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.