Mr. Hobbs hesitated again. He also felt that the situation was rather beyond him.
“But my wife was flung into the river and drowned,” said Ingerman sadly.
“No, sir. She was killed fust. It was a brutal business, so I’m told.”
“Do you mean that she was struck, her skull battered?” came the demand, in an awed and soul-thrilling whisper.
“Yes, sir. An’ the wust thing is, none of us can guess who could ha’ done it.”
“Lay yer five quid to one, Hobbs, that the police cop the scoundrel afore this day fortnight,” cried Elkin noisily.
Then Mr. Siddle put in a mild word.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “let me remind you that we four will probably be jurors at the inquest.”
That was a sobering thought. Elkin subsided, and Hobbs looked critically at the remains of a gill of beer.
Ingerman took stock of the chemist. He might easily induce the others to believe that Grant was the real criminal, but the quiet man in the black morning-coat and striped cloth trousers was of finer metal. He knew instantly that if he could persuade this one “probable juror” of Grant’s guilt, the remainder would follow his lead like a flock of sheep.