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?”