Freyberger sipped his drink. He looked around him admiring the place, for the hall of the White Hart is one of the prettiest and pleasantest little hotel halls in the world.
“You have had a murder down here they tell me,” he said, lighting a cigar.
“Yes,” said the girl behind the bar, “Jim Bronson. I saw him brought by, covered with a sheet. Hacked about horrid they said he was.” She looked up like an ogre, and then relapsed into Tracked by a Stain just at the part where the parson in the dogcart is approaching the murderer, who is hidden behind the hedge.
“It’s not often you have those sort of occurrences here?” said Freyberger.
“No,” replied the girl, with her eyes glued to the book.
“Very quiet neighbourhood, as a rule, I should think.”
“Yes.”
“Artists and people come here, I suppose, a good deal.”
“A good deal.”
Just at this moment a shadow darkened the doorway.