“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.