“The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Three days gone, and nothing done!”
“What murder are you discussing, may I ask?” put in Franklin.
Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly mobile face.
“Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven’t heard of the Steynholme murder?” he gasped.
“I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I landed in England only a week ago from France, my ignorance, though abyssmal, is pardonable. Moreover, I can say truly that I am far more interested in pedigree horses than in vulgar criminals.”
Peters explained fluently. This was no ordinary crime. A beautiful and popular actress had been done to death in a brutal way, and the country was already deeply stirred by the story.
Elkin waited impatiently till the journalist drew breath. Then he broke in.
“Pedigree horses you mentioned, sir,” he said, his rancor against Grant being momentarily conquered by the pertinent allusion to his own business. “What sort? Racing, coaching, roadsters, or hacks?”
“All sorts. The Argentine, where I have connections, offers an ever-open door to good horseflesh.”
“Are you having a look round?”