“That is hardly in question, sir,” he said brokenly.
“I am speaking of the tongue of slander. Heaven help and direct me! I would suffer death rather than see Doris subjected to the leers and innuendoes of every lout in the village.”
Grant’s earnestness could hardly fail to impress his friend. But Martin had either made up his mind or been warned not to discuss the murder, and adhered loyally to that line of conduct. He retreated toward the door leading to the post office proper.
“It is too late to interfere now,” he said.
“What on earth do you mean?” demanded Grant, yielding to a gust of anger.
“The whole—of the circumstances—are being inquired into by the police,” came the hesitating answer.
“Has that prying scoundrel, Robinson, dared to cross-examine Doris?”
“He came here, of course, but Scotland Yard has taken up the inquiry.”
“A detective—here?”
“Yes. He is with Doris in the garden at this moment.”