But where was Peters? In the post office, writing the first of a series of thrilling dispatches to a London evening newspaper. What journalist ever had a more sensational murder-case to supply “copy”? And when was “special correspondent” ever better primed for the task? He wrote on, and on, till the telegraphist cried halt. Then he hied him to London by train, and began the more ambitious “story” for next morning. What he did not know he guessed correctly. A fagged but triumphant man was Jimmie Peters when he “blew in” to the Savage Club at 1 A.M. to seek sustenance and a whiskey and soda before going home.
Furneaux was white and shaken when Winter escorted the stretcher-bearers to the orchard.
“Poor devil!” he said, as the men lifted the body. “Foredoomed from birth! We can eradicate these diseases from cattle. Why not from men!”
The villagers could not understand him. Already, in some mysterious way, the word had gone around that Siddle had murdered the actress, and taken his own life to avoid arrest, after shooting at the detective who was hot on his trail.
Not until Peters’s articles came back to Steynholme did the public at large realize that the chemist undoubtedly meant to kill Doris Martin. He was going straight to the post office when the way was barred by Furneaux. The bullet which missed the latter actually pierced the zinc plate of the letter-box, and scored a furrow, inches long, in an oak counter which it struck laterally.
The village did not recover its poise for hours. Grant and Hart, to whom Bates brought the news about one o’clock, rose from an untasted luncheon and hurried to the high-street. Knots of people stared at Grant, some sheepishly, others with frank relief, because all who knew him liked him. One man, a retired ironmonger and an impulsive fellow, came forward and wrung his hand heartily. A few prominent residents followed suit. Grant was greatly embarrassed, but managed to endure these awkward if well-meant congratulations. There could be no mistaking their intent. He had been tried for murder at the bar of public opinion, and was now formally acquitted.
Even Fred Elkin, ignorant as yet of his own peril, yielded to the influences of the moment and bustled through the crowd.
“Mr. Grant,” he cried outspokenly, “I ask your pardon. I seem to have made a d—d fool of myself!”
“Easier done than said,” chimed in Hart. “But, among all this bell-ringing, can anyone tell what has actually happened? Where’s Peters?”
“In the post office.”