“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.”