The Postmaster’s Daughter

John Menzies Grant, having breakfasted, filled his pipe, lit it, and strolled out bare-headed into the garden. The month was June, that glorious rose-month which gladdened England before war-clouds darkened the summer sky. As the hour was nine o’clock, it is highly probable that many thousands of men were then strolling out into many thousands of gardens in precisely similar conditions; but, given youth, good health, leisure, and a fair amount of money, it is even more probable that few among the smaller number thus roundly favored by fortune looked so perplexed as Grant.

Moreover, his actions were eloquent as words. A spacious French window had been cut bodily out of the wall of an old-fashioned room, and was now thrown wide to admit the flower-scented breeze. Between this window and the right-hand angle of the room was a smaller window, square-paned, high above the ground level, and deeply recessed—in fact just the sort of window which one might expect to find in a farm-house built two centuries ago, when light and air were rigorously excluded from interiors. The two windows told the history of The Hollies at a glance. The little one had served the needs of a “best” room for several generations of Sussex yeomen. Then had come some iconoclast who hewed a big rectangle through the solid stone-work, converted the oak-panelled apartment into a most comfortable dining-room, built a new wing with a gable, changed a farm-yard into a flower-bordered lawn, and generally played havoc with Georgian utility while carrying out a determined scheme of landscape gardening.

Happily, the wrecker was content to let well enough alone after enlarging the house, laying turf, and planting shrubs and flowers. He found The Hollies a ramshackle place, and left it even more so, but with a new note of artistry and several unexpectedly charming vistas. Thus, the big double window opened straight into an irregular garden which merged insensibly into a sloping lawn bounded by a river-pool. The bank on the other side of the stream rose sharply and was well wooded. Above the crest showed the thatched roofs or red tiles of Steynholme, which was a village in the time of William the Conqueror, and has remained a village ever since. Frame this picture in flowering shrubs, evergreens, a few choice firs, a copper beech, and some sturdy oaks shadowing the lawn, and the prospect on a June morning might well have led out into the open any young man with a pipe.

But John Menzies Grant seemed to have no eye for a scene that would have delighted a painter. He turned to the light, scrutinized so closely a strip of turf which ran close to the wall that he might have been searching for a lost diamond, and then peered through the lowermost left-hand pane of the small window into the room he had just quitted.

The result of this peeping was remarkable in more ways than one.

A stout, elderly, red-faced woman, who had entered the room soon after she heard Grant’s chair being moved, caught sight of the intent face. She screamed loudly, and dropped a cup and saucer with a clatter on to a Japanese tray.

Grant hurried back to the French window. In his haste he did not notice a long shoot of a Dorothy Perkins rose which trailed across his path, and it struck him smartly on the cheek.

“I’m afraid I startled you, Mrs. Bates,” he said, smiling so pleasantly that no woman or child could fail to put trust in him.

“You did that, sir,” agreed Mrs. Bates, collapsing into the chair Grant had just vacated.

Like most red-faced people, Mrs. Bates turned a bluish purple when alarmed, and her aspect was so distressing now that Grant’s smile was banished by a look of real concern.

“I’m very sorry,” he said contritely. “I had no notion you were in the room. Shall I call Minnie?”

Minnie, it may be explained, was Mrs. Bates’s daughter and assistant, the two, plus a whiskered Bates, gardener and groom, forming the domestic establishment presided over by Grant.

“Nun-no, sir,” stuttered the housekeeper. “It’s stupid of me. But I’m not so young as I was, an’ me heart jumps at little things.”

Grant saw that she was recovering, though slowly. He thought it best not to make too much of the incident; but asked solicitously if he might give her some brandy.

Mrs. Bates remarked that she was “not so bad as that,” rose valiantly, and went on with her work. Her employer, who had gone into the garden again, saw out of the tail of his eye that she vanished with a half-laden tray. In a couple of minutes the daughter appeared, and finished the slight task of clearing the table; meanwhile, Grant kept away from the small window. Being a young man who cultivated the habit of observation, he noticed that Minnie, too, cast scared glances at the window. When the girl had finally quitted the room, he laughed in a puzzled way.

“Am I dreaming, or are there visions about?” he murmured.

Urged, seemingly, by a sort of curiosity, he surveyed the room a second time through the same pane of glass. Being tall, he had to stoop slightly. Within, on the opposite side of the ledge, he saw the tiny brass candlestick with its inch of candle which he had used over-night while searching for a volume of Scott in the book-case lining the neighboring wall. Somehow, this simplest of domestic objects brought a thrill of recollection.

“Oh, dash it all!” he growled good-humoredly, “I’m getting nervy. I must chuck this bad habit of working late, and use the blessed hours of daylight.”

Yet, as he sauntered down the lawn toward the stream, he knew well that he would do nothing of the sort. He loved that time of peace between ten at night and one in the morning. His thoughts ran vagrom then. Fantasies took shape under his pen which, in the cold light of morning, looked unreal and nebulous, though he had the good sense to restrain criticism within strict limits, and corrected style rather than matter. He was a writer, an essayist with no slight leaven of the poet, and had learnt early that the everyday world held naught in common with the brooding of the soul.

But he was no long-haired dreamer of impossible things. Erect and square-shouldered, he had passed through Sandhurst into the army, a profession abandoned because of its humdrum nature, when an unexpectedly “fat” legacy rendered him independent. He looked exactly what he was, a healthy, clean-minded young Englishman, with a physique that led to occasional bouts of fox-hunting and Alpine climbing, and a taste in literature that brought about the consumption of midnight oil. This latter is not a mere trope. Steynholme is far removed from such modern “conveniences” as gas and electricity.

At present he had no more definite object in life than to watch the trout rising in the pool. He held the fishing rights over half a mile of a noted river, but, by force of the law of hospitality, as it were, the stretch of water bordering the lawn was a finny sanctuary. Once, he halted, and looked fixedly at a dormer window in a cottage just visible above the trees on the opposite slope. Such a highly presentable young man might well expect to find a dainty feminine form appearing just in that place, and eke return the greeting of a waved hand. But the window remained blank—windows refused to yield any information that morning—and he passed on.

The lawn dipped gently to the water’s edge, until the close-clipped turf gave way to pebbles and sand. In that spot the river widened and deepened until its current was hardly perceptible in fine weather. When the sun was in the west the trees and roofs of Steynholme were so clearly reflected in the mirror of the pool that a photograph of the scene needed close scrutiny ere one could determine whether or not it was being held upside down. But the sun shone directly on the water now, so the shelving bottom was visible, and Grant’s quick eye was drawn to a rope trailing into the depths, and fastened to an iron staple driven firmly into the shingle.

He was so surprised that he spoke aloud.

“What in the world is that?” he almost gasped; a premonition of evil was so strong in him that he actually gazed in stupefaction at a blob of water and a quick-spreading ring where a fat trout rose lazily in midstream.

Somehow, too, he resisted the first impulse of the active side of his temperament, and did not instantly tug at the rope.

Instead, he shouted:—

“Hi, Bates!”

An answering hail came from behind a screen of laurels on the right of the house. There lay the stables, and Bates would surely be grooming the cob which supplied a connecting link between The Hollies and the railway for the neighboring market-town.

Bates came, a sturdy block of a man who might have been hewn out of a Sussex oak. His face, hands, and arms were the color of oak, and he moved with a stiffness that suggested wooden joints.

Evidently, he expected an order for the dogcart, and stood stock still when he reached the lawn. But Grant, who had gathered his wits, summoned him with crooked forefinger, and Bates jerked slowly on.

“What hev’ ye done to yer face, sir?” he inquired.

Grant was surprised. He expected no such question.

“So far as I know, I’ve not been making any great alteration in it,” he said.

“But it’s all covered wi’ blood,” came the disturbing statement.

A handkerchief soon gave evidence that Bates was not exaggerating. Miss—or is it Madam?—Dorothy Perkins can scratch as well as look sweet, and a thorn had opened a small vein in Grant’s cheek which bled to a surprising extent.

“Oh, it is nothing,” he said. “I remember now—a rose shoot caught me as I went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for you to come and see this.”

Soon the two were examining the rope and the staple.

“Now who put that there?” said Bates, not asking a question but rather stating a thesis.

“It was not here yesterday,” commented his master, accepting all that Bates’s words implied.

“No, sir, that it wasn’t. I was a-cuttin’ the lawn till nigh bed-time, an’ it wasn’t there then.”

Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope.

“Suppose we solve the mystery,” he said.

“No need to dirty your hands, sir,” put in Bates. “Let I haul ’un in.”

In a few seconds the oaken tint in his face grew many shades lighter.

“Good Gawd!” he wheezed. At the end of the rope was the body of a woman.

There are few more distressing objects than a drowned corpse. On that bright June morning a dreadful apparition lost little of its grim repulsiveness because the body was that of a young and good-looking woman.

If one searched England it would be difficult to find two men of differing temperaments less likely to yield to the stress of even the most trying circumstance than Grant and Bates, yet, during some agonized moments the one, of tried courage and fine mettle, was equally horrified and shaken as the other, a gnarled and hard-grained rustic. It was he from whom speech might least be expected who first found his tongue. Bates, who had stooped, straightened himself slowly.

“By gum!” he said, “this be a bad business, Mr. Grant. Who is she? She’s none of our Steynholme lasses.”

Still Grant uttered no word. He just looked in horror at the poor husk of a woman who in life had undoubtedly been beautiful. She was well but quietly dressed, and her clothing showed no signs of violence. The all-night soaking in the river revealed some pitiful little feminine secrets, such as a touch of make-up on lips and cheeks, and the dark roots of abundant hair which had been treated chemically to lighten its color. The eyes were closed, and for that Grant was conscious of a deep thankfulness. Had those sightless eyes stared at him he felt he would have cried aloud in terror. The firm, well-molded lips were open, as though uttering a last protest against an untimely fate. Of course, both men were convinced that murder had been done. Not only were arms and body bound in a manner that was impossible of accomplishment by the dead woman herself, but an ugly wound on the smooth forehead seemed to indicate that she had been stunned or killed outright before being flung into the river.

And then, the rope and the staple suggested an outlandish, maniacal disposal of the victim. Here was no effort at concealment, but rather a making sure, in most brutal and callous fashion, that early discovery must be unavoidable.

The bucolic mind works in well-scored grooves. Receiving no assistance from his master, Bates pulled the body a little farther up on the strip of gravel so that it lay clear of the water.

“I mum fetch t’ polis,” he said.

The phrase, with its vivid significance, seemed to galvanize Grant into a species of comprehension.

“Yes,” he agreed, speaking slowly, as though striving to measure the effect of each word. “Yes, go for the police, Bates. This foul crime must be inquired into, no matter who suffers. Go now. But first bring a rug from the stable. You understand? Your wife, or Minnie, must not be told till later. They must not see. Mrs. Bates is not so well to-day.”

“Not so well! Her ate a rare good breakfast for a sick ’un!”

Bates was recovering from the shock, and prepared once more to take an interest in the minor features of existence. Among these he counted ability to eat as a sure sign of continued well-being in man or beast.

Grant, too, was slowly regaining poise.

“I hardly know what I am saying,” he muttered. “At any rate, bring a rug. I’ll mount guard till you return with the policeman. There can be no doubt, I suppose, that this poor creature is dead.”

“Dead as a stone,” said Bates with conviction. “Why, her’s bin in there hours,” and he nodded toward the water. “Besides, if I knows anythink of a crack on t’head, her wur outed before she went into t’river.... But who i’ t’world can she be?”

“If you don’t fetch that rug I’ll go for it myself,” said Grant, whereupon Bates made off.

He was soon back again with a carriage rug, which Grant helped him to spread over the dripping body. Then he hastened to the village, taking a path that avoided the house.

The lawn and river bank of The Hollies could only be overlooked from the steep wooded cliff opposite, and none but an adventurous boy would ever think of climbing down that almost impassable rampart of rock, brushwood, and tree-roots. At any rate, when left alone with the ghastly evidence of a tragedy, Grant troubled only to satisfy himself that no one was watching from the house. Assured on that point, he lifted a corner of the rug, and, apparently, forced himself to scrutinize the dead woman’s face. He seemed to search therein for some reassuring token, but found none, because he shook his head, dropped the rug, and walked a few paces dejectedly.

Then, hardly knowing what he was about, he relighted his pipe, but had hardly put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco.

Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, and the outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber and undecided aspect.

More than once he looked up at the attic window of the cottage which had drawn his eyes before tragedy had come so swiftly to his very feet. But, if he hoped to see anyone, he was disappointed, though, in the event, it proved that his real fear was lest the person he half expected to see should look out.

He was not disturbed in that way, however. Fish rose in the river; birds sang in the trees; a water-wagtail skipped nimbly from rock to rock in the shallows; honey-laden bees hummed past to the many hives in the postmaster’s garden. These were the normal sights and sounds of a June morning—that which was abnormal and almost grotesque in its horror lay hidden beneath the carriage rug.

To and fro he walked in that trying vigil, carrying the empty pipe in one hand while, with the other, he dabbed the handkerchief at the cut on his face. He was aware of some singular change in the quality of the sunlight pouring down on lawn and river and trees. Five minutes earlier it had spread over the landscape a golden bloom of the tint of champagne; now it was sharp and cold, a clear, penetrating radiance in which colors were vivid and shadows black. He was in no mood to analyze emotions, or he might have understood that the fierce throbbing of his heart had literally thinned the blood in his veins and thus affected even his sight. He only knew that in this crystal atmosphere the major issues of life presented themselves with a new and crude force. At any rate, he made up his mind that the course suggested by truth and honor was the only one to follow, and that, in itself, was something gained.

By the time Bates returned, accompanied by the village policeman, and two other men carrying a stretcher, Grant was calmer, more self-contained, than he had been since that hapless body was dragged from the depths. He was not irresponsive, therefore, to the aura of official importance which enveloped the policeman; he sensed a certain uneasiness in Bates; he even noted that the stretcher was part of the stock in trade of Hobbs, the local butcher, and ordinarily bore the carcase of a well-fed pig.

These details were helpful. Naturally, Bates had explained his errand, and the law, in the person of the policeman, was prepared for all eventualities.

“This is a bad business, Mr. Grant,” began the policeman, producing a note-book, and moistening the tip of a lead pencil with his tongue. Being a Sussex man, he used the same phrase as Bates. In fact, Grant was greeted by it a score of times that day.

“Yes,” agreed Grant. “I had better tell you that I have recognized the poor lady. Her name is Adelaide Melhuish. Her residence is in the Regent’s Park district of London.”

Robinson, the policeman, permitted himself to look surprised. He was, in fact, rather annoyed. Bates’s story had prepared him for a first-rate detective mystery. It was irritating to have one of its leading features cleared up so promptly.

“Oh,” he said, drawing a line under the last entry in the note-book, and writing the date and hour in heavy characters beneath. “Married or single?”

“Married, but separated from her husband when last I had news of her.”

“And when was that, sir?”

“Nearly three years ago.”

“And you have not seen her since?”

“No.”

“You didn’t see her last night?”

Grant positively started, but he looked at the policeman squarely.

“It is strange you should ask me that,” he said. “Last night, while searching for a book, I saw a face at the window. It was that window,” and four pairs of eyes followed his pointing finger. “The face, I now believe, was that of the dead woman. At the moment, as it vanished instantly, I persuaded myself that I was the victim of some trick of the imagination. Still, I opened the other window, looked out and listened, but heard or saw nothing or no one. As I say, I fancied I had imagined that which was not. Now I know I was wrong.”

“About what o’clock would this be, Mr. Grant?”

“Shortly before eleven. I came in at a quarter past ten, and began to work. After writing steadily for a little more than half an hour, I wanted to consult a book, and lighted a candle which I keep for that purpose. I found the book, and was about to blow out the candle when I saw the face.”

Robinson wrote in his note-book:—

“Called to The Hollies to investigate case of supposed murder. Body of woman found in river. Mr. Grant, occupying The Hollies, says that woman’s name is Adelaide Melhuish”—at this point he paused to ascertain the spelling—“and he saw her face at a window of the house at 10.45 P.M., last night.”

“Well, sir, and what next?” he went on.

“It seems to me that the next thing is to have the unfortunate lady removed to some more suitable place than the river bank,” said Grant, rather impatiently. “My story can wait, and so can Bates’s. He knows all that I know, and has probably told you already how we came to discover the body. You can see for yourself that she must have been murdered. It is an extraordinary, I may even say a phenomenal crime, which certainly cannot be investigated here and now. I advise you to have the body taken to the village mortuary, or such other place as serves local needs in that respect, and summon a doctor. Then, if you and an inspector will call here, I’ll give you all the information I possess, which is very little, I may add.”

Robinson began solemnly to jot down a summary of Grant’s words, and thereby stirred the owner of The Hollies to a fury which was repressed with difficulty. Realizing, however, the absolute folly of expressing any resentment, Grant turned, and, without meaning it, looked again in the direction of the cottage on the crest of the opposite bank. This time a girl was leaning out of the dormer window. She had shaded her eyes with a hand, because the sun was streaming into her face, but when she saw that Grant was looking her way she waved a handkerchief.

He fluttered his own blood-stained handkerchief in brief acknowledgment, and wheeled about, only to find P. C. Robinson watching him furtively, having suspended his note-taking for the purpose.

Chapter II.
P. C. Robinson “Takes a Line”

“It will help me a lot, sir,” he said, “if you tell me now what you know about this matter. If, as seems more than likely, murder has been done, I don’t want to lose a minute in starting my inquiries. In a case of this sort I find it best to take a line, and stick to it.”

His tone was respectful but firm. Evidently, P. C. Robinson was not one to be trifled with. Moreover, for a sleuth whose maximum achievement hitherto had been the successful prosecution of a poultry thief, it was significant that the unconscious irony of “a case of this sort” should have been lost on him.

“Do you really insist on conducting your investigation while the body is lying here?” demanded Grant, deliberately turning his back on the girl in the distant cottage.

“Not that, sir—not altogether—but I must really ask you to clear up one or two points now.”

“For goodness’ sake, what are they?”

“Well, sir, in the first place, how did you come to find the body?”

“I walked out into the garden after finishing breakfast a few minutes ago, and noticed the rope attached to the staple, just as you see it now.”

“Did you walk straight here?”

“No. Not exactly. I was—er—curious about the face I saw, or thought I saw, last night, and looked into the room through the same window. By doing so I scared Mrs. Bates, who was clearing the table, and she screamed—”

“Her would, too,” put in Bates. “Her’d take ’ee for Owd Ben’s ghost.”

“You shut up, Bates,” said the policeman. “Don’t interrupt Mr. Grant.”

Grant was conscious of an undercurrent of suspicion in the constable’s manner. He was wroth with the man, but recognized that he had to deal with narrow-minded self-importance, so contrived again to curb his temper.

“I am not acquainted with old Ben or his ghost,” he said quietly. “I can only tell you that I went inside to reassure Mrs. Bates, and then strolled slowly to this very spot. Naturally, I could not miss the rope and the staple. To my mind, it was not intended that I or anyone else should miss them. I regarded them as so peculiar that I shouted for Bates. He came at once, and drew the body out of the water.”

“And you recognized the dead woman as the one you saw last night?”

“Yes.”

“At about ten minutes to eleven?”

“Yes.”

“Is it likely, sir, that any other person saw her in these grounds a bit earlier?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, sir, I can’t put it much plainer. Could anybody else have seen her here, say about 10.15?”

Grant met the policeman’s inquiring glance squarely before he answered.

“It is possible, of course,” he said, “but most unlikely.”

“Were you alone here at that hour?”

Again Grant sought and held that inquisitive gaze, held it until Robinson affected to consult his notes. There was a moment of tense silence. Then the reply came with an icy stubbornness that was not to be denied.

“I decline absolutely to be cross-examined about my movements. If you are unable or unwilling to order the removal of the body, I’ll telegraph to the chief of police at Knolesworth, and ask him to act. Further, I shall request Dr. Foxton to examine the poor lady’s injuries. It strikes me as a monstrous proceeding that you should attempt to record my evidence at this moment, and I refuse to become a party to it.”

“Now, then, Robinson, stop yer Sherlock Holmes work, an’ help me to lift this poor woman on to the stretcher,” said Bates gruffly.

The policeman’s red face grew a shade deeper with annoyance, but he had the sense to avoid a scene. He was not popular in the village, and was well aware that the two rustics pressed into service as stretcher-bearers would joyfully retail the fact that he had been “set down a peg or two by Mr. Grant.”

“I’ll do all that’s necessary in that way, sir,” he said stiffly. “I suppose you have no objection to my askin’ if you noticed any strange footprints on the ground hereabouts?”

“That was the first thing I looked for, both here and outside the window—the latter, of course, for another reason. I found none. These stones would show no signs. The ground is so dry that even the five men now present leave no traces, but I remember seeing in the bed of the stream certain marks which, unfortunately, were obliterated when Bates hauled the body ashore. They were valueless, however—shapeless indentations in the mud and sand.”

“Were they wide apart or close together, sir?”

“Quite irregular. No one could judge by the length of the stride whether they were made by the feet of a man or a woman, if that is what you have in mind ... but, really—”

Grant’s impatient motion was not to be misunderstood. Robinson stooped, removed the rug, and unfastened the rope, after noting carefully how it was tied, a point which he called on the others to observe as well. Then he and the villagers went away with their sad burden, the rug being requisitioned once more to hide that wan face from the vivid sunshine.

Bates had a trick of grasping a handful of his short whiskers when puzzled; he did so now; it seemed to be an unconscious effort to pull his jaws apart in order to emit speech.

“I’ve a sort of idee, sir,” he said slowly, “that Robinson saw Doris Martin on the lawn with ’ee last night.”

Grant turned on his henchman in a sudden heat of anger.

“Miss Martin’s name must be kept out of this matter,” he growled.

But Sussex is not easily browbeaten when it thinks itself in the right.

“All very well a-sayin’ that, sir, but a-doin’ of it is a bird of another color,” argued Bates firmly.

“How did you know that Miss Martin was here?”

“Bless your heart, sir, how comes it that us Steynholme folk know everythink about other folk’s business? Sometimes we know more’n they knows themselves. You’ve not walked a yard wi’ Doris that the women’s tittle-tattle hasn’t made it into a mile.”

No man, even the wisest, likes to be told an unpalatable truth. For a few seconds, Grant was seriously annoyed with this village Solon, and nearly blurted out an angry command that he should hold his tongue. Luckily, since Bates was only trying to be helpful, he was content to say sarcastically:

“Of course, if you are so well posted in my movements last night, you can assure the coroner and the Police that I did not strangle some strange woman, tie a rope around her, and throw her in the river.”

“Me an’ my missis couldn’t help seein’ you an’ Doris a-lookin’ at the stars through a spyglass when us were goin’ to bed,” persisted Bates. “We heerd your voices quite plain. Once ’ee fixed the glass low down, an’ said, ‘That’s serious. It’s late to-night.’ An’ I tell ’ee straight, sir, I said to the missis:—‘It will be serious, an’ all, if Doris’s father catches her gallivantin’ in our garden wi’ Mr. Grant nigh on ten o’clock.’ Soon after that ’ee took Doris as far as the bridge. The window was open, an’ I heerd your footsteps on the road. You kem’ in, closed the window, an’ drew a chair up to the table. After that, I fell asleep.”

Perturbed and anxious though he was, Grant could hardly fail to see that Bates meant well by him. The mental effort needed for such a long speech said as much. The allusion to Sirius, amusing at any other time, was now most valuable, because an astronomical almanac would give the hour at which that brilliant star became visible. Other considerations yielded at once, however, to the fear lest Robinson and his note-book were already busy at the post office. Without another word, he hurried away by the side-path through the evergreens, leaving Bates staring after him, and, with more whisker-pulling, examining the rope and staple, which, by the policeman’s order, were not to be disturbed.

Grant reached the highroad just as Robinson and the men with the stretcher were crossing a stone bridge spanning the river about a hundred yards below The Hollies. A slight, youthful, and eminently attractive female figure, walking swiftly in the opposite direction, came in sight at the same time, and Grant almost groaned aloud when the newcomer stood stock still and looked at the mournful procession. He, be it remembered, was somewhat of an idealist and a poet; it grieved his spirit that those two women, the quick and the dead, should meet on the bridge. He took it as a portent, almost a menace, he knew not of what. He might have foreseen that unhappy eventuality, and prevented it, but his brain refused to work clearly that morning. A terrible and bizarre crime had bemused his faculties. He seemed to be in a state of waking nightmare.

He was stung into impetuous action by seeing the policeman halt and exchange some words with the girl. He began to run, with the quite definite if equally mad intent of punching Robinson into reasonable behavior. He was saved from an act of unmitigated folly by the girl herself. She caught sight of him, apparently broke off her talk with the policeman abruptly, and, in her turn, took to her heels.

Thus, on that strip of sun-baked road, with its easy gradient to the crown of the bridge, there was the curious spectacle offered by two men jogging along with a corpse on a stretcher, a young man and a young woman running towards each other, and a discomfited representative of the law, looking now one way and now the other, and evidently undecided whether to go on or return. Ultimately, it would seem, Robinson went with the stretcher-bearers, because Grant and the girl saw no more of him for the time.

Grant had received several shocks since rising from the breakfast-table, but it was left for Doris Martin, the postmaster’s daughter, to administer not the least surprising one.

Though almost breathless, and wide-eyed with horror, her opening words were very much to the point.

“How awful!” she cried. “Why should any-one in Steynholme want to kill a great actress like Adelaide Melhuish?”

Now, the name of the dead woman was literally the last thing Grant expected to hear from this girl’s lips, and the astounding fact momentarily banished all other worries.

“You knew her?” he gasped.

“No, not exactly. But I couldn’t avoid recognizing her when she asked for her letters, and sent a telegram.”

“But—”

“Oh, Robinson told me she was dead. I see now what is puzzling you.”

“It is not quite that. I mean, why didn’t you tell me she was in Steynholme? Has she been staying here any length of time?”

The girl’s pretty face crimsoned, and then grew pale.

“I—had no idea—she was—a friend of yours, Mr. Grant,” she stammered.

“She used to be a friend, but I have not set eyes on her during the past three years—until last night.”

“Last night!”

“After you had gone home. I was doing some work, and, having occasion to consult a book, lighted a candle, and put it in the small window near the bookcase. Then I fancied I saw a woman’s face, her face, peering in, and was so obsessed by the notion that I went outside, but everything was so still that I persuaded myself I was mistaken.”

“Oh, is that what it was?”

Grant threw out his hands in a gesture that was eloquent of some feeling distinctly akin to despair.

“You don’t usually speak in enigmas, Doris,” he said. “What in the world do you mean by saying:—‘Oh, is that what it was?’”

The girl—she was only nineteen, and never before had aught of tragic mystery entered her sheltered life—seemed to recover her self-possession with a quickness and decision that were admirable.

“There is no enigma,” she said calmly. “My room overlooks your lawn. Before retiring for the night I went to the window, just to have another peep at Sirius and its changing lights, so I could not help seeing you fling open the French windows, stand a little while on the step, and go in again.”

“Ah, you saw that? Then I have one witness who will help to dispel that stupid policeman’s notion that I killed Miss Melhuish, and hid her body in the river at the foot of the lawn, hid it with such care that the first passerby must find it.”

Every human being has three distinct personalities. Firstly, there is the man or woman as he or she really is; secondly, there is the much superior individual as assessed personally; thirdly, and perhaps the most important in the general scheme of things, there is the same individuality as viewed by others. For an instant, the somewhat idealized figure which John Menzies Grant offered to a pretty and intelligent but inexperienced girl was in danger of losing its impressiveness. But, since Grant was not only a good fellow but a gentleman, his next thought restored him to the pedestal from which, all unknowing, he had nearly been dethroned.

“That is a nice thing to say,” he cried, with a short laugh of sheer vexation. “Here am I regarding you as a first-rate witness in my behalf, whereas my chief worry is to keep you out of this ugly business altogether. Forgive me, Doris! Never before have I been so bothered. Honestly, I imagined I hadn’t an enemy in the world, yet someone has tried deliberately to saddle me with suspicion in this affair. Not that I would give real heed to that consideration if it were not for the unhappy probability that, strive as I may, your name will crop up in connection with it. What sort of fellow is this police constable? Do you think he would keep his mouth shut if I paid him well?”

Grant was certainly far from being in his normal state of mind, or he would have caught the tender gleam which lighted the girl’s eyes when she understood that his concern was for her, not for himself. As it was, several things had escaped him during that brief talk on the sunlit road.

On her part, Doris Martin was now in full control of her emotions, and she undoubtedly took a saner view of a difficult situation.

“Robinson is a vain man,” she said thoughtfully. “He will not let go the chance of notoriety given him by the murder of a well-known actress. Was she really murdered? Robinson said so when I met him on the bridge.”

“I’m afraid he is justified in that belief, at any rate.”

“Well, Mr. Grant, what have we to conceal? I was in your garden at a rather late hour, I admit, but one cannot watch the stars by day, and a big telescope with its tripod is not easily carried about. Of course, father will be vexed, because, as it happens, I did not tell him I was coming out. But that cannot be helped. As it happens, I can fix the time you opened your window almost to a minute, because the church clock had chimed the quarter just before you appeared.”

Grant, however, was not to be soothed by this matter-of-fact reasoning.

“I am vexed at the mere notion of your name, and possibly your portrait, appearing in the newspapers,” he protested. “Miss Melhuish was a celebrated actress. The press will make a rare commotion about her death. Look at the obvious questions that will be raised. What was she doing here? Why was she found in the river bordering the grounds of my house? Don’t you see? I had to decide pretty quickly whether or not I would admit any previous knowledge of her. I suppose I acted rightly?”

“Why hide anything, Mr. Grant? Surely it is always best to tell the truth!”

He looked into those candid blue eyes, and drew from their limpid depths an element of strength and fortitude.

“By Jove, Doris, small wonder if a jaded man of the world, such as I was when I came to Steynholme, found new faith and inspiration in friendship with you,” he said gratefully. “But I am wool-gathering all the time this morning, it would seem. Won’t you come into the house? If we have to discuss a tragedy we may as well sit down to it.”

“No,” she said, with the promptitude of one who had anticipated the invitation. “I must hurry home. There are accounts to be made up. And Robinson and others will be telegraphing to Knoleworth and London. I must attend to all that, because dad gets flustered if several messages are handed in at the same time.”

“Come and have tea, then, about four o’clock. The ravens will have fled by then.”

“The ravens?”

“The police, you dear child, and the reporters, and the photographers—the flock of weird fowl which gathers from all points of the compass when the press gets hold of what is called ‘a first-rate story,’ By midday I shall be in the thick of it. But, thank goodness, they will know nothing to draw them your way until the inquest takes place, and not even then if I can manage it.”

“Don’t mind me, Mr. Grant. You must not keep anything back on my account. I’ll try and come at four. But I may be very busy in the office. By the way, you ought to know. Miss Melhuish came here on Sunday evening. She arrived by the train from London. I—happened to notice her as she passed in the Hare and Hounds’ bus. She took a room there, at the inn, I mean, and came to the post office twice yesterday. When I heard her name I recognized her at once from her photographs. And—one more thing—I guessed there was something wrong when I saw you, and Robinson, and Bates, and the other men standing near a body lying close to the river. That is why I came out. Now I really must go. Good-by!”

She hastened away. Grant stood in the road and looked after her. Apparently she was conscious that he had not stirred, because, when she reached the bridge, she turned and waved a hand to him. She was exceedingly graceful in all her movements. She wore a simple white linen blouse and short white skirt that morning, with brown shoes and stockings which harmonized with the deeper tints of her Titian red hair. As she paused on the bridge for a second or two, silhouetted against the sky, she suggested to Grant’s troubled mind the Spirit of Summer.

Returning to the house by way of the main gate, which gave on to the highway, he bethought him of Mrs. Bates and Minnie. They must be enlightened, and warned as to the certain influx of visitors. He resolved now to tackle a displeasing task boldly. Realizing that the worst possible policy lay in denying himself to the representatives of the press, who would simply ascertain the facts from other sources, and unconsciously adopt a critical vein with regard to himself, he determined to go to the other extreme, and receive all comers.

Of course, there would be reservations in his story. That is what every man decides who faces a legal inquiry as a novice. It is a decision too often regretted in the light of after events.

Meanwhile, P. C. Robinson was hard at work. In his own phrase, he “took a line,” and the trend of his thoughts was clearly demonstrated when a superintendent motored over from Knoleworth in response to a telegram. He told how the body had been found, and then went into details gathered in the interim.

“Miss Melhuish hadn’t been in the village five minutes,” he said, “before she asked Mr. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds, where The Hollies was, and how long Mr. Grant had lived in the village. She went for a walk in the direction of his house almost at once. Tomlin watched her until she crossed the bridge. That was on Sunday evening.”

Superintendent Fowler allowed his placid features to show a flicker of surprise. In that rural district an actual, downright murder was almost unknown. Even a case of manslaughter, arising out of a drunken quarrel between laborers at fair-time, did not occur once in five years.

“Oh, she came here on Sunday, did she?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Yesterday, too, she spoke of Mr. Grant to Hobbs, the butcher, and Siddle, the chemist.”

The two were closeted in the sitting-room of Robinson’s cottage, which was situated on the main road near the bridge. It faced the short, steep hill overhanging the river. A triangular strip of turf formed the village green, and the houses of Steynholme clustered around this and a side road climbing the hill. From door and windows nearly every shop and residence in the village proper could be seen. In front of the Hare and Hounds had gathered a group of men, and it was easy to guess the topic they were discussing. The superintendent, who did not know any of them, had no difficulty in identifying Hobbs, who looked a butcher and was dressed like one, or Tomlin, who was either born an innkeeper or had been coached in the part by a stage expert. A thin, sharp-looking person, pallid and black-haired, wearing a morning coat and striped trousers, must surely be Siddle, while a fourth, the youngest there, and of rather sporting guise, was apparently a farmer of a horse-breeding turn.

“Who is that fellow in the leggings?” inquired the superintendent irrelevantly. He was looking through the window, and Robinson considered that the question showed a lack of interest in his statement, though he dared not hint at such a thing.

“He’s a Mr. Elkin, sir,” he said. “As I was saying—”

“How does Mr. Elkin make a living?” broke in the other.

“He breeds hacks and polo ponies,” said Robinson, rather shortly.

“Ah, I thought so. Well, go on with your story.”

Robinson was irritated, and justly so. His superior had put him off his “line.” He took it up again sharply, leaving out of court for the moment the various rills of evidence which, in his opinion, united into a swift-moving stream.

“The fact is, sir,” he blurted out, “there is an uncommonly strong case against Mr. John Menzies Grant.”

“Phew!” whistled the superintendent.

“I think you’ll agree with me, sir, when you hear what I’ve gathered about him one way and another.”

Robinson was sure of his audience now. Quite unconsciously, he had applied the chief canon of realism in art. He had conveyed his effect by one striking note. The rest of the picture was quite subsidiary to the bold splurge of color evoked by actually naming the man he suspected of murdering Adelaide Melhuish.

Chapter III.
The Gathering Clouds

Thus, it befell that Grant was not worried by officialdom until long after his housekeeper and her daughter had recovered from the shock of learning that they were, in a sense, connected at first hand with a ghastly and sensational crime.

Like Bates and their employer, neither Mrs. Bates nor Minnie had heard or seen anything overnight which suggested that a woman was being foully done to death in the grounds attached to the house. As it happened, Minnie’s bedroom, as well as that occupied by her parents, overlooked the lawn and river. Grant’s room lay in a gable which commanded the entrance. He had chosen it purposely because it faced the rising sun. The other members of the household, therefore, though in bed, had quite as good an opportunity as he, working in the dining-room beneath, of having their attention drawn to sounds disturbing the peace of the night in a quiet and secluded spot. Moreover, none of them was asleep. Minnie Bates, in particular, said that the “grandfather’s clock” in the hall struck twelve before she “could close an eye.”

At last, just as Grant was rising from an almost untasted luncheon, Mrs. Bates, with a voice of scare, announced “the polis,” and P. C. Robinson introduced Superintendent Fowler. This time Grant did not resent questions. He expected them, and had made up his mind to give full and detailed answers. Of course, the finding of the body was again described minutely. The superintendent, a man of experience, one whose manner was not fox-like and irritating like his subordinate’s, paid close attention to the face at the window.

“There seems to be little room for doubt that Miss Melhuish did enter your grounds about a quarter to eleven last night,” he said thoughtfully. “You recognized her at once, you say?”

“I imagined so. Until this horrible thing became known I had persuaded myself that the vision was a piece of sheer hallucination.”

“Let us assume that the lady actually came here, and looked in. Evidently, her face was sufficiently familiar that you should know instantly who this unusual visitor was. I understand, though, that you had not the least notion she was staying in Steynholme?”

“Not the least.”

“How long ago is it since you last saw her?”

“Nearly three years.”

“You were very well acquainted with her, then, or you could not have glanced up from your table, seen someone staring at you through a window, and said to yourself, as one may express it:—‘That is Adelaide Melhuish’.”

“We were so well acquainted that I asked the lady to be my wife.”

“Ah,” said the superintendent.

His placid, unemotional features, however, gave no clew to his opinions. Not so P. C. Robinson, who tried to look like a judge, whereas he really resembled a bull-terrier who has literally, not figuratively, smelt a rat.

Despite his earlier good resolutions, Grant was horribly impatient of this inquisition. He admitted that the superintendent was carrying through an unpleasant duty as inoffensively as possible, but the attitude of the village policeman was irritating in the extreme. Nothing would have tended so effectively to relieve his surcharged feelings as to supply P. C. Robinson then and there with ample material for establishing a charge of assault and battery.

“That is not a remarkable fact, if regarded apart from to-day’s tragedy,” he said, and there was more than a hint of soul-weariness in his voice. “Miss Melhuish was a very talented and attractive woman. I first met her as the outcome of a suggestion that one of my books should be dramatized, a character in the novel being deemed eminently suitable for her special rôle on the stage. The idea came to nothing. She was appearing in a successful play at the time, and was rehearsing its successor. Meanwhile, I—fell in love with her, I suppose, and she certainly encouraged me in the belief that she might accept me. I did eventually propose marriage. Then she told me she was married already. It was a painful disillusionment—at the time. I only saw her, to speak to, once again.”

“Did she reveal her husband’s name?”

“Yes—a Mr. Ingerman.”

The superintendent looked grave. That was a professional trick of his. He had never before in his life heard of Mr. Ingerman, but encouraged the notion that this gentleman was thoroughly, and not quite favorably, known to him. Sometimes it happened that a witness, interpreting this sapient look by the light of his or her personal and intimate knowledge, would blurt out certain facts, good or bad as the case might be, concerning the person under discussion.

But Grant remained obstinately silent as to the qualities of this doubtful Ingerman, so Mr. Fowler scribbled the name in a note-book, and was particular as to whether it ended in one “n” or two.

Still, he carried other shots in his locker. In fact, Mr. Fowler, had he taken in youth to nicer legal subtleties than handcuffs and summonses, would have become a shrewd lawyer.

“We’ll leave Mr. Ingerman for the moment,” he said, implying, of course, that on returning to him there might be revelations. “I gather that you and Miss Melhuish did not agree, shall I put it? as to the precise bearing of the marriage tie on your love affair?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your meaning,” and Grant’s tone stiffened ominously, but his questioner was by no means abashed.

“I have no great acquaintance with the stage or its ways, but I have always understood that divorce proceedings among theatrical folk were, shall we say? more popular than, in the ordinary walks of life,” said Mr. Fowler.

Grant’s resentment vanished. The superintendent’s calm method, his interpolated apologies, as it were, for applying the probe, were beginning to interest him.

“Your second effort is more successful, superintendent,” he said dryly. “Miss Melhuish did urge me to obtain her freedom. It was, she thought, only a matter of money with Mr. Ingerman, and she would be given material for a divorce.”

“Ah,” murmured Fowler again, as though the discreditable implication fitted in exactly with the life history of a noted scoundrel in a written dossier then lying in his office. “You objected, may I suggest, to that somewhat doubtful means of settling a difficulty?”

“Something of the kind.”

Assuredly, Grant did not feel disposed to lay bare his secret feelings before this persuasive superintendent and an absurdly conceited village constable. Love, to him, was an ideal, a blend of mortal passion and immortal fire. But the flame kindled on that secret altar had scorched and seared his soul in a wholly unforeseen way. The discovery that Adelaide Melhuish was another man’s wife had stunned him. It was not until the fire of sacrifice had died into parched ashes that its earlier banality became clear. He realized then that he had given his love to a phantom. By one of nature’s miracles a vain and selfish creature was gifted in the artistic portrayal of the finer emotions. He had worshiped the actress, the mimic, not the woman herself. At any rate, that was how he read the repellent notion that he should bargain with any man for the sale of a wife.

“You might be a trifle more explicit, Mr. Grant,” said the superintendent, almost reproachfully.

“In what direction? Surely a three-years-old love affair can have little practical bearing on Miss Melhuish’s death?”

“What, then, may I ask, could bear on it more forcibly? The lady admittedly visits you, late at night, and is found dead in a river bordering the grounds of your house next morning, all the conditions pointing directly to murder. Moreover—it is no secret, as the truth must come out at the inquest—she had passed a good deal of her time while in Steynholme, unknown to you, in making inquiries concerning you, your habits, your surroundings, your friends. Surely, Mr. Grant, you must see that the history of your relations with this lady, though, if I may use the phrase, perfectly innocent, may possibly supply that which is at present lacking—a clew, shall I term it, to the motive which inspired the man, or woman, who killed her?”

P. C. Robinson was all an eye and an ear for this verbal fencing-match. It was not that he admired his superior’s skill, because such finesse was wholly beyond him, but his suspicious brain was storing up Grant’s admissions “to be used in evidence” against him subsequently. His own brief record of the conversation would have been:—“The prisoner, after being duly cautioned, said he kept company with the deceased about three years ago, but quarreled with her on hearing that she was a married woman.”

The superintendent seldom indulged in so long a speech, but he was determined to force his adversary’s guard, and sought to win his confidence by describing the probable course to be pursued by the coroner’s inquest. But Grant, like the dead actress, had two sides to his nature. He was both an idealist and a stubborn fighter, and ideality had been shattered for many a day by that grewsome object hauled in that morning from the depths of the river.

“I am willing to help in any shape or form, but can only repeat that Miss Melhuish and I parted as described. I should add that I have never, to my knowledge, met her husband.”

“He may be dead.”

“Possibly. You may know more about him than I.”

“Even then, we have not traveled far as yet.”

Fowler was puzzled, and did not hesitate to show it. He believed, not without reasonable cause, that this young man was concealing some element in the situation which might prove helpful in the quest for the murderer. He resolved to strike off along a new track.

“I am informed,” he went on, speaking with a deliberateness meant to be impressive, “that you did entertain another lady as a visitor last night.”

Grant allowed his glance to dwell on Robinson for an instant. Hitherto he had ignored the man. Now he surveyed him as if he were a viper.

“It will be a peculiarly offensive thing if the personality of a helpless and unoffending girl is brought into this inquiry,” he cried. “‘Brought in’ is too mild—I ought to say ‘dragged in.’ As it happens, astronomy is one of my hobbies. Last evening, as the outcome of a chat on the subject, Doris Martin, daughter of the local postmaster, came here to view Sirius through an astronomical telescope. There is the instrument,” and he pointed through P. C. Robinson to a telescope on a tripod in a corner of the room. The gesture was eloquent. The burly policeman might have been a sheet of glass. “As you see, it is a solid article, not easily lifted about. It weighs nearly a hundred-weight.”

“Why is it so heavy?”

The superintendent had a knack of putting seemingly irrelevant questions. Robinson had been disconcerted by it earlier in the day, but Grant seemed to treat the interruption as a sensible one.

“For observation purposes an astronomical telescope is not of much use unless the movement of the earth is counteracted,” he said. “Usually, the dome of an observatory swings on a specially contrived axis, but that is a very expensive structure, so my telescope is governed by a clockwork attachment and moves on its own axis.”

Mr. Fowler nodded. He was really a very well informed man for a country police-officer; he understood clearly.

“Miss Martin came here about a quarter to ten,” continued Grant, “and left within three-quarters of an hour. She did not enter the house. She was watching Sirius while I explained the methods whereby the distance of any star from the earth is computed and its chemical analysis determined—”

“Most instructive, I’m sure,” put in the superintendent.

He smiled genially, so genially that Grant dismissed the notion that the other might, in vulgar parlance, be pulling his leg.

“Well, that is the be-all and end-all of Miss Martin’s presence. It would be cruel, and unfair, if a girl of her age were forced into a distasteful prominence in connection with a crime with which she is no more related than with Sirius itself.”

The older man shook his head in regretful dissent.

“That is just where you and I differ,” he said. “That very point leads us back to your past friendship with the dead woman.”

“Why?”

“Surely you see, Mr. Grant, that Miss Melhuish might be, probably was, watching your star-gazing, especially as your pupil chanced to be, shall I say, a remarkably attractive young lady ... No, no,” for Grant’s anger was unmistakable—“It does no good to blaze out in protest. An unhappy combination of circumstances must be faced candidly. Here are you and a pretty girl together in a garden at a rather late hour, and a woman whom you once wanted to marry spying on you, in all likelihood. I’ve met a few coroner’s juries in my time, and not one of them but would deem the coincidence strange, to put it mildly.”

“What in Heaven’s name are you driving at?”

“You must not impute motives, sir. I am seeking them, not supplying them.”

“But what am I to say?”

“Perhaps you will now tell me just how Miss Melhuish and you parted.”

The fencers were coming to close quarters. Even P. C. Robinson had to admit that his “boss” had cornered the suspect rather cleverly.

Grant realized that there was no room for squeamishness in this affair. If he did not speak out now, his motives might be woefully misunderstood.

“We parted in wrath and tears,” he said sadly. “Miss Melhuish could not, or did not, appreciate my scruples. She professed to be in love with me. She even went so far as to threaten suicide. I—hardly believed in her sincerity, but thought it advisable to temporize, and asked for a few days’ delay before we came to a final decision. We met again, as I have said, and discussed matters in calmer mood. Ultimately, she professed agreement with my point of view, and we parted, ostensibly to remain good friends, but really to separate for ever.”

“Thank you. That’s better. What was your point of view, Mr. Grant?”

“Surely I have made it clear. I could not regard my wife as purchasable. The proposed compact was, I believe, illegal. But that consideration did not sway me. I had been dreaming, and thought I was roaming in an enchanted garden. I awoke, and found myself in a morass.”

The superintendent nodded again. Singularly enough, Grant’s somewhat high-flown simile appeared to satisfy his craving for light.

“Do you mind telling me—is there another woman?” he demanded, with one of those rapid transitions of topic in which he excelled.

“No,” said Grant.

“You see what I am aiming at. Let us suppose that Miss Melhuish never, in her own mind, abandoned the hope that some day the tangle would straighten itself. Women are constituted that way. If her husband is now dead, and she became free, she might wish to renew the old ties, but, being proud, would want to ascertain first whether or not any other woman had come into your life.”

“I follow perfectly,” said Grant, with some bitterness. “She would be consumed with jealousy because my companion in the garden last night happened to be a charming girl of nineteen.”

“It is possible.”

“So she went off and got someone to kill her, and tie her body with a rope, and arrange a dramatic setting whereby it would be patent to the meanest intelligence that I was the criminal?”

Mr. Fowler smiled, and looked fixedly at P. C. Robinson.

“No, no,” he said, quite good-humoredly. “That would be carrying realism to extremes. Still, I am convinced, Mr. Grant, that this mystery is bound up in some way with your romance of three years ago. At present, I admit, I am working in the dark.”

He rose. Apparently, the interview was at an end. But, while pocketing his note-book, he said suddenly:—

“The inquest will open at three o’clock tomorrow. You will be present, of course, Mr. Grant?”

“I suppose it is necessary.”

“Oh, yes. You found the body, you know. Besides, you may be the only person who can give evidence of identity. In fact, you and the doctor will be the only witnesses called.”

“Dr. Foxton?”

“Yes.”

“Has he made a post-mortem?”

“He is doing so now. You see, there is clear indication that this unfortunate lady was struck a heavy blow, perhaps killed, before she was put in the river.”

“Good Heavens! Somehow, I was so stunned that I never thought of looking for signs of any injury of that sort.”

Grant’s horror-stricken air was so spontaneous that it probably justified the severe test of that unexpected disclosure. He was so unnerved by it that the two policemen had gone before he could frame another question.

Once they were in the open road, and well away from The Hollies, Robinson ventured to open his mouth.

“He’s a clever one is Mr. Grant,” he said meaningly. “You handled him a bit of all right, sir, but he didn’t tell you everything he knew, not by long chalks.”

The superintendent walked a few yards in silence. Even when he spoke, his gaze was introspective, and seemed to ignore his companion.

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Robinson,” he said, speaking very slowly. “We have a big case in our hands, a very big case. We must tread warily. You, in particular, mixing with the village folk, should listen to all but say nothing. Don’t depend on your memory. Write down what you hear and see. People’s actual words, and the exact time of an occurrence, often have an extraordinarily illuminating effect when weighed subsequently. But don’t let Mr. Grant think you suspect him. There is no occasion for that—yet.”

Mr. Fowler could be either blunt or cryptic in speech at will. In one mood he was the straightforward, outspoken official; in another the potential lawyer. P. C. Robinson, though unable to describe his chief’s erratic qualities, was unpleasantly aware of them. He was not quite sure, for instance, whether the superintendent was encouraging or warning him, but, being a dogged person, resolved to “take his own line,” and stick to it.

Grant passed a distressful day. Work was not to be thought of, and reading was frankly impossible. His mind dwelt constantly on the tragedy which had come so swiftly and completely into his ordered life. He could not wholly discard the nebulous theory suggested by Superintendent Fowler, but the more he surveyed it the less reasonable it seemed. The one outstanding fact in a chaos of doubt was that someone had deliberately done Adelaide Melhuish to death. The murderer had been actuated by a motive. What was that motive? Surely, in a place like Steynholme no man could come and go without being seen, and the murderer must be a stranger to the district, because it was ridiculous to imagine that he was one of the residents.

Yet that was exactly what a dunderheaded policeman believed. P. C. Robinson had revealed himself by many a covert glance and prick-eared movement. Grant squirmed uneasily at the crass conceit, as there was no denying that circumstances tended towards a certain doubt, if no more, in regard to his own association with the crime.

The admission called for a fierce struggle with his pride, but he forced himself to think the problem out in all its bearings, and the folly of adopting the legendary policy of the chased ostrich became manifest. What, then, should he do? He thought, at first, of invoking the aid of a barrister friend, who could watch the inquest in his behalf.

Nevertheless, he shrank from that step, which, to his super-sensitive nature, implied the need of legal protection, and he fiercely resented the mere notion of such a thing. But something must be done. Once the murderer was laid by the heels his own troubles would vanish, and the storm raised by the unhappy fate of Adelaide Melhuish would subside into a sad memory.

He was wrestling with indecision when a newspaper reporter called. Grant received the journalist promptly, and told him all the salient facts, suppressing only the one-time prospect of a marriage between himself and the famous actress.

The reporter went with him to the river, and scrutinized the marks, now rapidly becoming obliterated, of the body having been drawn ashore.

“The rope and iron staple, I understand, were taken from the premises of a man who lets boats for hire on the dam quarter of a mile away,” he said casually.

Grant was astounded at his own failure to make any inquiry whatsoever concerning this vital matter. He laughed grimly.

“You can imagine the state of my mind,” he said, “when I assure you that, until this moment, it never occurred to me even to ask where these articles came from or what had become of them.”

“I can sympathize with you,” said the journalist. “A brutal murder seems horribly out of place in this environment. It is a mysterious business altogether. I wonder if Scotland Yard will take it up.”

Grant surprised him by clapping him on the back.

“By Jove, my friend, the very thing! Of course, such an investigation requires bigger brains than our local police are endowed with. Scotland Yard must take it up. I’ll wire there at once. If necessary, I’ll pay all expenses.”

The newspaper man had his doubts. The “Yard,” he said, acted in the provinces only if appealed to by the authorities directly concerned. But Grant was not to be stayed by a trifle like that. He hurried to the post office, hoping that Doris Martin might walk back with him.

The girl and her father were busy behind the counter when he entered. He noticed that Doris was rather pale. She was about to attend to him, but Mr. Martin intervened. It struck Grant that the postmaster was purposely preventing his daughter from speaking to him.

For some inexplicable reason, he felt miserably tongue-tied, and was content to write a message to the Chief Commissioner of Police, London, asking that a skilled detective should be sent forthwith to Steynholme.

Mr. Martin read it gravely, stated the cost, and procured the requisite stamps. In the event, Grant quitted the place without exchanging a word with Doris, while her father, usually a chatty man, said not a syllable beyond what was barely needed.

As he passed down the hill and by the side of the Green he was aware of being covertly watched by many eyes. He saw P. C. Robinson peering from behind a curtained window. Siddle, the chemist, came to the shop door, and looked after him. Hobbs, the butcher, ceased sharpening a knife and gazed out. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds Inn, surveyed him from the “snug.”

These things were not gracious. Indeed, they were positively maddening. He went home, gave an emphatic order that no one, except Miss Martin, if she called, was to be admitted and savagely buried himself in a treatise on earth-tides.

But that day of events had not finished for him yet. He had, perforce, eaten a good meal, and was thinking of going to the post office in order to clear up an undoubted misapprehension in Mr. Martin’s mind, when Minnie Bates came with a card.

“If you please, sir,” said the girl, “this gentleman is very pressing. He says he’s sure you’ll give him an interview when you see his name.”

So Grant looked, and read:—

Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman

Prince’s Chambers, London, W.

Chapter IV.
A Cabal

Grant stared again at the card. A tiny silver bell seemed to tinkle a sort of warning in a recess of his brain. The name was not engraved in copper-plate, but printed in heavy type. Somehow, it looked ominous. His first impression was to bid Minnie send the man away. He distrusted any first impression. It was the excuse of mediocrity, a sign of weakness. Moreover, why shouldn’t he meet Isidor G. Ingerman?

“Show him in,” he said, almost gruffly, thus silencing shy intuition, as it were. He threw the card on the table.

Mr. Ingerman entered. He did not offer any conventional greeting, but nodded, or bowed. Grant could not be sure which form of salutation was intended, because the visitor promptly sat down, uninvited.

Minnie hesitated at the door. Her master’s callers were usually cheerful Bohemians, who chatted at sight. Then she caught Grant’s eye, and went out, banging the door in sheer nervousness.

Still Mr. Ingerman did not speak. If this was a pose on his part, he erred. Grant had passed through a trying day, but he owned the muscles and nerves of an Alpine climber, and had often stared calmly down a wall of rock and ice which he had just conquered, when the least slip would have meant being dashed to pieces two thousand feet below.

There was some advantage, too, in this species of stage wait. It enabled him to take the measure of Adelaide Melhuish’s husband, if, indeed, the visitor was really the man he professed to be.

At first sight, Isidor G. Ingerman was not a prepossessing person. Indeed, it would be safe to assume that if, by some trick of fortune, he and not Grant were the tenant of The Hollies, P. C. Robinson would have haled him to the village lock-up that very morning. It was not that he was villainous-looking, but rather that he looked capable of villainy. He was a tall, slender, rather stooping man, with a decidedly well-molded, if hawk-like, face. His aspect might be described as saturnine. Possibly, when he smiled, this morose expression would vanish, and then he might even win a favorable opinion. He had brilliant black eyes, close set, and an abundant crop of black hair, turning gray, which, in itself, lent an air of distinction. His lips were thin, his chin slightly prominent. He was well dressed, and managed a hat, stick, and gloves with ease. Altogether, he reminded Grant of a certain notable actor who is invariably cast for the rôle of a gentlemanly scoundrel, but who, in private life, is a most excellent fellow and good citizen. Oddly enough, Grant recognized in him, too, the type of man who would certainly have appealed to Adelaide Melhuish in her earlier and impressionable years.

Meanwhile, the visitor, finding that the clear-eyed young man seated in an easy chair (from which he had not risen) could seemingly regard him with blank indifference during the next hour, thought fit to say something.

“Is my name familiar to you, Mr. Grant?” he inquired.

The voice was astonishingly soft and pleasant, and the accent agreeably refined. Evidently, there were surprising points about Mr. Ingerman. Long afterwards, Grant learned, by chance, that the man had been an actor before branching off into that mysterious cosmopolitan profession known as “a financier.”

“No,” said Grant. “I have heard it very few times. Once, about three years ago, and today, when I mentioned it to the police.”

The other man’s sallow cheeks grew a shade more sallow. Grant supposed that this slight change of color indicated annoyance. Of course, the association of ideas in that curt answer was intolerably rude. But Grant had been tried beyond endurance that day. He was in a mood to be brusque with an archbishop.

“We can disregard your confidences, or explanations, to the police,” said Ingerman smoothly. “Three years ago, I suppose, my wife spoke of me?”

“If you mean Miss Adelaide Melhuish—yes.”

“I do mean her. To be exact, I mean the lady who was murdered outside this house last night.”

Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of even a novelist’s skill in repartee. Thus far, he, Grant, had been merely uncivil, using a bludgeon for wit, whereas the visitor was making play with a finely-tempered rapier.

“Now that you have established your identity, Mr. Ingerman, perhaps you will tell me why you are here,” he said.

“I have come to Steynholme to inquire into my wife’s death.”

“A most laudable purpose. I was given to understand, however, that at one time you took little interest in her living. I have not seen Mrs. Ingerman for three years—until last night, that is—so there is a chance, of course, that husband and wife may have adjusted their differences. Is that so?”

“Until last night!” repeated Ingerman, almost in a startled tone. “You admit that?”

Grant turned and pointed.

“I saw, or fancied I saw, her face at that window,” he said. “She looked in on me about ten minutes to eleven. I was hard at work, but the vision, as it seemed then, was so weird and unexpected, that I went straight out and searched for her. Perhaps ‘searched’ is not quite the right word. To be exact, I opened the French window, stood there, and listened. Then I persuaded myself that I was imagining a vain thing, and came in.”

“What was she doing here?”

“I don’t know.”

“She arrived in Steynholme on Sunday evening, I am told.”

“I heard that, too.”

“You imply that you did not meet her?”

“No need to imply anything, Mr. Ingerman. I did not meet her. Beyond the fanciful notion that I had seen her ghost last night, the first I knew of her presence in the village was when I recognized her dead body this morning.”

“Strange as it may sound, I am inclined to believe you.”

Grant said nothing. He wanted to get up and pitch Ingerman into the road.

“But who else will take that charitable view?” purred the other, in that suave voice which so ill accorded with his thin lips and slightly hooked nose.

“I really don’t care,” was the weary answer.

“Not at the moment, perhaps. You have had a trying day, no doubt. My visit at its close cannot be helpful. But—”

“I am feeling rather tired mentally,” interrupted Grant, “so you will oblige me by not raising too many points at once. Why should you imagine that conversation with you in particular should add to my supposed distress?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“Why, then, may I ask, do you so obviously resent my questions? Who has so much right to put them as I?”

Grant found that he must bestir himself. Thus far, the honors lay with this rather sinister-looking yet quiet-mannered visitor.

“I am sorry if anything I have said lends color to that belief,” he answered. “Candidly, I began by assuming that you forfeited any legal right years ago to interfere in behalf of Miss Melhuish, living or dead. Let us, at least, be candid with each other. Miss Melhuish herself told me that you and she had separated by mutual consent.”

“Allow me to emulate your candor. The actual fact is that you weaned my wife’s affections from me.”

“That is a downright lie,” said Grant coolly.

Ingerman’s peculiar temperament permitted him to treat this grave insult far more lightly than Grant’s harmless, if irritating, reference to the police.

“Let us see just what ‘a lie’ signifies,” he said, almost judicially. “If a lady deserts her husband, and there is good reason to suspect that she is, in popular phrase, ‘carrying on’ with another man, how can the husband be lying if he charges that man with being the cause of the domestic upheaval?”

“In this instance a hypothetical case is not called for. Three years ago, Mr. Ingerman, you had parted from your wife. Your name was never mentioned. Apparently, none in my circle had even heard of you. Miss Melhuish had won repute as a celebrated actress. I met her, in a sense, professionally. We became friends. I fancied I was in love with her. I proposed marriage. Then, and not until then, did the ghost of Mr.”—Grant bent forward, and consulted the card—“Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman intrude.”

“So marriage was out of the question?”

“If you expect an answer—yes.”

Ingerman rested the handle of his stick against his lips.

“That isn’t how the situation was represented to me at the time,” he said thoughtfully.

Grant was still sore with the recollection of the way in which the superintendent of police had forced him to confess the pitiful scheme whereby a woman in love had sought to gain her ends. He refused to sully her memory a second time that day, even to gain the upper hand in this troublesome controversy.

“I neither know nor care what representations may have been made to you,” he retorted. “I merely tell you the literal truth.”

“Possibly. Possibly. It was not I who used the word ‘lie,’ remember. But if you are ungracious enough to refuse to withdraw the offensive phrase, let it pass. We are not in France. This deadly business will be fought out in the law courts. I am here to-night of my own initiative. I thought it only fair and reasonable that you and I should meet before we are brought face to face at a coroner’s inquest, and, it may be, in an Assize Court.... No, no, Mr. Grant. Pray do not put the worst construction on my words. Someone murdered my wife. If the police show intelligence and reasonable skill, someone will be tried for the crime. You and I will certainly be witnesses. That is what I meant to convey. The doubt in my mind was this—whether to be actively hostile or passively friendly to the man who, next to me, was interested in the poor woman now lying dead in a wretched stable of this village.”

The almost diabolical cleverness of this long speech, delivered without heat and with singularly adroit stress on various passages, was revealed by its effect on Grant. He was at once infuriated and puzzled. Ingerman was playing him as a fisherman humors a well-hooked salmon. The simile actually occurred to him, and he resolved to precipitate matters by coming straightway to the landing-net.

“Is your friendship purchasable?” he inquired, making the rush without further preamble.

“My wife was, I was led to believe,” came the calm retort.

Grant threw scruples to the wind now. Adelaide Mulhuish was being defamed, not by him, but by her husband.

“We are at cross purposes,” he said, weighing each word. “Your wife, who knew your character fairly well, I am convinced, thought that you were open to receive a cash consideration for your connivance in a divorce.”

“She had told me plainly that she would never live with me again. I was too fair-minded a man to place obstacles in the way when she wished to regain her freedom.”

“So it was true, then. What was the price? One thousand—two? I am not a millionaire.”

“Nor am I. As a mere matter of pounds, shillings, and pence, it was a serious matter for me when my wife’s earnings ceased to come into the common stock.”

“My first, if rather vague, estimate of you was the correct one. You are a good bit of a scoundrel, and, if I guess rightly, a would-be blackmailer.”

“You are talking at random, Mr. Grant. The levying of blackmail connotes that the person bled desires that some discreditable, or dangerous, fact should be concealed.”

“Such is not my position.”

“I—I wonder.”

“I can relieve you of any oppressive doubt. I informed the police some few hours ago that you have appeared already in a similar role.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” snarled Ingerman, suddenly abandoning his pose, and gazing at Grant with a curiously snakelike glint in his black eyes.

“Yes. It interested them, I fancied.”

Grant was sure of his man now, and rather relieved that the battle of wits was turning in his favor.

“So you have begun already to scheme your defense?”

“Hadn’t you better go?” was the contemptuous retort.

“You refuse to answer any further questions?”

“I refuse to buy your proffered friendship—whatever that may mean.”

“Have I offered to sell it?”

“I gathered as much.”

Ingerman rose. He was still master of himself, though his lanky body was taut with rage. He spoke calmly and with remarkable restraint.

“Go through what I have said, and discover, if you can, the slightest hint of any suggested condonation of your offenses, whether avowed or merely suspected. I shall prove beyond dispute that you came between me and my wife. Don’t hug the delusion that your three years’ limit will save you. It will not. I wish you well of your attempt to prove that I was a consenting party to divorce proceedings. I came here to look you over. I have done so, and have arrived at a very definite opinion. I, also, have been interviewed by the police, and any unfavorable views they may have formed concerning me as the outcome of your ex parte statements are more than counteracted by the ugly facts of a ghastly murder. You were here shortly before eleven o’clock last night. My wife was here, too, and alive. This morning she was found dead, by you. At eleven o’clock last night I was playing bridge with three city men in my flat. When the news of the murder reached me to-day my first thought, after the shock of it had passed, was:—‘That fellow, Grant, may be innocently involved in a terrible crime, and I may figure as the chief witness against him.’ I am not speaking idly, as you will learn to your cost. Yet, when I come on an errand of mercy, you have the impudence to charge me with blackmail. You are in for a great awakening. Be sure of that!”

And Isidor G. Ingerman walked out, leaving Grant uncomfortably aware that he had not seen the last of an implacable and bitter enemy.

It was something new and very disturbing for a writer to find himself in the predicament of a man with an absolutely clear conscience yet perilously near the meshes of the criminal law. He had often analyzed such a situation in his books, but fiction diverged so radically from hard fact that the sensation was profoundly disconcerting, to say the least.

He did not go to the post office. He was not equal to any more verbal fire-works that evening. So he lit a pipe, and reviewed Ingerman’s well-rounded periods very carefully, even taking the precaution to jot down exact phrases. He analyzed them, and saw that they were capable of two readings. Of course, it could not be otherwise. The plausible rascal must have conned them over until this essential was secured. Grant even went so far as to give them a grudging professional tribute. They held a canker of doubt, too, which it was difficult to dissect. Their veiled threats were perplexing. While their effect, as apart from literal significance, was fresh in his mind, he made a few notes of different interpretations.

He went to bed rather early, but could not sleep until the small hours. Probably his rest, such as it was, would have been even more disturbed had he been able to accompany Ingerman to the Hare and Hounds Inn.

A small but select company had gathered in the bar parlor. The two hours between eight and ten were the most important of the day to the landlord, Mr. Tomlin. It was then that he imparted and received the tit-bits of local gossip garnered earlier, the process involving a good deal of play with shining beer-handles and attractively labeled bottles.

But this was a special occasion. Never before had there been a Steynholme murder before the symposium. Hitherto, such a grewsome topic was supplied, for the most part, by faraway London. To-night the eeriness and dramatic intensity of a notable crime lay at the very doors of the village.

So Tomlin was more portentous than usual; Hobbs, the butcher, more assertive, Elkin, the “sporty” breeder of polo ponies, more inclined to “lay odds” on any conceivable subject, and Siddle, the chemist, a reserved man at the best, even less disposed to voice a definite opinion.

Elkin was about twenty-five years of age, Siddle looked younger than his probable thirty-five years, while the others were on the stout and prosperous line of fifty.

They were discussing the murder, of course, when Ingerman entered, and ordered a whiskey and soda. Instantly there was dead silence. Looks and furtive winks were exchanged. There had been talk of a detective being employed. Perhaps this was he. Mr. Tomlin knew the stranger’s name, as he had taken a room, but that was the extent of the available information.

“A fine evenin’, sir,” said Tomlin, drawing a cork noisily. “Looks as though we were in for a spell o’ settled weather.”

“Yes,” agreed Ingerman, summing up the conclave at a glance. “Somehow, such a lovely night ill accords with the cause of my visit to Steynholme.”

“In-deed, sir?”

“Well, you and these other gentlemen may judge for yourselves. It will be no secret tomorrow. I am the husband of the lady who was found in the river outside Mr. Grant’s residence this morning.”

Sensation, as the descriptive reporters put it. Mr. Tomlin was dumbly but unanimously elected chairman of the meeting, and was vaguely aware of his responsibilities. He drew himself a fresh glass of bitter.

“You don’t tell me, sir!” he gasped. “Well, the idee! The pore lady’s letters were addressed to Miss Adelaide Melhuish. Perhaps you don’t know, sir, that she stayed here!”

“Oh, yes. I was told that by the local police-constable. Have I, by any chance, been given her room?”

“No, sir. Not likely. It’s locked, and the police have the key till the inquest is done with.”

“As for the name,” explained Ingerman, in his suave voice, “that was a mere stage pseudonym, an adopted name. My wife was a famous actress, and there is a sort of tacit agreement that a lady in the theatrical profession shall be known to the public as ‘Miss’ rather than ‘Mrs.’”

“Well, there!” wheezed Tomlin. “Who’d ever ha’ thought it?”

The landlord was not quite rising to the occasion. He was, in fact, stunned by these repeated shocks. So Hobbs took charge.

“It’s a sad errand you’re on, sir,” he said. “Death comes to all of us, man an’ beast alike, but it’s a terrible thing when a lady like Miss— Mrs. ——”

“Ingerman is my name, but my wife will certainly be alluded to by the press as Miss Melhuish.”

“When a lady like Miss Melhuish is knocked on the ’ead like a—”

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.

But there was no need to hurry. Next day’s inquest would be a mere formality. The real struggle would begin a week or a fortnight later.

“You have said a very wise thing, sir,” he murmured appreciatively. “Even my feelings must be kept under better control. But this is no ordinary murder. Before it is cleared up there will be astounding revelations. Mark the word—astounding.”

Hobbs, whose heavy cheeks were of a brick-red tint, almost startled the conclave by a sudden outburst which gave him an apoplectic appearance.

“You’re too kind’earted, Siddle,” he cried. “Wot’s the use of talkin’ rubbish. We all know where the body was found. We all know that Doris Martin an’ Mr. Grant were a’sweet-’eartin’ in the garden—”

“Look here, Hobbs, just keep Doris Martin’s name out of it!” shouted Elkin, smiting the table with his fist till the glasses danced.

“Gentlemen!” protested Siddle gently.

“It’s all dashed fine, but I’m not—” blustered Elkin. He yielded to Ingerman’s outstretched hand.

“I seem to have brought discord into a friendly gathering,” came the mournful comment. “Such was far from being my intent. Landlord, the round is on me, with cigars. Now, let us talk of anything but this horror. If I forget myself again, pull me up short, and fine me another round.”

Siddle half rose, but thought better of it. Evidently, he meant to use his influence to stop foolish chatter.

Chapter V.
The Seeds of Mischief

Ingerman was a shrewder judge of human nature than the village chemist. As well try to stem the flowing tide as stop tongues from wagging when such a theme offered.

Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After this professional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact.

“I’m sure you local residents will be interested, at least, in hearing something of my wife’s career,” he said. “There never was a more lovable and gracious woman, and no couple could be more united than she and I till some three years ago. Then came a break. She was independent of me, of course. She was a celebrity, I a mere nobody, best known, if at all, as ‘Miss Melhuish’s husband.’ Nevertheless, we were devoted to each other until, to her and my lasting misfortune, a certain author wrote a book which, when dramatized, contained a part for which my wife’s stage presence and talents seemed to be peculiarly suited.”

Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges in stubble. Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of the covey, however.

“I name no names,” he said solemnly. “Nor am I telling you anything that will not be thoroughly exposed before the coroner and elsewhere. From that unhappy period dated our estrangement. My wife fell under a fatal influence which lasted, practically unchecked, until the day, if not the very hour, of her death. Do I blame her? No—a thousand times no! You see me, a plain man, considerably her senior. I had not the gift of writing impassioned love passages in which she could display her artistic genius. When I came home from the City, tired after the day’s work, she was just beginning hers. You know what London fashionable life is—the theater, a supper, a dance, some great lady’s ‘reception,’ and the rest of it. Ah, me! The stage, and literature, and the arts generally are not for poor fellows moiling in a City office. You gentlemen, I take it, are all happily married—”

“I’m not,” said Elkin, “but I’ll lay you long odds I will be soon.”

For some reason, this remark produced a certain uneasiness among his friends. Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars “stood” by this talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again, examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to say something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then Ingerman made a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs’s cryptic allusion had meant.

“Good luck to you, sir,” he said, “but—take no offense—don’t marry an actress. There’s an old adage, ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’ I would go farther, and interpolate the word ‘should.’ If Adelaide Melhuish had never met me, but had married the man who could write her plays, this tragedy in real life would never have been.”

“D—n him,” muttered Elkin fiercely. “He’s done for now, anyhow. He’ll turn no more girls’ heads for a bit.”

“An’ five minutes since you yapped at me like a vicious fox-terrier for ’intin’ much the same thing,” chortled Hobbs.

Siddle stood up.

“You ain’t goin’, Mr. Siddle?” went on the butcher. “It’s ’ardly ’arf past nine.”

“I have some accounts to get out. It’s near the half year, you know,” and Siddle vanished unobtrusively.

Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was a refractory bullock.

“Siddle’s a fair-minded chap,” he said. “He can’t stand ’earin’ any of us ’angin’ a man without a fair trial.”

Ingerman had marked the chemist for more subtle treatment when an opportunity arose, or could be made. At present, he was not sorry such a restraining influence was removed. The next half hour should prove a golden one if well utilized. He was right. Before the inn was cleared, what between Elkin’s savage comments and the other men’s thinly-veiled allusions, he knew all that Steynholme could tell with regard to Grant and Doris Martin.

Grant’s first thought next morning was of the girl who had been thrust so prominently into his life by the death of another woman. That was, perhaps, the strangest outcome of the tragedy. Doris was easily the prettiest and most intelligent girl in the village, a rare combination in itself, even among young ladies of much higher social position than a postmaster’s daughter. But her father was a self-educated man, whose life had been given to books, whose only hobby was the culture and study of bees. He had often refused promotion, solely because his duties at Steynholme were light, and permitted of many free hours. In his only child he found a quick pupil and a sympathetic helper. Of her own accord she took to poetry and music. In effect, had Doris Martin attended the best of boarding-schools and training colleges, she would have received a smattering of French and a fair knowledge of the piano or violin, whereas, after more humble tuition, it might fairly be said of her that few girls of her age had read so many books and assimilated their contents so thoroughly. From her mother she inherited her good looks and a small yearly income, just sufficient to maintain a better wardrobe than her father’s salary would permit.

Grant, newly settled in Steynholme, found the postmaster and his daughter intellectually on a par with himself, and this claim could certainly not be made on behalf of the local “society” element. The three became excellent friends. Naturally, the young people spent a good deal of time together. But there had been no love-making—not a hint or whisper of it!

And now, by cruel chance, their names were linked by scandal in its most menacing form, since there was no gainsaying the fact that Doris’s star-gazing on that fatal Monday night was indissolubly bound up with the death of Adelaide Melhuish.

For the first time, then, the notion peeped up in Grant’s mind that the whirligig of existence might see Doris his wife. But the conceit resembled the Gorgon’s teeth, which, when sown in the ground, sprang forth as armed men. The very accident which revealed a not unpleasing possibility had established a grave obstacle in the way of its ultimate realization. Already there was a cloud between him and the Martins, father and daughter. To what a tempest might not that cloud develop when the questionings and innuendoes of the inquest established an aura of suspicion and intrigue around a perfectly innocent meeting in the garden of The Hollies!

Grant ate his breakfast in wrath. In wrath, too, he glanced through the morning newspapers, and saw his own name figuring large in the “story” of the “alleged” murder. The reporters had missed nothing. They had even got hold of the “peculiar coincidence” of his (Grant’s) glimpse of a face at the window. His play was recalled, and Adelaide Melhuish’s success in the title-rôle. Then Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman was introduced. He was described as “a man fairly well known in the City.” That was all. The press could say nothing as yet of marital disagreements, nor was any hint concerning Doris Martin allowed to appear. But these journalistic fire-works were only held in reserve. “Dramatic and sensational developments” were promised, and police activity in “an unexpected direction” fore-shadowed.

All of which, of course, was mere journalistic paraphrasing of circumstances already known to the writers, and none the less galling to Grant on that account.

And there was no answer from the Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard. True, the overnight telegram might have reached the Department after office hours. Grant, like most members of the general public, held the vague belief that Government officials do very little work. Still, one might reasonably expect better things from the institution which was supposed to safeguard law-abiding citizens.

Calm analysis of Ingerman’s nebulous threats had revealed a hostile force not to be despised. Possibly, the man was already in league with that narrow-minded village constable, so every passing hour made more urgent the need of a trained intelligence being brought to bear on the mystery of Adelaide Melhuish’s killing. Grant racked his brains to discover who could possibly have a motive for committing the crime. Naturally, his thoughts flew to Ingerman. Surely that sinister-looking person should be forced to give an account of himself instead of, as was probable, being allowed to instill further nonsense into the suspicious mind of P. C. Robinson.

There were two morning deliveries of London letters in Steynholme, one at eight and another at half past ten. Grant waited until the postman had left a publisher’s circular (the only letter for The Hollies by the second mail). Then, in a fever of impatience, he jammed on a hat and went out. He would wait no longer. He would telegraph Scotland Yard again, and, incidentally, demand an audience at the post office.

No sooner had he entered the highroad than he saw P. C. Robinson on guard. That important person was standing on the bridge, apparently taking the air. He was nibbling the chin-strap of his helmet; both thumbs were locked in his belt. From that strategic position three roads came under observation.

It was a fine morning, and Grant’s sense of humor was not proof against this open espionage. He smiled, and determined to take a rise out of “Sherlock,” as Bates had christened the policeman.

The bridge lay a hundred yards to the left. The road was straight until it curved around the house and its shrubberies, so the view was blocked on that side. Grant filled and lighted a pipe with a deliberateness meant to be provoking, glancing several times doubtfully at P. C. Robinson, who, of course, was grandly unaware of his presence. Then he strolled off to the right, and, when hidden, took to his heels for a hundred yards sprint. Turning into a winding bridle-path tucked between hedges of thorn and hazels, he walked to a point where it crossed a patch of furze. At a little distance a hand-bridge spanned the river, and gave access to the eastern end of the village by a steep climb of the wooded cliff. The path, in fact, was a short cut to that part of Steynholme.

He sat on a hump of rock, and waited. It was a boyish trick, but very successful. Within three minutes, at the utmost, P. C. Robinson hurried past, using a stalking, stealthy stride which was distinctly ludicrous.

The eyes of the two men met, but Grant alone was prepared.

“Hello, Robinson!” he cried cheerfully. “What’s the rush? Surely our rural peace has not been disturbed again?”

Robinson knew he had been “sold,” but rose to the occasion.

“Excuse me, Mr. Grant,” he puffed. “Can’t wait now. Have an appointment. I’ll see you later.”

Honor demanded that he should not relax that swift pace. Unhappily, the path up the cliff was visible throughout from Grant’s rock, so, on reaching the summit, Robinson was a-boil in more ways than one. Moreover, peeping through the first screen of trees that offered, he had the mortification of seeing the man who had befooled him go back the way he came.

Purple-faced with heat and anger, the policeman forgot his surroundings, and glowered at Grant with real fury. So he heard no one approaching along the main road until he was hailed a second time with, “Hello, Robinson!”

He turned sharply. This was Mr. Elkin.

“Good morning!” he said. “Have you seen the superintendent?”

“What? Mr. Fowler? No. Is he here so early?”

“I must have missed him.”

“Well, you’ll hardly find him on Bush Walk,” which was the name of the path.

“You never can tell,” came the dark answer.

At any rate, the policeman elected to abandon his self-imposed vigil, and the two walked together into the village.

“My! You look as though you’d run a mile,” commented Elkin.

“This murder has kept me busy,” growled the other, frankly mopping his forehead.

“Ay, that’s so. And it isn’t done with yet, by a long way. Pity you weren’t in the Hare and Hounds last night. You’d have heard something. There’s a chap staying there, name of Ingerman—”

“I’ve met him. The dead woman’s husband.”

“Oh, perhaps you’ve got his yarn already?”

“It all depends what he said to you.”

“Well, he hinted things. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, you’ll soon be making an arrest.”

“I believe I could put my hand on the murderer this very minute,” said Robinson vindictively.

Elkin laughed, somewhat half-heartedly.

“Lay you fifty to one against the time,” he said. “I’m the only one near enough for that limit, you know.”

The policeman realized that he had allowed annoyance to shake his wits. He looked at Elkin rather sharply, and noticed that the horse-breeder seemed to be nervous and ill.

“I didn’t quite mean that I could grab my man this minute,” he said, “but, if I can guess him, it amounts to nearly the same thing. What have you been doing to yourself, Mr. Elkin? You look peeky to-day.”

“Too much whiskey and tobacco. I’ll call at Siddle’s for a ‘pick-me-up.’ Am I wanted for the jury?”

“Yes. I left a notice at your place last evening.”

“I didn’t get it.”

“Been away?”

“No. Fact is, I went home late, and didn’t bother about letters this morning. What time is the inquest?”

“Three o’clock, in the club-room of the Hare and Hounds.”

“Will that fellow, Grant, be there?”

“Rather. Dr. Foxton warned him yesterday.”

“Good! What about Doris Martin? Will she be a witness?”

“Not to-day.”

They were entering the village, and could see down the long, wide slope of the hill. Grant had just come into sight at its foot.

Both men scowled at the distant figure, but neither passed any comment. They parted, the policeman walking straight on, Elkin bearing to the left. The chemist’s shop stood exactly opposite the post office, so Elkin, arriving first, was aware of his unconscious rival’s destination.

He had not answered Mr. Siddle’s greeting, but gazed moodily through a barricade of specifics piled in the window. Then he swore.

“What’s wrong now?” inquired the chemist quietly.

“That Grant. Got a nerve, hasn’t he?”

“I can’t say, unless you explain.”

“He’s just gone into the post office.”

“Why shouldn’t he? He wants stamps, may be; plenty of ’em, I should imagine.”

“Oh, you’re a fish, Siddle. You aren’t crazy about a girl, like I am. The sooner Grant’s in jail the better I’ll be pleased.”

“If you take my advice, which you won’t, I know, you will not utter that sort of remark publicly.”

“Can’t help it. Bet you a fiver I’m engaged to Doris Martin within a week.”

Mr. Siddle took thought.

“Why so quickly?” he asked, after a pause.

“I’ll catch her on the hop, of course. If she’s engaged to me it’ll help her a lot when this case comes into court.”

“I cannot believe that Doris would accept any man for such a reason.”

“I’m not ‘any man.’ She knows I’m after her. Will you take my bet, even money?”

“No. I don’t bet.”

“Well, you needn’t put a damper on me. In fact, you can’t. Have you that last prescription of Dr. Foxton’s handy? My liver wants a tonic.”

The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and retired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop.

“Shall I send it?” came his voice.

“No. I’ll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don’t mind.”

For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and fretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and had considered them in the “mixture.”

The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a stranger, was seated at the telegraphist’s desk, tapping a new instrument. The G. P. O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with press messages.

Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. His kindly, somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle.

“Good morning, Mr. Martin,” said Grant.

“Good morning. What can I do for you?” was the stiff reply. Grant was in no mind to be rebuffed, however.

“I must have a word with you in private,” he said.

“I’m sorry—but my time is quite full.”

“I’m sorry, too, but the matter is urgent.”

The click of the sounder became less businesslike. There was an element in the tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist’s attention. Martin, usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was obviously ill at ease. But he simply could not hold out against Grant’s compelling gaze.

“Come into the back room,” he said nervously. “Call me if I’m needed,” he added, nodding to his assistant.

Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the “back parlor” through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gave a delightful glimpse of The Hollies. A window-box of mignonette filled the air with its delicate perfume. Grant hoped that Doris would be there, but the only signs of her recent presence were a hat and an open book on the table.

“Now, Mr. Martin,” he said gravely, “you and I should have a serious talk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certain malicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To me these things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter’s age they are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you can regulate your actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is why I am here to-day. That is why I came here yesterday, but your attitude took me aback, and I was idiot enough to go without a word of explanation. I was too shaken then to see my clear course, and follow it regardless of personal feelings. This morning I am master of myself, and I insist that you listen now while I tell you exactly what occurred on Monday night.”

“Surely—these matters—are—for the authorities,” stammered the older man.

“What? Your daughter’s good name?”

Mr. Martin reddened. His agitation was pitiful.

“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.”

Grant knew the topography of the house. Without asking permission, he tore through yet a third door leading to a kitchen and scullery, nearly upsetting a tiny maid who had her ear or eye to the key-hole, and raced into the garden in which the postmaster kept his bees.

Doris, standing with her hands behind her back, was looking at The Hollies, and deep in conversation with an alert and natty little man who was evidently absorbed in what she was saying.

Grant, in a whirl of fury, was only conscious that Doris’s companion was slight, almost diminutive, of frame, very erect, and dressed in a well-fitting blue serge suit, neat brown boots and straw hat, when the two heard his footsteps.

Doris was flustered. Her Romney face held a look of scare.

“Oh, here is Mr. Grant!” she said, striving vainly to speak with composure.

The little man pierced Grant with an extraordinarily penetrating glance from very bright and deeply-recessed black eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Grant, is it!” he chirped pleasantly. “Good morning! So you’re the villain of the piece, are you?”

Chapter VI.
Scotland Yard Takes a Hand

It was a singular greeting, to say the least, and the person who uttered it was quite as remarkable as his queer method of expressing himself seemed to indicate.

Grant, though in a fume of hot anger, had the good sense to choke back the first impetuous reprimand trembling on his lips. In fact, wrath quickly subsided into blank incredulity. He saw before him, not the conventional detective who might be described as a superior Robinson—not even the sinewy, sharp-eyed, and well-spoken type of man whom he had once heard giving evidence in a famous jewel-robbery case—but rather one whom he would have expected to meet in the bar of a certain well-known restaurant in Maiden Lane, a corner of old London where literally all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

During his theatrical experiences he had come across scores of such men, dapper little fellows, wizened of face yet curiously youthful in manner; but they, each and all, were labeled “low comedian.” Certainly, a rare intelligence gleamed from this man’s eyes, but that is an attribute not often lacking in humorists who command high salaries because of their facility in laughter-making. This man, too, had the wide, thin-lipped, mobile mouth of the actor. His ivory-white, wrinkled forehead and cheeks, the bluish tint on jaws and chin, his voice, his perky air, the very tilt of his straw hat, were eloquent of the footlights. Even his opening words, bizarre and cheerfully impertinent, smacked of “comic relief.”

“I figure prominently in this particular ‘piece,’” snapped Grant. “May I ask your name, sir?”

“A wise precaution with suspicious characters,” rejoined the other, smiling. Grant was suddenly reminded of a Japanese grinning at a joke, but he bent over a card which the stranger had whisked out of a waistcoat pocket. He read:

Mr. Charles F. Furneaux,

Criminal Investigation Department,

New Scotland Yard, S.W.

He could not control himself. He gazed at Mr. Charles F. Furneaux with a surprise that was not altogether flattering.

“Did the Commissioner of Police send you in response to my telegram?” he said.

“That is what lawyers call a leading question,” came the prompt retort. “And I hate lawyers. They darken understanding, and set honest men at loggerheads.”

“But it happens to be very much to the point at this moment.”

“Well, Mr. Grant, if you really press for an answer, it is ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’ The Commissioner received a certain telegram, but he may have acted on other grounds. Even Commissioners can be creatures of impulse, or expediency, just as the situation demands.

“You are here, at any rate.”

“That is what legal jargon terms an admitted fact.”

“Then you had better begin by assuming that I am no villain.”

“It is assumed. It couldn’t well be otherwise after the excellent character you have been given by this young lady.”

“She, at least, will speak well of me, I do believe,” said Grant, with a strange bitterness, for his heart was sore because of the seeming defection of his friend, the postmaster. “What I actually had in mind was the stupidity of the local policeman, who is convinced that I am both a criminal and a fool.”

“The two are often synonymous,” said Furneaux dryly. “But I acquitted you on both counts, Mr. Grant, on hearing, and even seeing, how you spent Monday evening.”

Grant, who had cooled down considerably, found a hint of badinage in this comment.

“You have evidently been told that Miss Martin and I were star-gazing in the garden of my house,” he said. “It happens to be true.”

“Oh, yes. There was a very fine cluster of small stars in Canis Major, south of Sirius, that night.”

“You know something about the constellations, then?” was the astonished query.

“Enough for the purposes of Scotland Yard,” smirked Furneaux, who had checked P. C. Robinson’s one-sided story by referring to Whitaker’s Almanack. “It may relieve your mind if I tell you that I have never seen a real live astronomer in the dock. Venus and Mars are often in trouble, but their devoted observers seldom, if ever.”

Grant warmed to this strange species of detective, though, if pressed for an instant decision, he would vastly have preferred that one of more orthodox style had been intrusted with an inquiry so vital to his own happiness and good repute. Eager, however, to pour forth his worries into any official ear, he brought back the talk to a definite channel.

“Will you come to my place?” he asked. “I have much to say. Let me assure you now, in Miss Martin’s presence, that she is no more concerned in this ghastly business than any other young lady in the village.”

“But she is interested. And you are. And I am. Why not discuss matters here, for the present, I mean? We have a glorious view of your house and grounds. We can see without being seen. None can overhear. I advise both of you to go thoroughly into this matter here and now.”

Furneaux spoke emphatically. Even Doris put in a timid plea.

“Perhaps that would be the best thing to do,” she said. “Mr. Furneaux has been most sympathetic. I am sure he understands things already in a way that is quite wonderful to me.”

The very sound of her voice was comforting. Grant might have argued with the detective, but could not resist Doris. Without further demur he went through the whole story, giving precise details of events on the Monday night. Then the recital widened out into a history of his relations with Adelaide Melhuish. He omitted nothing. Doris gasped when she heard Superintendent Fowler’s version of the view a coroner’s jury might take of her presence in the garden of The Hollies at a late hour. But Grant did not spare her. He reasoned that she ought to be prepared for an ordeal which could not be avoided. He was governed by the astute belief that his very outspokenness in this respect would weaken the inferences which the police might otherwise draw from it.

Furneaux uttered never a word. He was a first-rate listener, though his behavior was most undetective-like, since he hardly looked at Grant or the girl, but seemed to devote his attention almost exclusively to the scenic panorama in front.

However, when Grant came to the somewhat strenuous passage-at-arms of the previous night between Ingerman and himself, the little man broke in at once.

“Isidor G. Ingerman?” he cried. “Is he a tall, lanky, cadaverous, rather crooked person, with black hair turning gray, and an absurdly melodious voice?”

“You have described him without an unnecessary word,” said Grant.

Furneaux clicked his tongue in a peculiar fashion.

“Go on!” he said. “It’s a regular romance—quite in your line, Mr. Grant, of course, but none the less enthralling because, as you so happily phrased Miss Martin’s lesson in astronomy, it happens to be true.”

Grant was scrupulously fair to Ingerman. He admitted the “financier’s” adroitness of speech, and made clear the fact that if the visit had the levying of blackmail for its object such a possible outcome was only hinted at vaguely. Being a novelist, one whose temperament sought for sunshine rather than gloom in life, he wound up in lighter vein. The ruse which tricked P. C. Robinson into a breathless scamper of nearly a mile on a hot day in June was described with gusto. Doris, who knew the village constable well, laughed outright, while Furneaux cackled shrilly. None who might be watching the little group in that delightful garden, with its scent of old-world flowers and drone of bees, could have guessed that a grewsome tragedy formed their major theme.

The girl was the first to realize that even harmless merriment was in ill accord with the presence of death, for the body of Adelaide Melhuish lay within forty yards of the place where they stood.

“May I leave you now?” she inquired. “Father may be wanting help in the office.”

“I shan’t detain you more than a few seconds,” said Furneaux briskly. “On Monday evening you two young people parted at half past ten. How do you fix the time?”

Doris answered without hesitation:

“The large window of Mr. Grant’s study was open, and we both heard a clock in the hall chime the half-hour. I said, ‘Goodness me, is that half past ten?’ and started for home at once. Mr. Grant came with me as far as the bridge. When I reached my room, in exactly five minutes after leaving The Hollies, I stood at the open window—that window”—and she pointed to a dormer casement above the sitting-room—“and looked out. It was a particularly fine night, mild, but not very clear, as a slight mist often rises from the river after a hot day in summer. I may have been there about ten minutes, no longer, when I saw the study window of The Hollies thrown open, and Mr. Grant’s figure was silhouetted by the lamp behind him. He seemed to be listening for something, so I, who must have heard any unusual sound, listened too. There was nothing. I could hear the ripple of the river beneath the bridge, so everything was very still. After a minute, or two, perhaps—no longer—Mr. Grant went in, and closed the window. Then I went to bed.”

“Did Mr. Grant draw any blind or curtains?”

“There are muslin curtains attached to each side of the window. One cannot see into the room from a distance.”

Furneaux measured an imaginary line drawn from Doris’s bedroom to the edge of the cliff, and prolonged it.

“Nor can you see the river or foot of the lawn from your room,” he commented.

“No. In winter I can just make out the edge of the lawn. When the trees are in leaf, all the lower part is hidden.”

“You had actually retired to rest about eleven, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“So if Mr. Grant came out again you would not know?” Doris blushed furiously, but her reply was unfaltering.

“I would have known during the next half-hour, at least,” she said. “An inclined mirror hangs in my room. I use it sometimes for adjusting a hat. The square of light from Mr. Grant’s room is reflected in it, and any sudden increase in the illumination caused by opening the window or pulling the curtains aside would certainly have caught my eye.”

“You have an unshakable witness in Miss Martin,” said Furneaux, stabbing a finger at Grant. “Now, I’ll hurry off. You and I, Mr. Grant, meet at Philippi, otherwise known as the crowner’s quest.”

Any benevolent intent he may have had in leaving these young people together was, however, frustrated by Doris, whose composure seemed to have fled since her statement about the mirror. She resolutely accompanied the detective, and Grant had to follow. All three passed into the post office, Doris using the private door. Mr. Martin looked up from his desk when they appeared, and requested his daughter to check a bundle of postal orders. The pretext was painfully obvious, but Grant was not so wishful now to clear up matters with Doris’s father, as the girl herself might be trusted to pass on an accurate account of the affair from beginning to end.

He was about to reach the street quick on Furneaux’s heels when the little man turned suddenly.

“By the way, don’t you want a shilling’s worth of stamps?” he said.

Grant smiled comprehension, and went back to the counter, where Doris herself served him. She did not try to avoid his glance, but rather met it with a baffling serenity oddly at variance with her momentary loss of self-possession in the garden.

When he entered the street the detective had vanished.

He walked down the hill at a rapid pace, disregarding the eyes peeping at him through open doorways, over narrow window-curtains, and covertly staring when people passed in the roadway. The sensitive side of his temperament shrank from this thinly-veiled hostility. He was by way of being popular in Steynholme, yet not a soul spoke to him. Before he reached the bridge, the other side of him, the man of action, of cool resource in an emergency, rose in rebellion against the league of silly clodhoppers. Back he strode to the post office and dashed off a telegram. It ran:

“Walter Hart, Savage Club, Adelphi, London. Come here and help to lay a ghost.”

He signed it in full, name and address. Doris was gone, but her father received it, and read the text in a bewildered way.

“I find myself deserted by my Steynholme friends so I am trying to import one stanch one,” said Grant, almost vindictively.

Martin murmured the cost, and Grant stormed out again. This time, passing the Hare and Hounds, he looked at door and windows. He caught a face scowling at him over a brown wire blind bearing the words “Wines and Spirits” on it in letters of dull gold. It was a commonplace type of face, small-featured, ginger-moustached, and crowned by a billy-cock hat set at a rakish angle. Its most marked characteristic was the positive hatred which glowed in the sharp, pale-blue eyes. Grant wondered who this highly censorious young man might be. At any rate, he meant to ascertain whether or not the critic was susceptible of satire at his own expense. He walked up to the window, elevated his eyebrows at the frowning person within, pretended to read the words on the screen, looked again at the man inside, and shook his head gravely in the manner of one who has accurately determined cause and effect.

Fred Elkin was quick-witted enough to appreciate Grant’s unspoken comment. He was also unmannerly enough to put out his tongue. Then Grant laughed, and turned on his heel.

Mr. Siddle, quietly observant of recent comings and goings, was standing at the door of the shop, and missed no item of this dumb show. He raised both hands in silent condemnation of Elkin’s childishness, whereupon the horse-dealer jerked a thumb toward Grant’s retreating figure, and went through a rapid pantomime of the hanging process. His crony disapproved again, and went in. Now, both those men were on the jury panel, so, to all appearance, Grant would be judged by at least one deadly enemy, whose animosity might or might not be fairly balanced by the chemist’s impartial mind.

The tenant of The Hollies actually dreaded the loneliness of his dwelling now, though it was that very quality which had drawn him to Steynholme a year earlier. Work or reading was equally out of the question that day. He sought the industrious Bates, who was trenching celery in the kitchen garden.

“Have ’ee made out owt about un, sir?” inquired that hardy individual, pausing to spit on the handle of his spade.

“No,” said Grant. “The thing is a greater mystery than ever.”

“I’m thinkin’ her mun ha’ bin killed by a loony,” announced Bates.

“Something of the kind, no doubt. But why are the little less dangerous loonies of Steynholme united in the belief that I am the guilty one?”

“Ax me another,” growled Bates.

“Who is spreading this rumor? Robinson?”

“’E dussen’t, sir. ’E looks fierce, but ’e’ll ’old ’is tongue. T’super will see to that.”

“Someone is talking. That is quite certain.”

“There’s a chap in the ’Are an’ ’Ounds—kem ’ere last night.”

“Ingerman?”

“Ay, sir, that’s the name. ’E’s makin’ a song of it, I hear.”

“Anybody else?”

“Fred Elkin is gassin’ about. Do ’ee know un? Breeds ’osses at Mount Farm, a mile that-a-way,” and Bates pointed to the west.

Grant hazarded a guess, and described the face of condemnation seen at the inn. Bates nodded.

“That’s un,” he said. Then he drove the spade into the rich loam. “They do say,” he added, apparently as an after-thought, “as Fred Elkin is mighty sweet on Doris, but her’ll ’ave nowt to do wi’ un.”

Grant whistled softly. This explanation threw light on a dark place.

“The plot thickens,” he said. “Mr. Elkin becomes more interesting than he looks. Are there other disappointed swains in the offing?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Has Miss Martin any other suitors?”

“Lots of ’em ’ud be after her like wasps round a plum-tree if she’d give ’em ’alf a chance. But you put a stopper on ’em.”

Bates was blunt of speech, though a philosopher withal.

“Elkin is my only serious rival, then?” laughed Grant, passing off as a joke a thrust which was shrewder than the gardener knew.

“’E ’as plenty of brass, but I reckon nowt on ’im,” was the contemptuous answer.

“Well, he is not a likely person to kill a woman he had never before seen. Miss Martin will marry whom she chooses, no doubt. The present problem is to find out who murdered Miss Melhuish. Now, had I been the victim you would be thinking hard, Bates.”

“I tell ’ee, sir, it wur a loony.”

Nor was Bates to be moved from that opinion. He held to it, through thick and thin, for many days.

Grant wandered into the front garden. His eyes rose involuntarily to the distant post office, and he noticed at once that the dormer window was closed. Yet Doris shared his own love of fresh air, and that window had always been open till that very hour. Somehow, this simple thing seemed to shut him out of her life. He walked to the river, and gazed at the spot where the body was drawn ashore. In the absence of rain the water ran clear as gin, and the marks made by the feet of Adelaide Melhuish’s murderer were still perceptible. If only those misshapen blotches could reveal their secret! If only some Heaven-sent ray of intuition would enable him to put the police on the track of the criminal! Theoretically, a novelist and essayist should be a first-rate detective, yet, brought face to face with an actual felony, here was one who perforce remained blind and dumb.

Yet he was not blameworthy for failing to solve a mystery which was rapidly establishing a record for bewildering elements. Wherein he did err most lamentably was in his reading of a woman’s heart.

No answering telegram came from his friend in London. The day wore slowly till it was time to attend the inquest. He found a crowd gathered in front of the Hare and Hounds. Superintendent Fowler was there, and quite a number of policemen, whose presence was explained when a buzz of excitement heralded Grant’s arrival. He decided not to stand this sort of persecution a moment longer.

Before the superintendent could interfere, he leaped on to a set of stone mounting-steps which stood opposite the door. Instantly, seeing that he was about to speak, the angry murmuring of the mob was hushed. He looked into a hundred stolid faces, and stretched out his right hand.

“I cannot help feeling,” he said, in slow, incisive accents which carried far, “that a set of peculiar circumstances has led you Steynholme folk to suspect me of being responsible, in some way, for the death of the lady whose body was found in the river near my house. Now, I want to tell you that I am not only an innocent but a much-maligned man. The law of the land will establish both facts in due season. But I want to warn some of you, too, I shall not trouble to issue writs for libel. If any blackguard among you dares to insult me openly, I shall smash his face.”

He knew when to stop. Superintendent Fowler’s nudge was not called for, as the orator simply met the scrutiny of all those eyes without another word.

Curiously enough, the sense of justice is inherent in every haphazard gathering of the public. Grant’s soldierly bearing, his calm defiance of hostile opinion, the outspoken threat which he so plainly meant, won instant favor. Someone shouted, “Hear, hear!” and the crowd applauded. From that moment he had little to complain of in the attitude of the community as a whole. There were subtle and dangerous enemies to be fought and conquered, but Steynholme looked on, keen to learn of any new sensation, of course, but placidly content that the final verdict should be left in the hands of the authorities.

Chapter VII.
“Alarums and Excursions”

The inquest was surprisingly tame after the stirring events which had led up to it. Indeed, save for two incidents, the proceedings were almost dull.

The coroner, a Knoleworth solicitor named Belcher, prided himself on conducting this cause célèbre with as little ostentation as he would have displayed over an ordinary inquiry. Messrs. Siddle, Elkin, Tomlin and Hobbs, with eight other local tradesmen and farmers, formed the jurors, and the chemist was promptly elected foreman; no witnesses were ordered out of court; the formalities of “swearing in” the jury and “viewing” the body were carried through rapidly. Almost before Grant had time to assimilate these details Superintendent Fowler, who marshalled the evidence, called his name. The coroner’s officer tendered him a well-thumbed Bible, while the coroner himself administered the oath.

Grant eyed the somewhat soiled volume, and opened it before putting it to his lips. The action probably did not please the jury. Elkin nudged Tomlin, and sniggered at the rest of his colleagues, as much as to say: “What did I tell you? The cheek of him!”

Elkin, by the way, looked ill. When his interest flagged for an instant his haggard aspect became more noticeable.

Ingerman was there, of course. Furneaux sat beside Mr. Fowler. A stranger, whom Grant did not recognize, proved to be the County Chief Constable. There was a strong muster of police, and the representatives of the press completely monopolized the scanty accommodation for the public. To Grant’s relief, Doris Martin was not in attendance.

He told the simple facts of the finding of Adelaide Melhuish’s corpse. A harmless question by the coroner evoked the first “scene” which set the reporters’ pencils busy.

“Did you recognize the body!” inquired Mr. Belcher.

“I did.”

“Then you can give the jury her name?”

Before Grant could answer, Ingerman sprang up, his sallow face livid with passion.

“I protest, sir, against this man being permitted to identify my wife,” he said.

He was either deeply moved, or proved himself an excellent actor. His flute-like voice vibrated with an intense emotion. Thus might Mark Antony have spoken when vowing that Brutus was an honorable man.

“Who are you?” demanded the coroner sharply.

“Isidor George Ingerman, husband of the deceased lady,” came the clear-toned reply.

“Well, sit down, sir, and do not interrupt the court again,” said the coroner.

“I demand, sir, that you note my protest.”

“Sit down! Were you any other person I would have you removed. As it is, I am prepared to regard your feelings to the extent of explaining that the witness is not identifying the body but relating a fact within his own knowledge.”

Ingerman bowed, and resumed his seat.

For some reason, Grant stared blankly at Furneaux. The latter did not meet his glance, but put a finger on those thin lips. It might, or might not, be a warning to repress any retort he had in mind. At any rate, obeying a nod from the coroner, he merely said:

“She was a well-known actress, Miss Adelaide Melhuish.”

Mr. Belcher’s pen hesitated a little. Then it scratched on. Undoubtedly, he was himself exercising the restraint he meant to impose on others.

“You are quite sure?” he said, after a pause.

“Quite.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grant. Wait here until you sign your deposition. Of course, you are aware that this inquiry will stand adjourned, and the whole matter will be gone into fully at a later date.”

“So I have been informed, sir.”

Ingerman was the next witness. He, like a good democrat, kissed the cover of the Bible. The coroner began by giving him some advice.

“This is a purely formal inquiry, to permit of a death certificate being issued. You will oblige me, therefore, by answering my questions without introducing any extraneous subject.”

Ingerman adhered to these instructions. Having already shot a carefully-prepared bolt, he meant avoiding any further conflict with the authorities. His evidence was brief and to the point. The deceased was his wife. They were married at a London registrar’s office on a given date, six years ago. His wife acted under her maiden name. There was no family.

The court was well lighted by four long windows in the eastern wall, which each witness faced, so Grant was free to study his avowed enemy at leisure. He thought he made out a crafty underlook in Ingerman which he had failed to detect the previous night. That slow, smooth voice seemed to weigh each syllable. Such a man would never blurt out an unconsidered admission. He was a foe to be reckoned with. The subtle malignancy of that well-timed outburst was proof positive in that respect.

The jury, apparently, attached much weight to his words. On some faces there was an expectancy which merged into marked disappointment when his evidence came to an end. The foreman alone displayed the judicial attitude warranted by the oath he had taken. Somehow, Grant had faith in Mr. Siddle. The man looked intellectual. When spoken to in his shop his manner was invariably reserved. But that was his general repute in Steynholme—a quiet, uninterfering person, who had come to the village a young man, yet had never really entered into its life. For instance, he neither held nor would accept any public office. At first, people wondered how he contrived to eke out a living, but this puzzle was solved by his admitted possession of a small annuity.

Dr. Foxton, general practitioner, who held undisputed sway in the district, told how he had conducted an autopsy on the body of the deceased. He found a deep, incised wound on the back of the skull, a wound which would have caused death in any event. The instrument used must have been a heavy and blunt one. Miss Melhuish was dead or dying when thrown into the river. The body was well nourished, and the vital organs sound. Undoubtedly she had been murdered.

Bates followed, and evoked a snigger by the outspokenness of blunt Sussex.

“I hauled ’um in,” he said, “an’ knew it wur a dead ’un by the feel of the rope.”

The coroner was not curious. He merely wished to put on record the time and manner in which Mr. Grant summoned assistance.

Then P. C. Robinson entered the box, and contrived to bring about the second “incident.”

He told how, “from information received,” he went to The Hollies, and found Mr. Grant standing near the river with a dead body at his feet.

“One side of Mr. Grant’s face was covered with blood,” he went on.

If the policeman was minded to create a sensation, he certainly succeeded. A slight hum ran through the court, and then all present seemed to restrain their breathing lest a word of the evidence should be lost. The mention of “blood” in a murder case was a more adroit dodge than Robinson himself guessed, perhaps. Few of his hearers troubled to reflect that a smudge of fresh gore on Grant’s cheek could hardly have any bearing on the death of a woman whose body had admittedly lain all night in the river. It sufficed that Robinson had introduced a touch of the right color into the inquiry. Even the coroner was worried.

“Well!” he said testily.

“I took down his statement, sir,” said the witness, well knowing that he had wiped off Grant’s morning score in the matter of Bush Walk.

“Never mind his statement. That must await the adjourned hearing. What did you do with the body?”

“Took it to the stable of the Hare and Hounds, sir.”

“Where it was viewed recently by the jury?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is the body identified by Mr. Ingerman as that of his wife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will do.... Superintendent Fowler, will this day week at ten o’clock suit you?”

“Yes, sir,” said the superintendent.

“Then the inquest stands adjourned until that day and hour. Gentlemen of the jury, you must be here punctually.”

“Can’t we ask any questions?” cried Elkin, in an injured tone.

“No. You cannot,” snapped the coroner emphatically.

After a few formalities, which included the reading and signing of the depositions, the courthouse emptied. The whole thing was over in half an hour. Grant, determined to have a word with the representative of Scotland Yard, went openly to Furneaux, and asked him to come to The Hollies and join him in a cup of tea.

“No,” was the curt answer. “I’m busy. I’ll see you later.”

It was difficult to reconcile the detective’s present stand-off manner with his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly hint conveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman’s interruption.

Rather sick at heart, Grant went out into the sunshine. He was snap-shotted a dozen times by press photographers. One man, backing impudently in front of him in order to secure a sharp focus, tripped over the raised edge of a cartway into a yard, and sat down violently.

The onlookers laughed, but Grant helped the photographer to rise.

“If you want a really good picture of the Steynholme murderer, come to my place, and I’ll give you one,” he said.

The pressman was grateful, because Grant’s action had tended to mitigate his discomfiture.

“No one but a fool thinks of you as a murderer, Mr. Grant,” he said. “What I really want is a portrait of ‘the celebrated’ author in whose grounds the body was found.”

“Come along, then, and I’ll pose for you.”

The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the gods gave. He could not guess that his host was pining for human companionship. He could not fathom Grant’s disappointment, on reaching The Hollies, at finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter Hart. And he was equally unconscious of the immense service he rendered by compelling his host to talk and act naturally. He enlightened Grant, too, in the matter of inquests.

“Next week there will be a gathering of lawyers,” he said. “The police will be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is thought sufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ a solicitor, I expect, judging from his attitude to-day. In fact, any one whose interests are affected ought to secure legal assistance. One never knows how these inquiries twist and turn.”

“Thank you,” said Grant, smiling at the journalist’s tact. “I’ll order tea to be got ready while you’re taking your pictures. By the way, what sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?”

“A pocket marvel,” was the enthusiastic answer. “Haven’t you heard of him before? Well, you wouldn’t, unless you followed famous cases professionally. He seldom appears in the courts—generally manages to wriggle out of giving direct evidence. But I’ve never known him to fail. He either hangs his man or drives him to suicide. If I committed a crime, and was told that Furneaux was after me, I’d own up and save trouble, because I wouldn’t have the ghost of a chance of winning clear.”

“He strikes one as too flippant for a detective.”

“Yes. Lots of people have thought that, and they’re either disappearing in quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time at Portland. I wonder if Winter also is coming down on this job.”

“Who is ‘Winter’?”

“The Chief Inspector at the ‘Yard.’ A big, cheerful-looking fellow—from his appearance might be a gentleman-farmer and J. P., with a taste for horses and greyhounds. He and Furneaux are called the Big ’Un and the Little ’Un, and each is most unlike the average detective. But Heaven help any wrong-doer they set out to trail! They’ll get him, as sure as God made little apples.”

“Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall be pleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard that fat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did it purposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, the literal truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose there caught my cheek as I entered this room on Tuesday morning—before I discovered the body—and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visible still? I saw it to-day while shaving.”

“Yes,” said the other, chortling over the “copy” his colleagues were missing. “The mark is there right enough. Queer how inanimate objects like a rose-tree can make mischief. I remember a case in which a chestnut in a man’s pocket sent him to penal servitude. There was absolutely no evidence against him, except a possible motive, until that chestnut was found and proved to be one of a particular species, grown only in a certain locality.”

“How fortunate that the Dorothy Perkins is popular!” laughed Grant. “Will your paper publish photographs of the principals in this affair?”

“I expect so. I’ve a fine collection—the jury, all in a row—and you, making that speech to the mob.”

“Oh! Will that appear?”

“By Jove, yes, sir. It was wired off before the inquest opened.”

Grant reddened slightly. His own impetuous action had blurted out to the whole world that which Steynholme was only thinking. No wonder Furneaux had warned him to go slow. Perhaps the little man was annoyed because of his challenge to the village crowd? Well, be it so. He meant, and would live up to, every word of it!

The afternoon dragged after the pressman’s departure. What Grant really hungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and himself. But, short of a foolish attempt to carry the post office by storm, he saw no means of realizing his desire. He must, perforce, await the less troubled hours of the morrow or next day. Doris would surely give her father an exact account of the conversation between Grant, Furneaux, and herself that morning, and that greatly perplexed man could hardly fail to see how unjust was the tittle-tattle of the village.

So, avoiding Mrs. Bates, whose fell intent it was to ask him what he wanted for dinner, he struck off along the road to Knoleworth, walked eight miles in two hours, and reached The Hollies about seven o’clock, rather inclined for a meal and much more contented with life.

Minnie announced that a gentleman “who brought a bag” had been awaiting him since half-past five, and was now asleep on the lawn! A glance at the aforesaid bag, still reposing in the entrance hall, sent Grant quickly into the garden. A long, broad-shouldered person was stretched on a wicker chair, and evidently enjoying a nap. A huge meerschaum pipe and tobacco pouch lay on the grass. The newcomer’s face was covered by a broad-brimmed, decidedly weather-beaten slouch hat, which, legend had it, was purchased originally in South America in the early nineties, and had won fame as the only one of its kind ever worn in the Strand.

“Hullo! Wally! Glad to see you!” shouted Grant joyously.

The sleeper stirred.

“No, not another drop!” he muttered. “You fellows must have heads of triple brass and stomachs of leather!”

“Get up, you rascal, or I’ll spill you out of the chair!” said Grant.

A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright eyes gazed up into his.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” drawled a quiet voice. “Why the blazes did you send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I’ve had for a week?”

“But why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have met the train.”

“I did. Here’s the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had a fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected.”

“You wired from Victoria, I suppose?”

“Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn’t Victoria respectable?”

Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer in existence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of rebellion was raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart post-haste by train, steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to death five times, and decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as often.

“I’m a sort of outlaw. That’s why I sought your help,” explained Grant.

“I know all about you, Jack,” said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe and filling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent the head of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use.

“I felt like a pint of Sussex ale after a hot journey in the train, so hied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me your real name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a hobby of enlightening strangers as to your right place in society.”

“I must interview Elkin.”

“Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I might be doing you more harm than good, or I would have given him a thick ear this afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“A little fellow named Furneaux is coming here to dinner at seven-thirty. Said he would drop in by the back door, and mutter ‘Hush! I’m Hawkshaw, the detective.’ He resembles a cock-sparrow, so I asked him why he didn’t fly in through an attic window. He took my point at once, and remarked that he wanted none of my lip, or he would ask me officially what became of Don Ramon de Santander’s big pink pearl. It’s a queer yarn. There was a bust-up in Guatemala—”

“Look here, Wally,” broke in Grant anxiously. “Are you serious? Did Furneaux really say he was coming here?”

“He did, and more—he expressed a partiality for a chicken roasted on a spit. You have a spit in your kitchen, he says, and a pair of chickens in your larder.”

“How did you contrive to meet him?”

“You’re a poor guesser, Jack. He met me. ‘That you, Mr. Hart?’ he said. ‘Mr. Grant’s house is the first on the right across the bridge. Tell him’—and the rest of it.”

“Have you warned Mrs. Bates?”

“Mrs. Bates being?”

“My housekeeper.”

“No, sir. If she’s anything like your housemaid, I’m glad I didn’t, or I should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a job to reach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in the village lockup.”

Grant hurried away, and placated Mrs. Bates after a stormy interlude. Precisely at 7.30 p. m. Minnie came and said that “Mr. Hawkshaw” had arrived.

“Bring him out here,” said Grant. “Fetch some sherry and glasses, and give us five minutes’ notice before dinner is served.”

“Please, sir,” tittered Minnie, “the gentleman prefers to stay indoors. He said his complexion won’t stand the glare.”

“Very well,” smiled Grant, rising. “Put the sherry and bitters on the sideboard.”

“Say,” murmured Hart, “is this chap really a detective?”

“Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard.”

“Never more than five feet four, I’ll swear. But I wouldn’t have missed this for a pension. I have a revolver in my hip pocket, of course. One would feel lonely without it, even in England. But I hope you can stage a few knives and daggers, and a red light. I can cut masks out of a strip of black velvet. That girl will have a piece stowed away somewhere.”

The two entered the dining-room study, where the table was now laid for dinner. Furneaux was seated on the edge of a chair in the darkest corner. His eyes gleamed at them strangely.

“Can you trust Bates?” he said to Grant.

It was a wholly unexpected question, and Grant answered sharply:

“Of course, I can.”

“Tell him to make sure that no one trespasses on your lawn between now and ten o’clock. Close that window, draw the blind and curtains, and block that small window, the one through which you saw the ghost.”

“Ye gods!” cackled Hart ecstatically.

“Why all these precautions?” demanded Grant, rather amused now.

“I’m supposed to be on the very verge of arresting you, and it would weaken the faith of my allies if I were seen drinking your wines and eating your chicken.”

“By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit on which to roast them?”

“I looked you over at five-thirty this morning, having traveled from London by the mail train. I must lecture you on your inefficient window-catches, Mr. Grant. Several self-respecting burglars of my acquaintance would give your house the go-by as being too easy. And, one other matter. I suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme murder again before the coffee arrives shall be fined a sovereign for each offense, such fine, or fines, to form a fund for the relief of his hearers. Cré nom d’un pipe! Three intelligent men can surely discuss more interesting topics while they eat!”

Chapter VIII.
An Interrupted Symposium

“Have a cigarette,” said Grant to Furneaux, when the blinds were drawn, a lamp lighted, and the sherry dispensed.

“Thank you.”

The self-invited guest took one. He sniffed it, broke the paper wrapping, and crumbled some of the tobacco between finger and thumb.

“Ah, those Greeks!” he said sadly. “They simply can’t go straight. This brand of Turk used to be made of a tobacco grown on a slope above Salonica. A strip of sun-baked soil built up a reputation which is now being bartered for filthy lucre by the use of Egyptian ‘fillings.’”

“You’re a connoisseur, Mr. Hawknose—try these,” said Hart, proffering a case, from which the detective drew a cigarette, throwing the other one aside.

“Why ‘Hawknose’?” he inquired.

“A blend. First syllable of Hawkshaw and second of Furneaux—the latter Anglicized, of course.”

“And vulgarized.”

“You prefer Furshaw, perhaps?”

“Either effort is feeble for a man who can write about South America, and be lucid. Do you smoke this stuff, may I ask?” While talking, he had smelt and destroyed the second cigarette.

“If it’s a fair question, what the devil do you smoke?” cried Hart.

“Nothing. I’m a non-smoker. My profession demands a clear intellect, not a brain atrophied by nicotine.”

“Piffle! Carlyle and Bismarck were smokers.”

“Who reads Carlyle now-a-days? And what modern German pays heed to Bismarck’s dogmas? Look at that pipe of yours. It was once a pure ivory white. Now it is black—soiled by tobacco juice. Your lungs are slowly emulating it, and your wits will cloud in time. Read Tolstoi, Mr. Hart. He will teach you how nicotine deadens the conscience.”

“At last I know why I smoke like a Thames tug,” laughed Hart, “but I’m blest if I can understand why you make such a study of the vile weed.”

“Most criminals are addicted to the habit. I classify them by their brand of tobacco. For instance, a clever forger would never descend to thick twist, while a swell mobsman would turn with horror from a woodbine.”

Minnie entered, and nodded, whereupon Grant led the others upstairs to wash. From the bathroom he looked out over a darkening landscape. Doris’s dormer window was open. She was leaning on the sill, but he could not tell whether or not her eyes were turned his way. Her attitude was pensive, disconsolate, curiously forlorn for a girl normally high-spirited. He was on the point of signaling to her when he remembered Furneaux’s presence. There was something impish, almost diabolically clever, in that little man’s characteristics which induced wariness.

The dinner was a marvel, considering the short notice given to the cook. Luckily, Mrs. Bates, a loyal soul, had resolved to tempt her employer’s appetite that evening. Village gossip had it that the police were about to arrest him, and she was determined he should enjoy at least one good meal before being haled to prison. Hence, the materials were present. The rest was a matter of quantities, and Sussex seldom stints itself in that respect.

The chatter round the table was light and amusing. The three were well matched conversationally. Furneaux evidently held the opinion once expressed by a notable Walrus—that the time had come

To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings.

He was in excellent form, and the others played up to him. Hart’s slow drawl was ever trenchant and witty, and Grant forgot his woes in congenial company. As for the mercurial detective himself, it might be said of him as of the school-master of Auburn:

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.

It was he who dropped them with a bounce from the realm of fancy to the unpleasing region of ugly fact. No sooner had Minnie cleared the table, and brought in the coffee, than he whisked around on Grant as though hitherto he had been only awaiting an opportunity of scarifying him.

“Now,” he said, propping an elbow on the table, and supporting his chin on a clenched fist, “the embargo is off the Steynholme affair. You didn’t kill Adelaide Melhuish, Mr. Grant. Who did?”

“I wish I could tell you,” was the emphatic answer.

“Do you suspect anybody? You needn’t fear the libel law in confiding your secret thought to me, and I assume that Mr. Hart is trustworthy—where his friends are concerned?”

“Why that unkind differentiating clause, my pocket Vidocq?” put in Hart.

“Because two Kings and a baker’s dozen of Presidents have, at various times, sent most unflattering reports to this country about you.”

“I must have annoyed ’em most damnably.”

“You had. I congratulate you, but Heaven only knows where I may convoy you some day on an extradition warrant....Proceed, Mr. Grant.”

“I assure you, on my honor, that the only reasonable suggestion I can make is that put forward by my gardener to-day,” said Grant. “He thinks that the murder must have been committed by a lunatic. I can offer no other hypothesis.”

“Your gardener may be right. But what lunatic, barring yourself and the horse-coper, Elkin, is in love with Doris Martin?”

Like Elkin the previous night, Grant struck the table till things rattled.

“Keep her name out of it,” he cried fiercely. “You are a man of the world, not a suspicious idiot of the Robinson type. You heard to-day the full and true explanation of her presence here on Monday night. It was a sheer accident. Why harp on Doris Martin rather than any member of the Bates family?”

“Who, may I ask, is Doris Martin?” put in Hart.

“The Steynholme postmaster’s daughter,” said Furneaux. “A remarkably pretty and intelligent girl. If her father was a peer she would be the belle of a London season. As it is, her good looks seem to have put a maggot in more than one nut in this village.”

Hart waved the negro’s head in the air.

“The lunatic theory for mine,” he declared. “If one woman’s lovely face could bring a thousand ships to Ilion, why should not another’s drive men to madness in Steynholme?”

“Well phrased, sir,” cackled Furneaux delightedly. “I’ll wangle that in on a respected colleague of mine, who is a whale at deducing a proposition from given premises, but cannot induce a general fact from particular instances to save his life ... Now, stifle your romantic frenzy, Mr. Grant, and listen to me. If you were minded to instruct me in the art of writing good English, I would sit at your feet an attentive disciple. When I, Furneaux, of the ‘Yard,’ lay down a first principle in the investigation of crime, I expect deference on your part. I tell you unhesitatingly that if Doris Martin didn’t exist, Adelaide Melhuish would be alive now. That, as a thesis, is nearly as certain a thing as that the sun will rise to-morrow. I go farther, and hazard the guess, not the fixed belief, though my guesses are usually borne out by events, that if Doris Martin had not been in this garden at half past ten on Monday night, Adelaide Melhuish would not have been killed some twenty minutes later. It is useless for you to fume and rage in vain effort to disprove either of these presumptive facts. You are simply beating the air. This mystery centers in and around the postmaster’s daughter. Come, now, you are a reasonable person. Admit the cold, hard truth, and then give play to your fancy.”

“Sir,” said Hart, brandishing his pipe again, “I suggest that you and I, here and now, form a mutual admiration society.”

“It is a cruel and bitter thing that an innocent girl should be dragged into association with a foul crime,” said Grant stubbornly. “I am not disputing the force of your acumen, Mr. Furneaux. My only desire is to shield the good name of a very charming young lady.”

“What’s done can’t be undone,” countered the detective, well knowing that Grant confessed himself beaten.

“But what is all the bother about? You heard from Miss Martin’s own lips absolutely the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Put her in the witness-box, and what more can she tell you?”

“I am not worrying about her appearance in the witness-box,” said Furneaux dryly. “Long before that stage is reached I shall be hunting a star burglar, or, perhaps, looking into the Foreign Office dossier of our worthy friend here, as to-day’s papers hint at trouble in Venezuela. No, sir. The county police will get all the credit. P. C. Robinson will be swanking about then, telling the yokels what he did. I, with Olympic nod, say, ‘There’s your man!’ and the handcuffs’ brigade do the rest. So far as I can foresee, Miss Martin’s name may be spared any undue prominence in this inquiry. I go even farther, and promise that anything I can do in that way shall be done.”

“That is very kind and considerate of you,” said Grant gratefully.

“Don’t halloo till you’re out of the wood.” said Furneaux, sitting back suddenly and nursing his left knee with clasped hands. “I can’t control other people’s actions, you know. What I insist on to-night is that you shall envisage this affair in its proper light. We have a long way to travel before counsel rises with his smug ‘May it please you, me lud, and gentlemen of the jury.’ But, having persuaded you to agree that, willy nilly, Miss Doris is the hub of our little universe for the hour, I now swear you and this fire-eater in as assistants. There must be no more speeches, no punching of heads, very little love-making, and that by order—”

“Has the postmaster’s daughter a delectable sister, O Liliputian cop?” demanded Hart.

“No. Two of ’em would have caused a riot long since. Mr. Grant will do all, and more than all, necessary in that direction.”

Grant leaned forward. He spoke very earnestly.

“I want you to believe me when I tell you,” he said, “that I never gave serious thought to the notion of marrying Miss Martin until such a possibility was suggested last night by that swab, Ingerman.”

“Ah, Ingerman! You kept a record of what he said, I gather?”

“Yes, here it is.”

Grant rose, and went to a writing-desk with nests of drawers which stood against the wall on the left of the door. He never used it for its primary purpose. When the table was laid for meals, Minnie or her mother had orders to remove all papers and books to the top of the desk. The house contained no other living-room of size. The hall was spacious; a smoking den next the dining-room had degenerated into a receptacle of guns, fishing-rods, golf-clubs, Alpenstocks, skis and other such sporting accessories. The remainder of the ground-floor accommodation was given up to the Bateses.

Unlocking a drawer, Grant produced a notebook, which he handed to Furneaux. The detective laid it on the table. He was sitting with his back to the large window. Hart faced him. Grant’s chair was between the two.

“By the way, as you’re on your feet, Mr. Grant,” said Furneaux, “you might just show me exactly where you were standing when you saw the face at the window.”

“For the love of Mike, what’s this?” gurgled Hart. “‘The face at the window’; ‘the postmaster’s daughter.’ How many more catchy cross-heads will you bring into the story?”

“Poor Adelaide Melhuish undoubtedly came here on Monday night and looked in at me while I was at work,” said Grant sadly. “You know the history of my calf love three years ago, Wally.”

“Shall I ever forget it? You bored me stiff about it. Then, when the crash came, you walked me off my legs in the Upper Engadine. Ugh! That night on the Forno glacier. It gives me a chill to think of it now. Furneaux, pass the port. Your name is wrongly spelt. It should be fourneau, not Furneaux. A little oven. Hot stuff. Got me?”

“My dear Hart, you flatter me,” retorted the detective instantly.

“How long am I to pose here?” snapped Grant.

“Sorry,” said Furneaux. “These interruptions are banal. Is that where you were?”

“Yes. I had my hand outstretched for a book. It’s dark in this corner. When I want to find a book I light a candle, which is always placed on the ledge of the window for the purpose. The blind was not drawn that night. It seldom is. I had the book in my hand, and had found the required passage when I chanced to look at the window and saw her face.”

“Do you mind reconstructing the scene. This lamp was on the table, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Well, pull up the blind, light your candle, and find the book. Act the whole incident, in fact.”

Grant obeyed. He held the candlestick until he had picked out the particular volume; then he placed it in the recess of the window, and searched through the pages of the book.

Furneaux bent forward so as to watch the rehearsal and catch the effect of the light externally. The hour was not so late as when Adelaide Melhuish, or her ghost, gazed in through one of those narrow panes, but the night was dark enough to lend the necessary vraisemblance. Hart, deeply interested, looked on with rapt, eager eyes. For a full minute the tableau remained thus. Then, with a rapidity born of many a close ’scape in wild lands, Hart drew a revolver from a hip pocket, and fired at the window.

He alone was in a position to see through all parts of it. Grant was still thumbing a small brown volume in the manner of one who knew that a certain passage would be found therein but was ignorant of its exact place in the text. Furneaux, intent on his every movement, had only a side-long view of the window, which, it will be remembered, formed a tiny rectangle in a thick wall.

The revolver was a heavy-caliber weapon, and the explosion blew out the lamp. The flame of the candle flickered, owing either to the passage of the bullet or the disturbance of the air. But it burnt steadily again within the fifth part of a second, and they all saw a starred hole in the center pane of glass of the second tier from the bottom.

“What fool’s game are you playing?” shrilled Furneaux, nevertheless active as a wildcat in his spring to the French window, there to snatch at the blind and turn the knob which controlled a lever bolt.

“Laying another ghost—one with whiskers,” said Hart coolly. “I got him, too, I think.”

“You must be mad, mad!” shrieked the detective, tearing open the window, and vanishing.

“For Heaven’s sake, Wally, no more shooting!” cried Grant, running after Furneaux.

Minnie and her mother appeared at the dining-room door. Finding the place in semi-obscurity, and reeking with gunpowder, they screamed loudly.

“You Steynholme folk are all on the jump,” said Hart. “Cheer up, fair dames! Thunder relieves the atmosphere, you know, and one live cartridge is often more effective than an ocean of talk.”

“Bub-bub-but who’s shot, sir?” gasped Minnie.

“A ghost, a most scoundrelly apparition, with fearsome eyes, offensive whiskers, and a hat which is a base copy of mine.”

“Owd Ben!” sighed Mrs. Bates, collapsing straightway in a faint.

Luckily, Minnie caught her mother and broke her fall, because the housekeeper was large and solid, and might have been seriously injured otherwise. Hart was distressed by this development, but, being eminently a ready person in an emergency, he rose to the occasion by extracting the empty case from the revolver, and holding it to the poor woman’s nostrils, while supporting her with an arm and a knee.

“This is far more effective than burnt brown paper, Minnie,” he said. “Now, don’t get excited, but mix some brandy and water, and we’ll have your mother telling us who Owd Ben is, or was, before Hawk-eye comes back to disturb us. Judging by the noises I hear, he’s busy outside.”

“That’s father!” shrieked Minnie hysterically.

“Good Lord! Has your father—”

For an instant, Hart was nearly alarmed, but Grant’s voice came authoritatively:

“It’s all right, Bates. Let go, I tell you!”

“Phew!” said Hart. “I was on the point of confusing your respected dad with Owd Ben ... That’s it, ma! Sniff hard! As a cook you’re worth your weight in gold, which is some cook.”

Meanwhile, Furneaux, seeing that no dead body was stretched on the strip of grass beneath the window, dashed into the shrubbery to the right, and was clutched in a mighty embrace by an older but much more powerful man in Bates, who had hurried from the front of the house on hearing the pistol-shot. Most fortunately, the gardener, deeming his vigil a needless one, had not armed himself with a stick, or the consequences might have been grave. As it was, no one except Hart had been vouchsafed sight or sound of the latest specter, which, however, had left a very convincing souvenir of its visit in the shape of a soft felt hat with two bullet holes through the crown.

Furneaux, quivering with silent wrath, soon abandoned the search when this pièce de conviction was found at the root of the Dorothy Perkins rose-tree. Seeing the lamp relighted, he peremptorily bade Grant and Bates come in with him. He closed the window, adjusted the blind again, and poured generous measures of port wine into two glasses. Handing one to Bates, he took the other himself.

“Friend,” he said, “some men have fame thrust upon them, but you have achieved it. To-night you pierced the heel of Achilles. Here’s to you!”

“I dunno wot ’ee’s saying mister, but ‘good health’,” said Bates, swigging the wine with gusto.

“Now, for your master’s sake, not a word to a soul about this hubbub.”

“Right you are, sir! But that there pryin’ Robinson wur on t’ bridge five minutes since. And, by gum, here he is!”

A determined knock and ring came at the front door. Minnie, helped by Hart, had just escorted Mrs. Bates to the kitchen.

“Let me go!” said Furneaux, darting out into the hall. He opened the door, and thrust his face into the police-constable’s, startling the latter considerably. Before Robinson could utter a syllable, the detective hissed a question.

“Did anyone cross the bridge after that shot was fired?”

“Nun—No, sir,” stuttered the other.

“You saw no one running along the road?”

“Saw nothing, sir.”

“Very well. Glad to find you’re on the job. Don’t let on you met me here. Good-night!”

Mighty is Scotland Yard with the provincial police. Robinson was back on his self-imposed beat before he well realized that he knew neither why nor by whom nor by what sort of weapon the commotion had been created. But he was quite sure the noise came from the garden front of Mr. Grant’s house.

“That little hop-o’-me-thumb thinks he’s smart, dam smart,” he communed angrily, “but I’ve taken a line of me own, an’ I’ll stick to it, though the Yard sends down twenty men!”

He heard footsteps coming down a paved footpath which ran like a white riband through the cobble-beaded width of the high-street, and withdrew swiftly to the shelter of a disused tannery adjoining the village end of the bridge. A cloaked female figure sped past. Though the night was rather dark for June, he had no difficulty in recognizing Doris Martin’s graceful movements. No other girl in Steynholme walked like her. She was slim enough to dispense with tight corsets, and tall enough to wear low-heeled shoes, nor did she need to pinch her toes in order to gain the semblance of small feet.

After her went Robinson, keyed to exultation by this outcome of his watchfulness. She was going to The Hollies, of course. The road led to Knoleworth, and no young woman of her age in the village would dream of taking a lonely walk in the country at ten o’clock at night.

For a man of his height and somewhat ponderous build, the policeman followed with real stealth. Thus, when she turned in at the gate, he was there by the time she had reached the front door. He heard her pull the bell. Curiously enough, to his thinking, Furneaux again appeared.

“Is Mr. Grant at home?” he heard Doris say.

“Yes. Will you come in?” replied the detective.

“Is he—is all well here?”

“Quite, I assure you. But do come in. I’ll escort you home. I’m going to the inn in five minutes.”

Doris, after hesitating a little, entered.

Robinson crept on tiptoe over a stretch of gravel, and took to the shrubbery. It was high time, he thought, that the local constabulary learnt what was going on in that abode of mystery.

Chapter IX.
How Whom the Cap Fits—

Several minutes had elapsed between the two unexpected visits. During those minutes a somewhat acrimonious discussion broke out in the dining-room. Bates went to reassure his wife, and Hart sauntered back from the kitchen. He was received by Furneaux and Grant more in sorrow than in anger, a pose on their part which he blandly disregarded. He helped himself to the remains of the decanter of port.

“The next point of vital interest in the narrative is to establish, by such evidence as is available, who Owd Ben is, or was,” he said. “I presume, since he had attained local celebrity as a ghost, he has passed over, as the spiritists say.”

“Sit down!” cried Furneaux savagely.

Hart sat down, and began filling that portentous pipe.

“You fellows merely ran into each other outside, I take it,” he said, apparently by way of a chatty remark. “The crack of the pistol-shot and the supposed resurrection of Owd Ben threw Mrs. Bates temporarily off her balance, so I helped in reviving her. Between such a cook and such a ghost, who would hesitate?”

When Furneaux was really irritated, he swore in French.

“Nom d’un bon petit homme gris!” he almost squealed, “why did you whip out that infernal revolver? You spoiled everything, everything! Have you no sense in that picturesque head of yours? Your skull is big enough to hold brains, not soap-bubbles.”

“Did your French father marry a Jap?” inquired Hart, with sudden interest.

“And now you’re insulting my mother,” yelped the detective.

“Not I. You know nothing about the finest race of little women in the world, or you would not even imagine such rubbish.”

“But why, why, didn’t you tell me that you saw someone outside?”

“You wouldn’t have believed me. The goblin was disappearing. I had to shoot quick.”

“Why shoot at all?”

“Sir, there are certain manifestations I object to on principle. What self-respecting ghost ever wore whiskers?”

“This was no ghost. You shot the man’s hat off.”

“Then what the blazes are you growling at? Had I, in blood-curdling whisper, told you that once again there was a face at the window, you would have scoffed at me. The ill-looking scamp caught my eye after his first glance at Grant. He was mizzling when I fired. You would have sat there and argued about hypnosis, with our worthy author’s skilled support. And there would have been no hat! I do an admirable bit of trick shooting, yet I am only reviled for my dexterity. Really, Charles François!”

“Ah! You remember, at last,” and the detective smiled sourly.

“Parfaitement! as they say in Paris, where you and I met once, though ’twas in a crowd. But I didn’t steal the blessed pearl. I believe it was that blatant patriot, Domengo Suarez.”

“You’ve got some brains, then. Why not use them? Don’t you see what a fix we three would have found ourselves in had you shot the man?”

“But, consider, Carlo mio! A spook with whiskers! What court would find me guilty? Let me produce the authentic record of Owd Ben, and I have no doubt but that the Lord Chief Justice himself would have potted his representative. He’d be bound to confess it.”

Furneaux was cooling down.

“You’ve shaken my confidence,” he said. “Unless I have your promise that you will never do such a thing again while in my company, I shall ban you from this inquiry with bell, book, and candle.”

“Very well. It’s a bargain. Now let us ponder Exhibit A.”

He stretched a long arm over the table, and took the hat.

“Put it on!” commanded the detective.

Hart did so, and scowled frightfully. Furneaux bent forward and squinted.

“Notice the line of those bullet-holes,” he said to Grant.

“Any man wearing that hat must have had his scalp ploughed up,” said Grant instantly.

“Well, we know that nothing of the kind happened. Why?”

“It was perched on top of a wig,” drawled Hart.

Furneaux was slightly disappointed—there was no denying it. Being a vain little person, he liked to show off in a minor matter such as this.

“Yes,” he admitted, “and what’s the corollary?”

“That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, a daring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristics of Owd Ben. Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of that hairy goblin.”

“Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?” said the detective testily.

“Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description.”

“Her husband can tell us the story,” put in Grant. “I’ll fetch him.”

He had not moved ere the front door bell rang a second time.

“Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect,” said Hart.

“If it’s that Robinson—” growled Furneaux vexedly, hastening to forestall Minnie.

But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered the room, her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a very natural embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a stranger fixed on her.

“I don’t quite know why I’m here,” she said, with a nervous laugh, addressing Grant directly. “You will think I am always gazing in the direction of The Hollies, but my room commands this house so fully that I cannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes ago I heard what I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw your window thrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle was showing in the smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire what had happened. You’ll pardon me, I’m sure.”

“Say you don’t, Jack, I implore you, and let me apologize for you,” pleaded Hart.

“Doris, this is my good friend, Wally Hart,” smiled Grant. “Won’t you sit down? We have an exciting story for you.”

“Father will be horribly anxious if he knows I have gone out.”

Nevertheless, there was sufficient spice of Mother Eve in Doris that she should take the proffered chair.

“Sorry to interrupt,” broke in Furneaux. “Did you meet P. C. Robinson!”

“No.”

“You came by way of the bridge?”

“There is no other way, unless one makes a detour by Bush Walk.”

The detective whirled round on Grant.

“What room is over this one?”

“Minnie’s.”

“She’s in the kitchen, with her mother. See that she doesn’t come upstairs while I’m absent. You three keep on talking.”

“Thanks,” said Hart.

Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly.

“Mr. Grant has often spoken of you,” she said. “You talk, and we’ll listen.”

“Not so, divinity,” came the retort. “I may be a parrot, but I don’t want my neck wrung when you’ve gone.”

“Don’t encourage him, Doris,” said Grant, “or you’ll be here till midnight.”

“If that’s the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to me,” laughed Hart.

Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The casement window was open—he had noted that fact while in the garden. He peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux Indian on the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about to peer cautiously through the small window. The detective’s blood ran cold. What if Hart discovered yet another ghost?

“Robinson—go home!” he said, in sepulchral tones.

The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror. He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben.

“Go home!” hissed Furneaux, leaning out.

Then the other looked up.

“Oh, it’s you, sir!” he gasped, sighing with relief.

“Man, you’ve had the closest shave of your life! There’s a fellow below there who shoots at sight.”

“But I’m on duty, sir.”

“You’ll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be off!”

“I—”

“Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don’t do as I bid you. And that would be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has a particularly smart man in Steynholme.”

“Very well, sir, if you’re satisfied, I must be.”

And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear of the supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced.

Furneaux tripped downstairs. The routing of Robinson had put him into a real good humor. He found the three in the dining-room gazing spell-bound at the felt hat.

“Now, young lady, you’re coming with me,” he said, grinning amiably. “The Sussex constabulary is quelled for the hour.”

“But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!” said Doris, and it was notable that even Hart remained silent.

The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question.

“I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society,” went on the girl. “It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played a burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold from walking about without shoes or stockings.”

“Don’t tell me any more,” was Furneaux’s surprising comment. “I’ll do the rest. But let me remark, Miss Martin, that I experienced great difficulty, not so long ago, in persuading friend Grant that you were the only important witness this case has provided thus far. Playing in a burlesque, were you? We’ve been similarly engaged to-night. The farce must stop now. It makes way for grim tragedy. Not one word of to-night’s events to anyone, please.... Are you ready?”

Doris stood up. Hart thrust the negro’s head at the detective.

“Fouché,” he said, “do you honestly mean slinging your hook without making any inquiry as to Owd Ben?”

“Oh, the ghost!” said Doris eagerly. “The Bateses would think of him, of course. An old farmer named Ben Robson used to live in this house about the time of Napoleon. He was suspected by the authorities to be an agent of the smugglers, and the story goes that his own daughter quarreled with him and betrayed him. He narrowly escaped hanging, owing to his age, I believe, and was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. At last he was released, being then a very old man, and he came straight here and strangled his daughter. It is quite a terrible story. He was found dead by her side. Then people remembered that she had spoken of someone scaring her by looking in through that small window some nights previously. Naturally, a ghost was soon manufactured. I really wonder why the man who rebuilt and renamed the place in the middle of last century didn’t have the window removed altogether.”

“Glad I began the work of demolition tonight,” said Hart, and, for once, his tone was serious.

“Why did you never tell me that scrap of history, Doris?” inquired Grant.

“You liked the place so much that father and I agreed not to mar your enthusiasm by recalling an unpleasant legend,” she said frankly. “Not that what I’ve related isn’t true. The record appears in a Sussex Miscellany of those years.... Oh, my goodness, can it be eleven o’clock!”

The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the written notes regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table. Grant, for some reason, was aware that the detective repressed an obvious reference to the last occasion on which the girl had heard that same clock announce the hour.

Furneaux would allow no other escort. He and Doris made off immediately.

When they were gone, Hart stared fixedly at an empty decanter.

“My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of many virtues and few vices,” he mused aloud.

Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his crony poring over the book which, singularly enough, figured prominently on each occasion when the specter-producing window was markedly in evidence. Hart glanced up at his host, and nodded cheerfully at a dust-laden bottle.

“What is there in ‘The Talisman’ which needed so much research?” he asked.

“Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott,” was the answer.

“Are these they?” And Hart read:

One thing is certain in our Northern land;
Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit,
Give each precedence to their possessor,
Envy, that follows on such eminence,
As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck’s trace,
Shall pull them down each one.

“Yes,” said Grant.

“Love isn’t mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You’re in luck, my boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Gee whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist. What is a lyme-hound?”

“‘Lyme,’ or ‘leam,’ is the old-time word for ‘leash.’”

“Good!” said Hart. “That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinner every day, Jack. He’s a tonic!”

Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany Doris to the post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the broad village street, more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he tapped her on the shoulder and said pleasantly:

“Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don’t worry. The tangle will right itself in time.”

“Poor Mr. Grant is suffering,” she ventured to murmur.

“And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I’ll wait here till you are behind a locked door.”

“No one in Steynholme will hurt me,” she said.

“You never can tell. I’m not taking any chances to-night, however.”

So Doris sped swiftly up the hill. Arrived at her house, she waved a hand to the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response. A fine June night in England is never really dark, so the two could not only see each other but, when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply on his heel, was able to make out the sudden straightening of a pucker in the blind of a ground-floor room in P. C. Robinson’s abode.

The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window. Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

“As if you didn’t know,” laughed Furneaux.

Robinson turned a key, and looked out.

“Oh, it’s you, sir?” he cried.

“You’ll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme,” said the detective. “May I come in? No, don’t show a light here. Let’s chat in the back kitchen.”

“I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir,” began Robinson apologetically. “It’s laid in the kitchen. On’y bread and cheese an’ a glass of beer. Will you join me?”

“With pleasure, if I hadn’t stuffed myself at Grant’s place. Nice fellow, Grant. Pity you and he don’t seem to get on together. Of course, we policemen cannot allow friendship to interfere with duty, but, between you and me, Robinson—strictly in confidence—Grant had no more to do with the actual murder of Miss Melhuish than either of us two.”

Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in his own easy-chair.

“The ‘actual murder,’ you said, sir?” he repeated.

“Yes. It was his presence at The Hollies which brought an infatuated woman there, and thus directly led to her death. That is all. Grant is telling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to break bread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I’ll change my mind, and take a snack of your bread and cheese.”

The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied tribute. What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his somewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective’s little finger.

“Right you are, sir,” he cried cheerily. “But, if Mr. Grant didn’t kill Miss Melhuish, who did!”

“In all probability, the man who wore that hat,” chirped Furneaux, taking a nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the table.

Robinson started. This June night was full of weird surprises. He set down a jug of beer with a bang—his intent being to fill two glasses already in position, from which circumstance even the least observant visitor might deduce a Mrs. Robinson, en negligé, hastily flown upstairs.

He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb.

“By gum!” he muttered. “Are these bullet-holes?”

The Postmaster’s Daughter

by Louis Tracy

Contents

Chapter I.The Face at the Window

Chapter II.P. C. Robinson “Takes a Line”

Chapter III.The Gathering Clouds

Chapter IV.A Cabal

Chapter V.The Seeds of Mischief

Chapter VI.Scotland Yard Takes a Hand

Chapter VII.“Alarums and Excursions”

Chapter VIII.An Interrupted Symposium

Chapter IX.How Whom the Cap Fits—

Chapter I.
The Face at the Window

Chapter II.
P. C. Robinson “Takes a Line”

Chapter III.
The Gathering Clouds

Chapter IV.
A Cabal

Chapter V.
The Seeds of Mischief

Chapter VI.
Scotland Yard Takes a Hand

Chapter VII.
“Alarums and Excursions”

Chapter VIII.
An Interrupted Symposium

Chapter IX.
How Whom the Cap Fits—