“But he said to-night in the Hare and Hounds that he and Miss Martin were practically engaged.”
“Stuff an’ nonsense! Sorry, sir, but I admire Doris Martin. I like to see a girl like her liftin’ herself out of the common gang. She’s the smartest young lady in the village, an’ not an atom of a snob. No, no. She isn’t for Fred Elkin. Before this murder cropped up everybody would have it that Mr. Grant would marry her.”
“How does the murder intervene?”
Robinson shifted uneasily in his chair. He knew only too well that he himself had driven a wedge between the two.
“Steynholme’s a funny spot, sir,” he contrived to explain. “Since it came out that Doris an’ Mr. Grant were in the garden at The Hollies at half past ten on Monday night, without Mr. Martin knowin’ where his daughter was, there’s been talk. Both the postmaster an’ the girl herself are up to it. You can see it in their faces. They don’t like it, an’ who can blame ’em!”
“Who, indeed? But this Elkin—surely he had some ground for a definite boast, made openly, among people acquainted with all the parties?”
“There’s more than Elkin would marry Doris if she lifted a finger, sir.”
“Can you name them?”
“Well, Tomlin wants a wife.”
Winter laughed joyously.