+“I don’t quite see why.”
+
+“No. You’re still muddled after floundering in the mud of South
+America. What possessed you to let that cheerful idiot, Wally Hart, put
+you in the cart?”
+
+“How could I help it? I was extracting some really helpful facts about
+Siddle and Elkin from Tomlin and the others when a shock-headed
+whirlwind blew in, and nearly embraced me because I claimed
+acquaintance with the El Dorado bar in Buenos Ayres. From that instant
+I was lost. Like St. Augustine on the gridiron, no sooner was I nicely
+toasted on one side than I was turned on to the other. That grinning
+penny-a-liner, Peters, too, helped as assistant torturer. Wait till he
+asks me for a ‘pointer’ in this or any other case. He sold me a pup
+to-day, but I’ll land him with a full-sized mastiff.”
+
+“No, you won’t. He’s done you a lot of good. You were simply reeking
+with conceit when I met you this morning. It was ‘Siddle this’ and
+‘Siddle that’ until you fairly sickened me. One would have thought I
+hadn’t cleared the ground for you, left you with all lines open and
+yourself unknown to the enemy. Sometimes, you make me tired.”
+
+“Sorry, Charles,” said Winter patronizingly. “I had a bit of luck on
+Sunday, I admit. The chance turn taken by the conversation with Doris,
+with the result that I was able to occupy a strategic position on the
+cliff, and hear every word Siddle uttered, was really fortunate. But,
+isn’t that just what men mean when they prate of success? Opportunity
+knocks once at every man’s door, says the old saw. The clever man grabs
+hold instantly. The indolent one, often a mere gabbler, opens his eyes
+and his mouth weeks afterwards, and cries, ‘Dear me! Was that the
+much-looked-for opportunity?’ Of course, Robinson’s by-play with the
+sack and rope was merely thrown in by the prodigal hand of Fate.”
+
+“Stop!” yelped Furneaux. “Another platitude, and I’ll assault you with
+the tongs!”
+
+It was the invariable habit of the Big ’Un and Little ’Un to quarrel
+like cat and dog when the toils were closing in around a suspect. Woe,
+then, to the malefactor! His was a parlous state.
+
+“Let’s cool down, Charles!” said Winter, opening a leather case, and
+selecting, with great care, one out of half a dozen precisely similar
+cigars. “We’re pretty sure of our man, but we haven’t a scrap of
+evidence against him. How, or where, to begin ringing him in I haven’t
+the faintest notion. If only he’d kill Grant we’d get him at once.”
+
+“But he won’t. He trusts to Ingerman playing that part of the game.
+He’s as artful as a pet fox. I bought soap, and a pound of sal
+volatile, but he did up each parcel with sealing-wax.”
+
+“Sal volatile!” smiled Winter. “I, too, went in for soap, but my
+imagination would not soar beyond a packet of cotton-wool. It was the
+lumpiest thing I could think of.”
+
+“And perfectly useless!” sneered Furneaux. “I must say you do fling the
+taxpayers’ money about. Now, _my_ little lot will keep the electric
+bells in my flat in order for two years.”
+
+“You forget that constant association with you demands that I should
+frequently plug my two ears,” retorted Winter.
+
+Furneaux would surely have thrown back the jest had not a knock on the
+door interrupted him.
+
+“Who’s there? I’m busy,” cried Winter.
+
+“Me-ow!” whined Peters’s voice.
+
+“Oh, it’s you, Tom. Come in!”
+
+The journalist crept in on tiptoe.
+
+“Hush! We are not observed,” he said. “Wally Hart threatens to choke me
+if you two don’t dine with him and Grant to-night.”
+
+There was silence for a little while. The detectives looked at each
+other.
+
+“At what time?” said Winter, at last.
+
+Peters was astonished, and showed it.
+
+“Why, I assured him it was absolutely imposs.,” he cried.
+
+“Well, it isn’t. In fact, it suits our plans. I want exercise, and
+shall walk back from Knoleworth. Furneaux will make his own
+arrangements. Tell Grant that I shall drop in without knocking.”
+
+“And tell him I shall arrive by parachute,” added Furneaux.
+
+“In case of accidents, and there is a shoot-up, with myself as the
+unresisting victim, my front name is James,” said Peters.
+
+“The only good point about you,” scoffed Winter.
+
+“You’re strong on names to-day,” tittered the journalist. “Don Manoel
+Alcorta was a superb effort as an authority on gee-gees. Wally tells me
+his donship is the recognized expert south of the line on seismic
+disturbances, and spends his days and nights watching a needle making
+scratches on a sensitive plate.”
+
+“He would be useful here in a day or two,” said Winter.
+
+“Ah, thanks! Is that a tip?”
+
+“Not for publication. What you must say is that this affair looks like
+baffling the shrewdest wits in Scotland Yard.”
+
+“My very phrase—my own ewe lamb. Pardon. I shouldn’t have alluded to
+sheep.”
+
+“The only known representative of the Yard in Steynholme is Furneaux,”
+smiled the Chief Inspector.
+
+Furneaux was drumming on a window-pane with his finger-tips.
+
+“True,” he cackled. “Just to prove it, he now informs you that Siddle,
+finding trade slow, has called on Mr. John Menzies Grant!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XVI.
+Furneaux Makes a Successful Bid
+
+
+The lawn front of _The Hollies_ was not visible from the upper story of
+the Hare and Hounds owing to a clump of pines which had found foothold
+on the cliff, but, through the gap formed by the end of the post office
+garden, the entrance to the house from the Knoleworth road was
+discernible.
+
+Furneaux’s dramatic announcement brought the other two to the window.
+By this time Peters, gifted with a nose for news like a well-trained
+setter’s for partridges, had begun to associate the quiet-mannered,
+gentle-spoken chemist with the inner circle of the crime, so waited and
+watched with the detectives for Siddle’s reappearance.
+
+At any rate the visitor must have been admitted, because a long quarter
+of an hour elapsed before he came in sight again. He walked out slowly
+into the roadway, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and
+glanced to right and left. Then, turning abruptly, he stared at the
+dwelling he had just quitted. What this slight but peculiar action
+signified was not hard to guess. Furneaux, indeed, put it into words.
+
+“Having warned Grant off Miss Doris Martin, and been cursed for his
+pains, the foreman of the jury does not trouble to await further
+evidence, but arrives at a true and lawful verdict straight off,”
+announced the little man.
+
+“We ought to hear things to-night,” said Peters.
+
+“We?” inquired Winter.
+
+“Yes. Didn’t I make it clear that I shared in the dinner invitation?”
+
+“No, and I’m—”
+
+“Don’t say it!” pleaded the journalist. “If I fell from grace to-day,
+remember my unswerving loyalty since the hour we met on the platform at
+Knoleworth! Haven’t I kept close as an oyster? And would any
+consideration on earth move me to publish an accurate and entertaining
+account of the roasting of Chief Inspector Winter by Wally Hart? Think
+what I’m sacrificing—a column of the best.”
+
+Winter bent a weighing look on the speaker. There was treason in the
+thought, as King James remarked to the barber who tried to prove his
+loyalty by pointing out how easily he might cut his majesty’s throat
+any morning. But Peters maintained the expression of a sphinx, and the
+big man relaxed.
+
+“The conditions are that not a word about this business appears in
+print, either now or in the future until we have a criminal in the
+dock,” he said.
+
+“Accepted,” said Peters.
+
+Furneaux laughed shrilly, even derisively, but him his colleague
+treated with majestic disdain. Then, the chemist having reentered the
+village, the group broke up, Peters to search his brains for “copy”
+which should be readable yet contain no hint of the new trail, Winter
+to take train to Knoleworth, and Furneaux to tackle Fred Elkin, who, he
+had ascertained earlier, would drive home from a neighboring hamlet
+about five o’clock.
+
+Elkin had returned when the detective reached the house, a somewhat
+pretentious place, half farm, half villa, and altogether horsey. The
+entrance hall bristled with fox masks and brushes. A useful collection
+of burnished bits and snaffles hung on a side wall. A couple of stuffed
+badgers held two wicker stands for sticks and umbrellas, and whips and
+hunting-crops were ranged on hooks beneath a 12-bore and a rook rifle.
+
+A pert maid-servant took Furneaux’s card, blanched when she read it,
+and forgot to close the door of the dining-room. Hence, the detective
+heard Elkin’s gruff comments:
+
+“What? _That_ chap? Wants to see me? Not more than I want to see him.
+Show him in.”
+
+Furneaux, looking very meek and mild, entered an apartment of the
+carpet-bag upholstery period. A set of six exceedingly good and rare
+sporting prints caught his eye.
+
+“Good day,” he said, finding Elkin drinking tea, and eating a boiled
+egg. “You’re feeling better, I’m glad to see.”
+
+Now, no matter how ungracious a man may be, a courteous solicitude as
+to his health demands a certain note of civility in return.
+
+“Yes,” he said. “Sit down. Will you join me?”
+
+“I’ll have a cup of tea, with pleasure,” said Furneaux.
+
+“Right-o! Just touch that bell, will you?”
+
+The other obeyed, and took a closer look at one of the prints. Yes, the
+date was right, 1841, and the stippling admirable.
+
+“Nice lot of pictures, those,” he said cheerfully, when the frightened
+maid, much to her relief, had been told to bring another cup and a
+fresh supply of toast.
+
+“Are they?” Elkin had taken them and some kitchen furniture for a bad
+debt.
+
+“Yes. Will you sell them?”
+
+“Well, I haven’t thought about it. What’ll you give?”
+
+Furneaux hesitated.
+
+“I can’t resist anything in the art line that takes my fancy,” he said,
+after a pause of indecision. “What do you say to ten bob each?”
+
+Elkin valued the lot at that figure, but Furneaux was a fool, and
+should be treated as such.
+
+“Oh, come now!” he cried roguishly. “They’re worth more than that.”
+
+Furneaux reflected again.
+
+“Three pounds is a good deal for six prints,” he murmured, “but, to get
+it off my mind, I’ll spring to guineas.”
+
+“Make it three-ten and they’re yours.”
+
+“Three guineas is my absolute limit,” said Furneaux.
+
+“Done!” cried Elkin. The original debt was under two pounds, so he had
+cleared more than fifty per cent. on the transaction, and was plus a
+number of chairs and a table.
+
+Furneaux counted out the money, wrote a receipt on a leaf torn from his
+pocket-book, and stamped it.
+
+“Sign that,” he said, “pocket the cash, send the set to the Hare and
+Hounds for me in a dog-cart now, and the deal is through.”
+
+Leaving the table, he went and lifted down each picture carefully.
+Somewhat wonderingly, Elkin rang the bell once more, gave the necessary
+instructions, and the room was cleared of its art. He was quite sure
+now that Furneaux was, as he put it, “dotty.” The latter, however, sat
+and enjoyed his tea as though well pleased with his bargain.
+
+“And how are things going in the murder at _The Hollies_?” inquired the
+horse-dealer, by way of a polite leading up to the visitor’s
+unexplained business.
+
+“Fairly well,” said the detective. “My chief difficulty was to convince
+certain important people that you didn’t kill Miss Melhuish. Once I—”
+
+“Me!” roared Elkin, his pale blue eyes assuming a fiery tint. “_Me!_”
+
+“Once I established that fact,” went on the other severely, “a real
+stumbling-block was removed. You see, Elkin, you have behaved
+throughout like a perfect fool, and thus lent a sort of credibility to
+an otherwise absurd notion. Your furious hatred of Mr. Grant, for
+instance, born of an equally fatuous—or, shall I say? fat-headed—belief
+that Miss Martin would marry you for the mere asking, led you into deep
+waters. It was a mistake, too, when you lied to P. C.  Robinson as to
+the time you came home on that Monday night. You told him you walked
+straight here from the Hare and Hounds at ten o’clock. You know you
+didn’t—that it was nearer half past eleven when you reached this house.
+Consider what that discrepancy alone might have meant if Scotland Yard
+failed to take your measure correctly. Then add the fact that the
+murderer wore the hat, wig, and whiskers in which you made a guy of
+yourself while filling the rôle of Svengali last winter. Now, I ask
+you, Elkin, where would you have stood with the average British jury
+when the prosecution established those three things: Motive, your
+jealousy of Grant; time, your unaccounted-for disappearance during the
+hour when the crime was committed; and disguise, a clumsy suggestion of
+Owd Ben’s ghost? Really, I have known men brought to the scaffold on
+circumstantial evidence little stronger than that. Instead of glaring
+at me like a cornered rat you ought to drop on your knees and thank
+providence, as manifested through the intelligence of the ‘Yard,’ that
+you are not now in a cell at Knoleworth, ruminating on your own
+stupidity, and in no small jeopardy of your life.”
+
+Many emotions chased each other across Fred Elkin’s somewhat mean and
+cruel face while Furneaux rated him in this extraordinary manner.
+Surprise, wrath, even fear, had their phases. But, dominating all other
+sensations, was an overpowering indignation at the implied hopelessness
+of his pursuit of Doris Martin.
+
+He literally howled an oath at his torturer. Furneaux was shocked.
+
+“No, no,” he protested in a horrified tone. “Don’t swear at your best
+friend.”
+
+“Friend! By—, I’ll make you pay for what you’ve said. There’s a law to
+stop that sort of thing.”
+
+“But the law requires witnesses. A slander isn’t a slander unless it’s
+uttered to your detriment before a third party. How different would be
+Mr. Grant’s action against you! Your well-wishers simply couldn’t
+muzzle you. Whether before your pot-house cronies or mere strangers,
+you charged him openly with being a murderer. I’m sorry for you, Elkin,
+if ever you come before a judge. He’ll rattle more than my three
+guineas out of you. Even now, you don’t grasp the extent of your folly.
+Instead of telling me how you spent that hour and a half on the night
+of the crime you have the incredible audacity to threaten me, _me_, the
+man who has saved you from jail. One more word, you miserable swab, and
+I’ll let Robinson arrest you. You’ll be set free, of course, when I
+stage the actual villain, but a few remands of a week each in custody
+will thin your hot blood. You were with Peggy Smith after leaving the
+Hare and Hounds, making a fool of an honest girl who thinks you mean to
+wed her. Yet you blather about being ‘practically engaged’ to Doris
+Martin, a girl who wouldn’t let you tie her shoe-lace. You’re an
+impudent pup, Fred, and you know it. But you stock decent tea, so I’ll
+take another cup. If you’re wise, you’ll take a second one yourself.
+It’s better for you than whiskey.”
+
+Elkin, despite all his faults, was endowed with the shrewdness
+inseparable from his business, because no man devoid of brains ever yet
+throve as a horse-dealer. He smothered his rage, thinking he might
+learn more from this strange-mannered detective by seeming
+complaisance.
+
+“You’re a bit rough on a fellow,” he growled sulkily, pouring out the
+tea.
+
+“For your good, my boy, solely for your good. Now, own up about Peggy.”
+
+“Yes. That’s right. She’d prove an alibi, so your tom-fool case breaks
+down when the flag falls.”
+
+“Does it? A girl may say anything to save her supposed lover. How will
+the twelve good men and true view Doris Martin’s evidence on Wednesday?
+What did _you_ mean, for instance, by your question to the coroner at
+the first hearing?”
+
+“I thought Grant was guilty, and I think so still,” came the savage
+retort.
+
+“A nice juryman you are, I must say! May I trouble you to pass the
+sugar?”
+
+“Look here! What are you gettin’ at? Damme if I can see through your
+game. What is it?”
+
+“I didn’t want to worry poor Peggy. And her father might set about you
+if he knew the facts, so I’m probably saving you a hiding as well as a
+period in jail. The only reliable witness we had as to events in
+Tomlin’s place was a commercial traveler, and he is positive that the
+house closed at ten o’clock. However, that’s all right. How do you
+account for the marvelous improvement in your health? Dr. Foxton cannot
+understand your illness. He says you are wiry, and have a strong
+constitution.”
+
+“Dr. Foxton jolly near knocked me up,” said Elkin. “I took his medicine
+till I was sick as a cat.”
+
+“But you took spirits, too.”
+
+“That’s nothing fresh. Anyhow, I’ve dropped both, and am picking up
+every hour.”
+
+“Since when?”
+
+“Since yesterday morning, if you want to know.”
+
+“I do. I’m most interested. Dr. Foxton doesn’t compound his own
+prescriptions, does he?”
+
+“No. I get ’em made up at Siddle’s.”
+
+“Ah. These country chemists often keep drugs in stock till they
+deteriorate, or even set up chemical changes. Have you the bottles?”
+
+“Yes. But what the—”
+
+“Anything left in them?”
+
+“The last two are half full. Still—”
+
+“What a cross-grained chap you are? I buy your pictures, drink your
+tea, rescue you from a positively dangerous position, warn you against
+carrying any farther a most serious libel, yet you won’t let me help
+you in a matter affecting your health!”
+
+“Help me? How?”
+
+“Even you, I suppose, realize that Scotland Yard employs skilled
+analysts. Give me your bottles, in strict confidence, of course, and
+I’ll tell you what they really contain. Then you can compare the
+analyses with the doctor’s prescriptions. The knowledge should be
+useful, to say the least. Siddle’s reputation needn’t suffer, but,
+unless I am greatly mistaken, you will have the whip hand of him in
+future.”
+
+The prospect was alluring. Elkin would enjoy showing up the chemist,
+who had treated him rather as a precocious infant of late.
+
+“By jing!” he cried, “I’m on that. Bet you a quid—But, no. You’d hardly
+lay against your own opinion. Just wait a tick. I’ll bring ’em.”
+
+Furneaux stared fixedly at the table while his host was absent. His
+conscience was not pricking him with regard to an unmerited slur on the
+country chemists of Great Britain. All is fair in love and the
+detection of crime, and he simply had to get hold of those bottles by
+some daring yet plausible ruse.
+
+“Now—I wonder!” he muttered, as Elkin’s step sounded on the stairs.
+
+“There you are!” grinned the horse-dealer. “Take a dose of the last
+one. It’ll stir your liver to some tune.”
+
+Furneaux drew the corks out of both bottles, and sniffed the contents.
+Then he tasted, with much tongue-smacking.
+
+“Um!” he said. “Stale laudanum, for a start. I expected as much. Bought
+by the gallon and sold by the drop. Is that the dogcart with my
+pictures?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Hail your man. He can give me a lift.”
+
+“But there’s lots of things I want to ask you—”
+
+“Probably. I’m here to put questions, not to give information. I’ve
+gone a long way beyond the official tether already. If you’ve a grain
+of sense, and I think you’re not altogether lacking in that respect,
+you’ll keep a close tongue, and act on the tips thrown out. You’ll find
+pearls of price among the rubbish-heap of my remarks generally.
+Good-by. See you on Wednesday.”
+
+And Furneaux climbed into the cart, holding the pictures so that they
+would not rattle, and perhaps loosen the old gilded frames.
+
+“Drive me to the chemist’s” he said to the groom; within five minutes,
+he was explaining his purchase to Siddle, and requesting, as a favor,
+that the latter should wrap the set of prints in brown paper, making
+two parcels, and tying each securely, so that they might be dispatched
+by train.
+
+Siddle examined one, the first of the series, which depicted the
+Aylesbury Steeplechase.
+
+“Rather good,” he said. “Where did you pick them up?”
+
+“At Elkin’s.”
+
+“Indeed. What an unexpected place!”
+
+“That’s the only way a poor man can get hold of a decent thing
+nowadays. The dealers grab everything, and sell them as collections.”
+
+“Art is not in my line, though anyone can see that these are
+excellent.”
+
+“Yes. But you’re looking at ‘The Start.’ Have a peep at this one, ‘The
+Finish.’ The artist _would_ have his joke. You see that the dark horse
+wins.”
+
+“How did you persuade Elkin to part with them?”
+
+“By paying him a tempting price, of course. I’m a weak-minded ass in
+such matters.”
+
+The chemist busied himself to oblige the detective, wrapping and tying
+the packages neatly. Furneaux insisted on paying sixpence for the
+paper, string, and labor. There was quite a friendly argument, but he
+carried his point.
+
+The dog-cart then brought him to the station, where he tipped and
+dismissed the man; a little later, he caught a London-bound train.
+
+At half past seven precisely, Winter turned in through the
+Knoleworth-side gate of _The Hollies_ (there were two, the approach to
+the house being semi-circular) and pushed the door open, as it was
+standing ajar.
+
+Grant was waiting in the hall, and greeted him pleasantly.
+
+“Here’s a telegram which is meant for you, I fancy,” he said.
+
+Winter read:
+
+
+_“Sorry to spoil your party. Compelled to travel to London. Returning
+early to-morrow. F.”_
+
+
+“That’s pretty Fanny’s way,” smiled the Chief Inspector. “But there’s
+something in the wind, or he would never have hurried off in this
+fashion. He tells me that the only pleasant evening he spent in
+Steynholme was under your roof, Mr. Grant.”
+
+“Come along in, Don Jaime!” drawled Hart’s voice from the “den,” which
+had been cleared of its litter, the lawn being deemed somewhat
+unsuitable for the purposes of a drawing-room on that occasion. It was
+overlooked from too many quarters.
+
+“Ah, we meet now under less uneven conditions, Mr. Hart,” said Winter.
+“Do you know that Enrico Suarez is in London?”
+
+Hart, startled for once in his life, gazed at the detective fixedly.
+
+“Since when?” he cried.
+
+“He crossed from Lisbon last week.”
+
+Hart took a revolver from his hip pocket, and opened it, apparently
+making sure that it was properly loaded.
+
+“What’s the law in England?” he inquired. “Can I shoot first, or must I
+wait till the other fellow has had a pop?”
+
+Winter laughed.
+
+“It’s all right,” he said. “Suarez is in Holloway, awaiting
+extradition. But I owed you one for the rise you took out of me
+to-day.”
+
+A bell sounded, and Peters came in. He glanced around.
+
+“Where’s Furneaux?” he demanded.
+
+“Gone to London. Why this keen interest?” said Winter.
+
+“There’s something up. Elkin dropped in at the Hare and Hounds. He was
+simply bursting with curiosity, and had to talk to somebody. So he
+chose me.”
+
+“He would,” was the dry comment.
+
+“Fact, ’pon me honor. I didn’t lead him on an inch. It seems that
+Furneaux bought some prints which caught his eye in Elkin’s house, and
+Tomlin says that that hexplains hit.”
+
+“Explains what?”
+
+“Furneaux’s visit to Siddle, and certain bulky parcels brought in and
+brought out again.”
+
+“Queer little duck, Furneaux,” said Hart. “Now that my mind is at ease
+about the immediate future of the biggest rascal in Venezuela I can
+take an active part in Steynholme affairs once more. When it’s all
+through I’ll make a novel of it, dashed if I don’t, with the
+postmaster’s daughter in the three-color process as a frontispiece.”
+
+“But who will be the villain?” said Peters.
+
+Hart waved the negro-head pipe at the other three.
+
+“Draw lots. I am indifferent,” he said.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XVII.
+An Official Housebreaker
+
+
+No word bearing on the main topic in these men’s minds was said during
+dinner. Grant was attentive to his guests, but markedly silent, almost
+distrait. Two such talkers as Hart and Peters, however, covered any
+gaps in this respect. Cigars and pipes were in evidence, and, horrible
+though it may sound in the ears of a _gourmet_, the port was
+circulating, when Winter turned and gazed at the small window.
+
+“Is that where the ghost appears!” he inquired.
+
+“Yes,” said Grant. “You know the whole story, of course?”
+
+“Furneaux misses nothing, I assure you.”
+
+“He missed a daylight apparition this afternoon, at any rate. I have no
+secrets from my friends, so I may as well tell you—”
+
+“That Siddle called, and implored you to consider Doris Martin’s future
+by avoiding her at present,” put in the Chief Inspector.
+
+Such shocks were losing some of their effect, on the principle that a
+man hears the burst of the thousandth high-explosive shell with a good
+deal less trepidation than attended the efforts of the first dozen.
+Still, Grant gazed at the speaker in profound astonishment.
+
+“You Scotland Yard men seem to know everything,” he said.
+
+“A mere pretense. Try him on sheep-raising in the Argentine, Jack,”
+murmured Hart.
+
+“Wally, this business is developing a very serious side,” protested
+Grant. Hart stretched a long arm for the port decanter.
+
+“Come, friend!” he addressed it gravely. “Let us commune! You and I
+together shall mingle joyous memories of
+
+
+_“A draught of the Warm South,
+The true, the blushful Hippocrene.”_
+
+
+“We read Siddle’s visit aright, it would appear,” said Winter quietly.
+
+“Yes. That was his mission, put in a nutshell.”
+
+“And what did you say?”
+
+“I told him that, after Wednesday, I would ask Doris Martin to marry
+me, which is the best answer I can give him and all the world.”
+
+“Why ‘after Wednesday’?”
+
+“Because I shall know then the full extent of the annoyance which
+Ingerman can inflict.”
+
+“Did you give Siddle that reason?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+Winter frowned.
+
+“You literary gentlemen are all alike,” he said vexedly. “You become
+such adepts in analyzing human duplicity in your books that you never
+dream of trying to be wise as a serpent in your own affairs. The author
+who will split legal hairs by way of brightening his work will sign a
+contract with a publisher that draws tears from his lawyer when a
+dispute arises. Why be so candid with a rank outsider, like Siddle?”
+
+“I distrust the man. Doris distrusts him, too.”
+
+“So you take him into your confidence.”
+
+“No. I merely give him chapter and verse to prove that his interference
+is useless.”
+
+“Have you engaged a lawyer for Wednesday?”
+
+“No. Why should I? My hands are clean.”
+
+“But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to
+this man in the morning, and mention my name—Winter, of course, not
+Franklin.”
+
+“Codlin’s your friend, not Short,” said Hart. “Sorry. It’s a time-worn
+jape, but it fitted in admirably.”
+
+The detective scribbled a name and address on a card.
+
+“I don’t think you need worry about Ingerman,” he went on, “though it’s
+well to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop irrelevant statements,
+especially if ready for them. But there must be no more of this
+heart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He,
+too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the only
+stumbling-block.”
+
+“Siddle! That stick!” gasped Grant.
+
+“Ridiculous, indeed monstrous,” agreed Winter, rather heatedly, “but
+nevertheless a candidate for the lady’s hand.”
+
+Then he laughed. Peters’s keen eyes were watching him, and Wally Hart
+was giving more heed to the conversation than was revealed by a fixed
+stare at the negro’s head in meerschaum.
+
+“You’ve bothered me,” he went on. “I thought you had more sense. Don’t
+you understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through the
+filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?”
+
+“The man’s visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I just
+blurted out the facts.”
+
+“Well, you’ve rendered the services of a solicitor absolutely
+indispensable now.”
+
+Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followed
+the scent of Winter’s red herring like the youngest hound in a pack;
+but Wally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to the
+right line.
+
+“May I—” they both broke in simultaneously.
+
+“Place to the fourth estate,” bowed Hart solemnly.
+
+“Thanks,” said the journalist. “May I put a question, Winter?”
+
+“A score, if you like.”
+
+“Totting up the average of the murder cases in which Furneaux and you
+have been engaged, in how many days do you count on spotting your man?”
+
+“Sometimes we never get him.”
+
+“Oh, come a bit closer than that.”
+
+“Generally, given a clear run, with an established motive, we know who
+he is within eight days.”
+
+“Wednesday, in effect?”
+
+“Can’t say, this time?”
+
+“Suppose, as a hypothesis, you are convinced of a man’s guilt, but can
+obtain little or no evidence?”
+
+“He goes through life a free and independent citizen of this or any
+other country. Arrests on suspicion are not my long suit.”
+
+“How does one get evidence?” purred Hart. “It isn’t scattered broadcast
+by a clever criminal. And you fellows seem to object to my method,
+which has been the only effectual one so far in this affair.”
+
+“If you had shot that specter the other night there would have been the
+deuce to pay.”
+
+“But you would now be sure of the murderer?”
+
+“Why do you assume that?”
+
+“Like Eugene Aram, he can’t keep away from the scene of his crime.”
+
+Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape.
+
+“Detective work is nearly all guessing,” he said sententiously, “yet
+one must beware of what I may term obvious guessing. If cause and
+effect were so closely allied in certain classes of crime my department
+would cease to exist, and the protection of life and property might be
+left safely to the ordinary police. By the way, P. C. Robinson has been
+rather inactive during two whole days. That makes me suspicious. What’s
+he up to? Can you throw a light on him, Peters?”
+
+The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease
+prying. He kicked Hart under the table.
+
+“Hi!” yelled Wally. “What’s the matter? Strike your matches on your own
+shin, not mine.”
+
+“Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed,” said Winter
+firmly.
+
+“Very well. He needn’t emphasize the warning by a hob-nailed boot. When
+my injured feelings have recovered I’ll discourse to you of strange
+folk and stranger doings on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, and your
+stock as an Argentine plutocrat will rise one hundred per cent, next
+time you’re badgered by a man who knows the country.”
+
+“Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail,” laughed Peters.
+“His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of the
+picture-buying.”
+
+“Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known,” said Winter. “He
+gave every publicity to it.”
+
+“Did he secure a bargain, I wonder?” said Grant.
+
+“Oh, I expect so. He doesn’t waste his hard-earned money, even for
+official purposes.”
+
+But Winter was well aware of, and kept to himself one phase of the art
+deal, at any rate. Furneaux had persuaded Siddle to fasten two bulky
+packages with string!
+
+He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever
+in attire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at
+full length on Winter’s bed.
+
+“Been up all night,” he explained. “Chemical analysis is fascinating
+but slow work—like watching a moth evolve from a grub. Had a fearful
+job, too, to get an analyst to chuck a theater and attend to business.
+The blighter talked of office hours. _Cré nom_! Ten till four, and an
+hour and a half for lunch! Why can’t we run _our_ show on those lines,
+James!”
+
+Winter finished carefully the left side of his broad expanse of face.
+
+“You came down by the mail, I suppose?” he said casually.
+
+“What a genius you are!” sighed Furneaux. “If _I_ were trembling with
+expectation I could no more put a banal question like that than swallow
+the razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the common
+decency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintage
+wines while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich.”
+
+Winter scraped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip.
+
+“Shall I go to the bathroom first, or listen?” he inquired.
+
+“Ah, well, I’m tired, and hiking these frail bones to bed till twelve,
+so I’ll give you a condensed version,” snapped Furneaux. “Elkin’s
+illness, begun by whiskey and over-excitement, developed into steady
+poisoning by Siddle. The chemist used a rare agent, too—pure
+nicotine—easy, in a sense, to detect, but capable of a dozen reasonable
+explanations when revealed by the post-mortem. But Elkin wasn’t to be
+killed outright, I gather. The idea was to upset stomach and brain till
+he was half crazy. As you can read print when it’s before your eyes, I
+needn’t go into the matter of motive; Elkin’s behavior supplies all
+details.”
+
+“How about the knots? Hurry! I hate the feeling of soap drying on my
+skin.”
+
+“One running noose and twice two half hitches on each package.”
+
+“Good! Charles, we’re going to pull off a real twister.”
+
+“_We!_ Well, that tikes it, as the girl said when her hat blew off with
+the fluffy transformation pinned to it.”
+
+Winter rushed to the bathroom, and Furneaux crept languidly to bed.
+
+Before going to Knoleworth, Mr. Franklin consulted with Tomlin as to a
+suitable dinner, to which the other guests staying in the inn, namely,
+Mr. Peters and the Scotland Yard gentleman—the little man with the
+French name—might be invited. This important point settled, Mr.
+Franklin caught an early train, and was absent all day, being, in fact,
+closeted with Superintendent Fowler and a Treasury solicitor.
+
+Furneaux was sound asleep long after twelve o’clock, and swore at
+Tomlin in French when the landlord ventured to arouse him. Tomlin went
+downstairs scratching his head.
+
+“Least said soonest mended,” he communed, “but we may all be murdered
+in our beds if them’s the sort of ’tecs we ’ave to look arter us.”
+
+However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some
+pressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and
+the kitchen was redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in the
+dining-room, of course, and Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin’s
+party. The scraps of talk he overheard were nothing more exciting than
+the prospects of a certain horse for the Stewards’ Cup. Peters had the
+tip straight from the stables. A racing certainty, with a stone in
+hand.
+
+After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and
+tapped him professionally on the shoulder.
+
+“A word with you outside,” he said.
+
+Ingerman was irritated—perhaps slightly alarmed.
+
+“Can’t we talk here?” he said, in that singularly melodious voice of
+his.
+
+“Better not, but I shan’t detain you more than five minutes.”
+
+“Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?”
+
+“Not from me. Tell him yourself afterwards, if you like.”
+
+In the quiet street the detective suddenly linked arms with his
+companion. Probably he smiled sardonically when he felt a telltale
+quiver run through Ingerman’s lanky frame.
+
+“You’ve brought down Norris, I see?” he began.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Meaning to make things hot for Grant tomorrow?”
+
+“Meaning to give justice the materials—”
+
+“Cut the cackle, Isidor. I know you, and it’s high time you knew me.
+Grant has retained Belcher. Ah! that gets you, does it? You haven’t
+forgotten Belcher. Now, be reasonable! Or, rather, don’t run your head
+into a noose. Grant had no more to do with the murder of your wife than
+you had. Call off Norris, and Grant withdraws Belcher. Twig? It’s dead
+easy, because the Treasury solicitor will simply ask for another week’s
+adjournment, as the police are not ready to go on. In the meantime, you
+pay off Norris, and save your face. Is it a deal?”
+
+“Am I to understand—”
+
+“Don’t wriggle! The key of the situation is held by Belcher. Name of a
+pipe! What prompting does Belcher need from me or anybody else after
+the Bokfontein Lands case?”
+
+“But—”
+
+“Isidor, this is the last word. I was at the funeral on Saturday, and
+met your wife’s mother and sister. They do love you, don’t they?”
+
+Ingerman died game.
+
+“If I have your assurance that Mr. Grant is really innocent of
+Adelaide’s death, that is sufficient,” he said slowly.
+
+“Well, if it pleases you to put it that way, I’m agreeable. Which is
+your road? Back to the hotel? I’m for a short stroll. Mind you, no
+wobbling! Go straight, and I’ll attend to Belcher. But, good Lord! How
+his eyes will sparkle when they light on you to-morrow!”
+
+Neither the redoubtable Belcher, nor the Bokfontein Lands, nor poor
+Adelaide Melhuish’s mother and sister may figure further in this
+chronicle. The inquest opened at the appointed hour next day, and was
+closed down again for a week with a celerity that was most
+disappointing both to the jury and the general public. Of three legal
+luminaries present only one, the Treasury man, uttered a few bald
+words. Belcher and Norris did not even announce the names of their
+clients. Norris noticed that Belcher surveyed Ingerman with a grim
+smile, but thought nothing of it until he received a check later in the
+week. Then he made some inquiries, and smiled himself.
+
+The foreman of the jury looked a trifle pinched, though his cheeks bore
+two spots of hectic color. Mr. Franklin, drawn to the court by
+curiosity, happened to glance at him once, and found him gazing at
+Furneaux in a peculiarly thoughtful manner.
+
+Elkin, thriving on a diet of tea and eggs, was also interested in the
+representative of Scotland Yard. He seemed to ignore Grant entirely.
+Doris Martin was not in court. Superintendent Fowler had called about
+half past nine to tell her she would not be asked to attend that day.
+
+Near Mr. Franklin sat a few village notabilities, who, since they had
+not the remotest connection with anyone concerned in the tragedy, have
+been left hitherto in their Olympian solitude. He listened to their
+comments.
+
+“As usual, the police are utterly at sea,” said one.
+
+“Yes, ‘following up important clews,’ the newspapers say,” scoffed
+another.
+
+“It’s a disgraceful thing if a crime like this goes undetected and
+unpunished.”
+
+“Which is the Scotland Yard man!”
+
+“The small chap, in the blue suit.”
+
+“What? _That_ little rat!”
+
+“Oh, he’s sharp. I met a man in the train and he told me—”
+
+Mr. Franklin grinned amiably; Hobbs, the butcher, intercepting his eye,
+grinned back. It is not difficult to imagine what portion of the
+foregoing small talk reached Furneaux subsequently.
+
+Oddly enough, both detectives had missed a brief but illuminating
+incident which took place in the Hare and Hounds the previous night,
+while Winter was finishing a cigar with Peters, and Furneaux was
+bludgeoning Ingerman into compliance with his wishes.
+
+Elkin’s remarkable improvement in health was commented on by Hobbs, and
+Siddle took the credit.
+
+“That last mixture has proved beneficial, then?” he said, eying the
+horse-dealer closely.
+
+“Top-hole,” smirked Elkin. “But it’s only fair to say that I’ve chucked
+whiskey, too.”
+
+“Did you finish the bottle?”
+
+“Which bottle?”
+
+“Mine, of course.”
+
+“Nearly.”
+
+“Don’t take any more. It was decidedly strong. I’ll send a boy early
+to-morrow morning with a first-rate tonic, and you might give him any
+old medicine bottles you possess. I’m running short.”
+
+Elkin hesitated a second or two.
+
+“I’ll tell my housekeeper to look ’em up,” he said. After the inquest
+he communicated this episode to Furneaux as a great joke.
+
+“Queer, isn’t it?” he guffawed. “A couple of dozen bottles went back,
+as I’m always getting stuff for the gees, but those two weren’t among
+’em. You took care of that, eh? When will you have the analysis?”
+
+“It’ll be fully a week yet,” said the detective. “Government offices
+are not run like express trains, and this is a free job, you know. But,
+be advised by me. Stick to plain food, and throw physic to the dogs.”
+
+Another singular fact, unobserved by the public at large, was that a
+policeman, either Robinson or a stranger, patrolled the high-street all
+day and all night, while no one outside official circles was aware that
+other members of the force watched _The Hollies_, or were secreted
+among the trees on the cliffside, from dusk to dawn.
+
+Next morning, however, there was real cause for talk. Siddle’s shop was
+closed. Over the letter-box, neatly printed, was gummed a notice:
+
+
+_“Called away on business. Will open for one hour after arrival of 7 p.
+m. train. T. S.”_
+
+
+Everyone who passed stopped to read. Even Mr. Franklin joined Furneaux
+and Peters in a stroll across the road to have a look.
+
+“I want you a minute,” said the big man suddenly to Furneaux. There was
+that in his tone which forbade questioning, so Peters sheered off, well
+content with the share permitted him in the inquiry thus far.
+
+“That fellow, Hart, is no fool,” went on Winter rapidly. “He said last
+night ‘How does one get evidence?’ It was not easy to answer. Siddle
+has gone to his mother’s funeral. What do you think!”
+
+“You’d turn me into a housebreaker, would you?” whined Furneaux
+bitterly. “I must do the job, of course, just because I’m a little one.
+Well, well! After a long and honorable career I have to become a sneak
+thief. It may cost me my pension.”
+
+“There’s no real difficulty. An orchard—”
+
+“Bet you a new hat I went over the ground before you did.”
+
+“Get over it quickly now, and get something out of it, and I’ll _give_
+you a new hat. Got any tools?”
+
+“I fetched ’em from town Tuesday morning,” chortled Furneaux. “So now
+who’s the brainy one?”
+
+He skipped into the hotel, while Winter went to the station to make
+sure of Siddle’s departure and destination. Yes, the chemist had taken
+a return ticket to Epsom, where a strip of dank meadow-land on the road
+to Esher marks the last resting-place of many of London’s epileptics.
+On returning to the high-street, Winter lighted a cigar, a somewhat
+common occurrence in his everyday life, where-upon Furneaux walked
+swiftly up the hill. A farmer, living near the center of the village,
+owned a rather showy cob. Winter found the man, and persuaded him to
+trot the animal to and fro in front of the hotel. There was a good deal
+of noise and hoof-clattering, and people came to their doors to see
+what was going on. Obviously, if they were watching the antics of a
+skittish two-year-old in the high-street, their eyes were blind to
+proceedings in the back premises. Even the postmaster and his daughter
+were interested onlookers, and a policeman, who might have put a
+summary end to the display, vanished as though by magic.
+
+Luckily, Winter was a good judge of a horse. When the cob was stabled,
+and the farmer came to the inn to have a drink, he was forced to admit
+a tendency to cow hocks, which, it would seem, is held a fatal blemish
+in the Argentine.
+
+Meanwhile, Furneaux had dodged into a lane and thence to a bridle-path
+which emerged near Bob Smith’s forge. When he had traversed, roughly
+speaking, one-half of a rectangle in which the Hare and Hounds occupied
+the center of one of the longer sides, he climbed a gate and followed a
+hedge. Though not losing a second, he took every precaution to remain
+unseen, and, to the best of his belief, gained an inclosed yard at the
+back of Siddle’s premises without having attracted attention. He
+slipped the catch of a kitchen window only to discover that the sash
+was fastened by screws also. The lock of the kitchen door yielded to
+persuasion, but there were bolts above and below. A wire screen in a
+larder window was impregnable. Short of cutting out a pane of glass, he
+could not effect an entry on the ground floor.
+
+Nimble as a squirrel, and risking everything, he climbed to the roof of
+an outhouse, and tried a bedroom window. Here he succeeded. When the
+catch was forced, there were no further obstacles. In he went, pausing
+only to look around and see if any curious or alarmed eye was watching
+him. He wondered why every back yard on that side of the high-street
+was empty, not even a maid-servant or woman washing clothes being in
+sight, but understood and grinned when the commotion Winter was
+creating came in view from a front room.
+
+Then he undertook a methodical search, working with a rapid yet
+painstaking thoroughness which missed nothing. From a wardrobe he
+selected an overcoat and pair of trousers which reeked with turpentine.
+They were old and soiled garments, very different from the well-cut
+black coat and waistcoat, with striped cloth trousers, worn daily by
+the chemist. He drew a blank in the remainder of the upstairs rooms,
+which included a sitting-room, though he devoted fully quarter of an
+hour to reading the titles of Siddle’s books.
+
+A safe in the little dispensing closet at the back of the shop promised
+sheer defiance until Furneaux saw a bunch of keys resting beside a
+methylated spirit lamp.
+
+“’Twas ever thus!” he cackled, lighting the lamp. “Heaven help us poor
+detectives if it wasn’t!”
+
+In a word, since murder will out, Siddle had forgotten his keys!
+Probably, he had gone to the safe for money, and, while writing the
+notice as to his absence, had laid down the keys and omitted to pick
+them up again.
+
+Furneaux disregarded ledgers and account books. He examined a bank
+pass-book and a check-book. In a drawer which contained these and a
+quantity of gold he found a small, leather-bound book with a lock,
+which no key on the bunch was tiny enough to fit. A bit of twisted wire
+soon overcame this difficulty, and Furneaux began to read.
+
+There were quaint diagrams, and surveyor’s sketches, both in plan and
+section, with curious notes, and occasional records of what appeared to
+be passages from letters or conversations. The detective read, and
+read, referring back and forth, absorbed in his task, no doubt, but
+evidently puzzled.
+
+At last, he stuffed the book into a pocket, completed his scrutiny of
+the safe, examined the bottles on the shelf labeled “poisons,” and took
+a sample of the colorless contents of one bottle marked “C10H14N2.”
+
+Then he went to the kitchen, replaced all catches and the lock of the
+door, and let himself out by the way he had come.
+
+Winter saw him from afar, and hastened upstairs to the private
+sitting-room. Furneaux appeared there soon.
+
+“Well?” said the Chief Inspector eagerly.
+
+“Got him, I think,” said Furneaux.
+
+Not much might be gathered from that monosyllabic question and its
+answer, but its significance in Siddle’s ears, could he have heard,
+would have been that of the passing bell tolling for the dead.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XVIII.
+The Truth at Last
+
+
+Not often did Furneaux qualify an opinion by that dubious phrase, “I
+think,” which, in its colloquial sense, implies that the thought
+contains a reservation as to possible error.
+
+Winter looked anxious. Both he and his colleague knew well when to drop
+the good-natured banter they delighted in. They were face to face now
+with issues of life and death, dark and sinister conditions which had
+already destroyed one life, threatened another, and might envisage
+further horrors. Small wonder, then, if the Chief Inspector’s usually
+cheerful face was clouded, or that his hopes should be somewhat dashed
+when Furneaux seemed to lack the abounding confidence which was his
+most marked characteristic.
+
+“You’ve got something, I see,” he said, trying to speak encouragingly,
+and glancing at the bundle of clothing which Furneaux had wrapped in a
+newspaper before dropping from the bedroom window of Siddle’s house.
+
+“Yes, a lot. What to make of it is the puzzle. We either go ahead on
+the flimsiest of evidence or I carry out another housebreaking job this
+afternoon and restore things in status quo. First, the bundle—an old
+covert-coating overcoat and a pair of frayed trousers which probably
+draped Owd Ben’s ghost. They’ve been soaked in turpentine, which,
+chemist or no chemist, is still the best agent for removing stains.
+We’ll put ’em under the glass after we’ve examined the book. Siddle
+keeps a sort of diary, a series of jumbled memoranda. If we can extract
+nutriment out of that we may have something tangible to go upon. Let’s
+begin at the end.”
+
+Opening the leather-bound note-book, Furneaux stood with his back to
+the window. Winter, owing to his superior height, could look over the
+lesser man’s shoulder. Many an occult document affecting the famous
+crimes and social or dynastic intrigues of the previous decade had
+these two examined in that way, the main advantage of scrutiny in
+common being that they could compare readings or suggested readings
+without loss of time, and with the original manuscript before both
+pairs of eyes.
+
+In the first instance, there were no dates—only scraps of sentences, or
+comments. The concluding entry in the book was:
+
+_“A tactical error? Perhaps. Immovable.”_
+
+
+Then, taking the order backward:
+
+_“Scout the very notion of such an infamy. You and every scandal-monger
+in S. may do your worst.”
+“Free to confess that events have opened my eyes to the truth, so, not
+for the first time, out of evil comes good.”
+“A prig.”
+“Visit for such a purpose a piece of unheard-of impudence.”_
+
+
+These were all on one page.
+
+“Quite clearly a _précis_ of Grant’s remarks when Siddle called on
+Monday,” said Winter.
+
+At any other time, Furneaux would have waxed sarcastic. Now he merely
+nodded.
+
+“Stops in a queer way,” he muttered. “Not a word about the inquest or
+the missing bottles.”
+
+The preceding page held even more disjointed entries, which,
+nevertheless, provided a fair synopsis of Doris’s spirited words on the
+Sunday afternoon.
+
+
+_“Malice and ignorance.”
+
+“Patient because of years.”
+
+“Loyal comrade. Shall remain.”
+
+“Code.”
+
+“No difference in friendship.”
+
+“E. hopeless. Contempt.”
+
+“Skipping—good.”
+
+On the next page:
+
+“Isidor G. Ingerman. Useful. Inquire.”
+
+“E.’s boasts? Nonsensical, surely!”
+
+“Why has D. gone?”_
+
+
+Both men paused at that line.
+
+“Detective?” suggested Winter.
+
+“That’s how I take it,” agreed Furneaux.
+
+Then came a sign: “+10%.”
+
+“Elkin’s mixture was not ‘as before.’ It was fortified,” grinned
+Furneaux. “That’s the exact increase of nicotine. By the way, I have a
+sample. We can take care of him on that charge, without a shadow of
+doubt.”
+
+Winter blew softly on the back of his friend’s head.
+
+“You’re thorough, Charles, thorough!” he murmured. “It’s a treat to
+work with you when you get really busy.”
+
+Furneaux ran his thumb across the end of several leaves.
+
+“I can tell you now,” he said, “that there’s nothing of real value in
+the earlier notes. So far as I can judge, they refer either to a sort
+of settlement with his wife or chance phrases used by Doris Martin
+which might imply that she was heart whole and fancy free. There’s not
+a bally word dealing with the murder, or that can be twisted into the
+vaguest allusion to it. But here’s a plan and section which have a sort
+of significance. I’ve seen the place, so recognized it, or thought I
+did. We must check it, of course. Here you are! You know the footbridge
+across the river from Bush Walk?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“The eastern end is supported on a hollow pier of masonry, in which one
+might tog up unseen. These drawings would be useful as an _Aide
+Memoire_ on a dark night. A false step, with the river in flood, might
+be awkward.”
+
+“What’s that on the opposite page?”
+
+“I give it up—at present.”
+
+This somewhat rare display of modesty on Furneaux’s part was readily
+understandable. A series of straight lines and angles conveyed very
+little hint of their purport; but Winter smiled behind his friend’s
+back.
+
+“I’ve been prowling about this wretched inn longer than you,” he said.
+“Look outside, to the left.”
+
+“Don’t need to, now,” cackled Furneaux. “It’s the profile of a wall,
+gate, and outhouse along which one could reach the window of the
+club-room. Would you mind stopping grinning like a Cheshire cat?”
+
+“Anything else?”
+
+“Yes. This one:
+
+‘_S. M.? 1820_.’
+
+
+That beats you, eh?”
+
+“Dished completely.”
+
+“Doris Martin, as usual, supplies the answer. An old volume of the
+_Sussex Miscellany_, probably that for 1820, contains the full story of
+Owd Ben. I might have mentioned it to you, but focussed on current
+events. Siddle has it among his books, which, by the way, are made up
+largely of scientific and popular criminal records.”
+
+“Is that the lot?”
+
+“I’m afraid so. Have a look.”
+
+“Just a minute. I want to think.”
+
+Winter turned and gazed through the open window. Seldom had a more
+gracious June decked England with garlands. The hour was then high
+noon, and a pastoral landscape was drowned in sunshine. The Chief
+Inspector cut the end off a cigar dreamily but with care.
+
+“Broadmoor—perhaps,” he muttered. “But we can’t hang him yet, Charles.
+A couple of knots and a theory won’t do for the Assizes. We haven’t a
+solitary witness. Hardly a night but he goes home at 9.30. If only he
+had killed Grant! But—Adelaide Melhuish!”
+
+In sheer despair he struck a match.
+
+“Well, let’s overhaul these duds,” said Furneaux savagely. “I’ll chance
+the dinner hour for the return visit. Steynholme folk eat at half past
+twelve to the tick, and you can hardly get up another horse show.”
+
+There was a knock at the door.
+
+“Let me in, quick!” came Peters’s voice, and the handle was tried
+forcibly.
+
+“Go away! I’m busy!” cried Winter.
+
+“This is urgent, devilish urgent,” said Peters.
+
+Furneaux snatched up the note-book, and Winter tore off his coat,
+throwing it over the package which reposed in an armchair. Then the
+Chief Inspector unlocked the door, blocking the way aggressively.
+
+“Now, I must say—” he began.
+
+But Peters clutched his shoulder with a nervous hand.
+
+“Siddle has just hurried up the street and entered his shop,” he
+hissed.
+
+The journalist had not only kept his eyes open, but excelled in the art
+of putting two and two together, an arithmetical calculation which, as
+applied to the affairs of life, is not so readily arrived at as many
+people imagine.
+
+“Buncoed! He’s missed his keys!” shrilled Furneaux.
+
+“Confound the man! He might at least have attended his mother’s
+funeral!” stormed Winter, retrieving his coat.
+
+Thus it happened that Furneaux was the first down the stairs, though
+the three emerged from the door of the inn on each other’s heels. A
+stout man, in all likelihood a farmer with horses for sale, was
+mounting the two steps which led to the entrance. His head was down,
+and his weight forward, so he successfully resisted Furneaux’s impact,
+but Peters and Winter were irresistible, and he tumbled over with a
+muffled yell.
+
+At that instant Siddle quitted his shop, and headed straight for the
+post office. In his right hand he carried an automatic pistol. The
+street was wide. Furneaux, absolutely fearless in the performance of
+his duty, ran in a curve so as to bar the chemist’s path, and it was
+then that Siddle saw him. The man’s face was terrible to behold. His
+eyes were rolling, his teeth gnashing; he had bitten his tongue and
+cheeks, and his stertorous breathing ejected from his mouth foam tinged
+with blood.
+
+“Ha!” he screamed in a falsetto of fury, “not yet, little man, not
+yet!”
+
+With that he raised the pistol, and fired point-blank at the detective.
+Furneaux ducked, and seized a small stone, being otherwise quite
+unarmed. He threw it with unerring aim, and, as was determined
+subsequently, struck the hand holding the weapon. Possibly, almost by a
+miracle, the blow caused a faulty pressure, because the action jammed,
+though the pistol itself was most accurate and deadly in its
+properties.
+
+By this time Winter, sweeping Peters aside, was within ten feet of the
+maniac, who turned and ran into the shop. The door, a solid one, fitted
+with a spring lock, slammed in the Chief Inspector’s face, and resisted
+a mighty effort to burst it open. A few yards away stood an empty,
+two-wheeled cart, uptilted, and Winter demanded the help of a few men
+who had gathered on seeing or hearing the hubbub.
+
+“I call on you in the King’s name!” he shouted. “We must force that
+door! Then stand clear, all of you!”
+
+He raced to the cart, and, when his object was perceived, willing hands
+assisted in converting the heavy vehicle into a battering-ram. The
+gradient of the hill favored the attack, which was made at an acute
+angle, and the first assault smashed the lock. There were a couple of
+seconds’ delay while the cart was backed out, and the detectives rushed
+in, Furneaux leading, because Winter gave his great physical strength
+to the shafts. But the Chief Inspector grabbed his tiny friend by the
+collar as the latter darted around the counter and into the dispensary
+in the rear.
+
+“Two of us can’t go abreast, and you’ll only get hurt,” he said,
+speaking with a calmness that was majestic in the circumstances.
+
+“The nicotine is gone!” yelped Furneaux; both saw that the safe stood
+open.
+
+Behind the dispensary was a small passage, whence the stairs mounted,
+and a door led to the kitchen. That door was closed now, though it was
+open when Furneaux ransacked the house. Therefore, they made that way
+at once. No ordinary lock could resist Winter’s shoulder, and he soon
+mastered this barrier. But the kitchen was empty—the outer door locked
+but unbolted. Since it is practically impossible for the strongest man
+to pull a door open, the two made for the window, and tore at screws
+and catch with eager fingers. Furneaux, light and nimble-footed,
+scrambled through first, so it was he who found Siddle lying in the
+orchard beyond the wall of the yard. The unhappy wretch had swallowed
+nearly the whole remaining contents of the bottle of nicotine, or
+enough to poison a score of robust men. He presented a lamentable and
+distressing spectacle. Some of the more venturesome passers-by, who had
+crowded after the detectives and Peters, could not bear to look on, and
+slunk away in horror.
+
+Furneaux soon brought an emetic, which failed to act. Siddle breathed
+his last while the glass was at his lips.
+
+In that moment of crisis only three men did not lose their heads.
+Winter cleared away the gapers, while Furneaux remained with the body.
+P. C. Robinson came up the hill at a run, and was sent for a stretcher,
+bringing from Hobbs’s shop the very one on which the ill-fated Adelaide
+Melhuish was carried from the river bank.
+
+But where was Peters? In the post office, writing the first of a series
+of thrilling dispatches to a London evening newspaper. What journalist
+ever had a more sensational murder-case to supply “copy”? And when was
+“special correspondent” ever better primed for the task? He wrote on,
+and on, till the telegraphist cried halt. Then he hied him to London by
+train, and began the more ambitious “story” for next morning. What he
+did not know he guessed correctly. A fagged but triumphant man was
+Jimmie Peters when he “blew in” to the Savage Club at 1 A.M. to seek
+sustenance and a whiskey and soda before going home.
+
+Furneaux was white and shaken when Winter escorted the
+stretcher-bearers to the orchard.
+
+“Poor devil!” he said, as the men lifted the body. “Foredoomed from
+birth! We can eradicate these diseases from cattle. Why not from men!”
+
+The villagers could not understand him. Already, in some mysterious
+way, the word had gone around that Siddle had murdered the actress, and
+taken his own life to avoid arrest, after shooting at the detective who
+was hot on his trail.
+
+Not until Peters’s articles came back to Steynholme did the public at
+large realize that the chemist undoubtedly meant to kill Doris Martin.
+He was going straight to the post office when the way was barred by
+Furneaux. The bullet which missed the latter actually pierced the zinc
+plate of the letter-box, and scored a furrow, inches long, in an oak
+counter which it struck laterally.
+
+The village did not recover its poise for hours. Grant and Hart, to
+whom Bates brought the news about one o’clock, rose from an untasted
+luncheon and hurried to the high-street. Knots of people stared at
+Grant, some sheepishly, others with frank relief, because all who knew
+him liked him. One man, a retired ironmonger and an impulsive fellow,
+came forward and wrung his hand heartily. A few prominent residents
+followed suit. Grant was greatly embarrassed, but managed to endure
+these awkward if well-meant congratulations. There could be no
+mistaking their intent. He had been tried for murder at the bar of
+public opinion, and was now formally acquitted.
+
+Even Fred Elkin, ignorant as yet of his own peril, yielded to the
+influences of the moment and bustled through the crowd.
+
+“Mr. Grant,” he cried outspokenly, “I ask your pardon. I seem to have
+made a d—d fool of myself!”
+
+“Easier done than said,” chimed in Hart. “But, among all this
+bell-ringing, can anyone tell what has actually happened? Where’s
+Peters?”
+
+“In the post office.”
+
+The two went in, and found the journalist scribbling against time. Hart
+coolly grabbed a few slips of manuscript, and commenced reading. Grant
+looked about for Doris. She was not visible, but Mr. Martin, pallid and
+nervous, nodded toward the sitting-room. The younger man, taking the
+gesture as a tacit invitation, entered the room.
+
+Doris was sitting there, crying bitterly. Poor girl! She had seen that
+portion of the drama which was enacted in the street, and the shock of
+it was still poignant. She looked up and met her lover’s eyes. Neither
+uttered a word, but Grant did a very wise thing. He caught her by the
+shoulders, raised her to her feet, and, after kissing her squarely on
+the lips, gave her a comforting hug.
+
+“It will be all right now, Doris,” he whispered tenderly. “Such
+thunderstorms clear the air.”
+
+An eminent novelist might have found many more ornate ways of avowing
+his sentiments, but never a more satisfactory one. At any rate, it
+served, so what more need be said?
+
+Certain rills of evidence accumulated into a fair-sized stream before
+night fell. P. C.  Robinson, for instance, scored a point by
+ascertaining that Peggy Smith had seen Furneaux dropping from the
+bedroom window of the chemist’s shop. She was some hundreds of yards
+away, and could not be positive that some man, perhaps a glazier, had
+not been there legitimately effecting repairs. Still, when she met
+Siddle hurrying from the station, she told him of the incident.
+
+“He never even thanked me,” she said, “but broke into a run. The look
+in his eyes was awful.”
+
+The girl had, in fact, confirmed his worst fears, and her neighborly
+solicitude had merely hastened the end.
+
+Again, the railway officials showed that Siddle had returned from
+Victoria instead of taking train to the asylum. Furneaux had guessed
+aright. The discovery that his keys had been left behind drove the man
+into a panic of fright.
+
+It took nearly three weeks before the unhappy business was finally
+disposed of. A Treasury solicitor was given the chance of his career by
+the medico-legal disquisition which cleared up an extraordinary record.
+The annals of the disease which predisposed Theodore Siddle to crime
+went back many years. He was a fairly wealthy man by inheritance, and
+adopted the profession of chemistry as a hobby. One fact stood out
+boldly. He was aware of his hereditary taint, and had settled down in
+Steynholme believing that a quiet life, free from care or the
+distractions of a town, would enable him to overcome it. Probably, the
+lawyer held, the man owned two distinct individualities, and the baser
+instincts gradually overpowered the humane ones.
+
+Of course, the whole history of those trying days had to come out in
+open court, and the postmaster’s daughter was given a descriptive and
+pictorial boom which many an actress envied. Peters was restored to
+grace when he showed plainly that his articles had kept the fickle
+barometer of public opinion at “set fair,” in so far as Grant and Doris
+were concerned.
+
+“But,” as Hart drawled during a dinner of reconciliation, “you needn’t
+have been so infernally personal about my hat.”
+
+Grant and Doris were married before the year was out. Mr. Martin
+retired on a pension, and the young couple decided that they could
+never dissociate _The Hollies_ from the tragic memories bound up with
+its ghost-window and lawn. So the place was sold, and Steynholme knows
+“the postmaster’s daughter” no more. Winter and Furneaux week-ended
+with them recently at a pretty little nook in Dorset. Hart, just home
+from the Balkans, traveled from town with the detectives, and Doris, a
+radiant young matron, was as flippant as the best of them.
+
+One evening, when the men were sitting late in the smoking-room, the
+talk turned on the now half-forgotten drama in which the hapless
+Adelaide Melhuish played her last rôle.
+
+“I met Peters in the Savage Club the other night,” said Hart, filling
+the negro-head pipe with care while he talked, “and he was chortling
+about his ‘psychological study,’ as he called it, of that unfortunate
+chemist. He still clings to the theory that your wife was the intended
+victim, Grant. Do you agree with him?”
+
+“Rubbish!” cried Furneaux, before his host could answer. “At best,
+Peters is only a clever ass. Siddle never had the remotest notion of
+killing Miss Doris Martin, as Mrs. Grant was then. We shall never know
+for certain just what happened, but there are elements in the affair
+which give ground for reasonable guesswork. The first thing that
+impressed Winter and me—at least, I suppose I really evolved the idea,
+though my bulky friend elaborated it” (whereat Winter smiled
+forgivingly, and beheaded a fresh Havana) “was the complete
+noiselessness of the crime. Here we had Mr. Grant startled by the face
+at the window, and actually searching outside the house for the ghostly
+visitant, while Miss Doris was gazing at _The Hollies_ from the other
+side of the river, and not a sound was heard, though it was a summer’s
+night, without a breath of wind, and at an hour when the splash of a
+fish leaping in the stream would have created a commotion. Now, Miss
+Melhuish was an active and well-built young woman, an actress, too, and
+therefore likely to meet an emergency without instant collapse. Yet she
+allows herself to be struck dead or insensible without cry or struggle!
+How do you account for it?”
+
+“Go on, Charles; don’t be theatrical,” jeered Winter. “You’ve got the
+story pat. Even that simile of the jumping fish is mine.”
+
+“True,” agreed Furneaux. “I only brought it in as a sop. But, to
+continue, as the tub-thumper says. Isn’t it permissible to assume that
+Siddle accompanied the lady, either by prior arrangement or by
+contriving a meeting which looked like mere chance? We know that she
+went to his shop. We know, too, that he was clever and unscrupulous,
+and any allusion to Grant would stir his wits to the uttermost. He
+would see instantly how interested Miss Melhuish was in the owner of
+_The Hollies_, while she, a smart Londoner, would recognize in Siddle
+an informant worth all the rest of the babblers in Steynholme. At any
+rate, no matter how the thing was brought about, it is self-evident
+that Siddle brought his intended victim into the grounds, and told her
+of the small uncovered window through which she could peer at Grant
+after Miss Doris had gone. He showed her which path to use, and
+undoubtedly waited for her, and stayed her flight when Grant rose from
+his chair. She was close to him, and wholly unafraid, finding in him an
+ally. They were purposely hidden, in the gloom of dense foliage, and
+remained there until Grant had closed the window again. Then, and not
+till then, did the murderer strike, probably stifling her with his free
+hand. He had the implement in his pocket. The rope was secreted among
+the bushes. He could carry through the whole wretched crime in little
+more than a minute. And his psychology went far deeper than Peters gave
+him credit for. He had weighed up the situation to a nicety. No matter
+who found the body, Mr. Grant was saddled with a responsibility which
+might well prove disastrous, and was almost sure to affect his
+relations with the Martin household. For instance, nothing short of a
+miracle could have stopped Robinson from arresting him on a charge of
+murder.”
+
+“You, then, are a miracle?” put in Hart, pointing the pipe at the
+little man.
+
+“To the person of ordinary intelligence—yes.”
+
+“After that,” said Winter, “there is nothing more to be said. Let’s see
+who secures the pocket marvel as a partner at auction.”
+
+
+As a fitting end to the strange story of wayward love and maniacal
+frenzy which found an unusual habitat in a secluded hamlet like
+Steynholme, a small vignette of its normal life may be etched in. The
+trope is germane to the scene.
+
+On a wet afternoon in October Hobbs and Elkin had adjourned to the Hare
+and Hounds. Tomlin was reading a newspaper spread on the bar counter.
+He was alone. The day was Friday, and the last “commercial” of the week
+had departed by the mid-day train.
+
+“Wot’s yer tonic?” demanded the butcher.
+
+“A glass of beer,” threw Elkin over his shoulder. He had walked to the
+window, and was gazing moodily at the sign of the “plumber and
+decorator” who had taken Siddle’s shop. The village could not really
+support an out-and-out chemist, so a local grocer had elected to stock
+patent medicines as a side line.
+
+Tomlin made play with a beer-pump.
+
+“Where’s yer own?” inquired Hobbs hospitably.
+
+Elkin came and drank. After an interlude, Tomlin ran a finger down a
+column of the newspaper.
+
+“By the way, Fred, didn’t you tell me about that funny little chap,
+Furno, the ’tec, buyin’ some pictures of yours?” he said.
+
+“I did. Had him there, anyhow,” chuckled Elkin.
+
+“How much did you stick ’im for?”
+
+“Three guineas.”
+
+“They can’t ha’ bin this lot, then, though I’ve a notion it wur the
+same name, ‘Aylesbury Steeplechase.’”
+
+“What are you talking about?”
+
+“This.”
+
+Tomlin turned the paper, and Elkin read:
+
+At their monthly art sale on Wednesday Messrs. Brown, Jenkins and Brown
+disposed of an almost unique set of colored prints, by F. Smyth, dated
+1841. The series of six represented various phases of the long defunct
+Aylesbury Steeplechase, “The Start,” “The Brook,” “The In-and-Out,” and
+so on to “The Finish.” It is understood that this notable series,
+produced during the best period of the art, and at the very zenith of
+Smyth’s fame, were acquired recently by a Sussex amateur at a low
+price. Bidding began at fifty guineas, and rose quickly to one hundred
+and twenty, at which figure Messrs. Carnioli and Bruschi became the
+owners.
+
+Elkin read the paragraph twice, until the words burnt into his brain.
+
+“No,” he said thickly. “They’re not mine. No such luck!”
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Postmaster's Daughter, by Louis Tracy
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10110 ***