“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?”