"Come in, and have a drink," said Elkin, when the colt had been stabled.
"No, thanks—not when I'm on duty."
Elkin raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He could not possibly guess that Robinson was adopting Furneaux's pose of never accepting hospitality from a man whom he might have to arrest.
"Well, blaze away. I'm ready."
The younger man leaned against a gate. He looked ill and physically worn.
"Your business has kept you out late of a night recently, you say, Mr. Elkin," began the other, speaking as casually as he could contrive. "Now, it might help a lot if you can call to mind anyone you met on the roads at ten or eleven o'clock. For instance, last night—"
Elkin laughed in a queer, croaking way.
"Last night my mare brought me home. I was decidedly sprung, Robinson. Glad you didn't spot me, or there might have been trouble. What between the inquest, an' no food, an' more than a few drinks at Knoleworth, I'd have passed Owd Ben himself without seeing him, though I believe I did squint in at The Hollies as I went by."
"What time would that be?"
"Oh, soon after eleven."
"Sure."
"I can't be certain to ten minutes or so. The pubs hadn't closed when I left Knoleworth. What the devil does it matter, anyhow?"
It mattered a great deal. Robinson could testify that Elkin did not cross Steynholme bridge "soon after eleven."
"Nothing much," was the answer. "You see, I'm anxious to find out who might be stirring at that hour, an' you know everybody for miles around. I'd like to fix your journey by the clock, if I could."
"Dash it all, man, I was full to the eyes. There! You have it straight."
"Were you out on Monday night?"
"The night of the murder?"
"Yes."
"I left the Hare and Hounds at ten, and came straight home."
"Who was there with you?"
"The usual crowd—Hobbs, and Siddle, and Bob Smith, and a commercial traveler. Siddle went at half past nine, but he generally does."
"You met no one on the road?"
"No."
The monosyllable seemed to lack Elkin's usual confidence. It sounded as if he had been making up his mind what to say, yet faltered at the last moment.
Robinson ruminated darkly. As a matter of fact, long after eleven o'clock on that fateful night, he himself had seen Elkin walking homeward. He was well aware that the licensing hours were not strictly observed by the Hare and Hounds when "commercial gentlemen" were in residence. Closing time was ten o'clock, but the "commercials," being cheery souls, became nominal hosts on such occasions, and their guests were in no hurry to depart. Robinson saw that he had probably jumped to a conclusion, an acrobatic feat of reasoning which Furneaux had specifically warned him against. At any rate, he resolved now to leave well enough alone.
"Well, we don't seem to get any forrarder," he said. "You ought to take more care of your health, Mr. Elkin. You're a changed man these days."
"I'll be all right when this murder is off our chests, Robinson. You won't have a tiddley? Right-o! So long!"
Robinson walked slowly toward Steynholme. At a turn in the road he halted near the footpath which led down the wooded cliff and across the river to Bush Walk. He surveyed the locality with a reflective frown. Then, there being no one about, he made some notes of the chat with Elkin. The man's candor and his misstatements were equally puzzling. None knew better than the policeman that the vital discrepancy of fully an hour and a half on the Monday night would be difficult to clear up. Tomlin, of course, would have no recollection of events after ten o'clock, but the commercial traveler, who could be traced, might be induced to tell the truth if assured that the police needed the information solely for purposes in connection with their inquiry into the murder. That man must be found. His testimony should have an immense significance.
That evening, shortly before seven o'clock, a stalwart, prosperous-looking gentleman in tweeds "descended" from the London express at Knoleworth. The local train for Steynholme stood in a bay on the opposite platform, and this passenger in particular was making for it when he nearly collided with another man, younger, thinner, bespectacled, who hailed him with delight.
"You, too? Good egg!" was the cry.
The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality.
"Where the deuce are you off to?" he demanded.
"To Steynholme—same as you, of course."
"Look here, Peters, a word in your ear. If you know me during the next few days, you'll never know me again. I suppose you'll be staying at the local inn—there's only one of any repute in the place?"
"That's so. I've got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate when the time comes?"
"Have I ever failed you?"
"No. We meet as strangers."
Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest "writer up" in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested both him and a shrewd news-editor.
The pair arrived at the Hare and Hounds within a few minutes of each other. The big man registered as "Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina." Peters ordered a chop, and went off at once to interview the local policeman. Mr. Franklin took more pains over the prospective meal.
"Have you a nice chicken?" he inquired.
Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder at that moment.
"And do you think your cook could provide a tourne-dos?"
"A what-a, sir?" wheezed Tomlin.
The visitor explained. He liked variety, he said. Half the chicken might be deviled for breakfast. The two dishes, with plain boiled potatoes and French beans, would suit him admirably. He was sorry he dared not try Tomlin's excellent claret, but a dominating doctor had put him on the water-cart. In effect, Mr. Franklin impressed the landlord as a man of taste and ample means.
Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, but they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anent his carryin's on in Knoleworth the previous night.
Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitués had the place to themselves.
Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purpose exactly, so he gave the conversation the right twist.
"I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this sensational murder?" he said.
Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at his neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the stranger, and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely:
"The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Three days gone, and nothing done!"
"What murder are you discussing, may I ask?" put in Franklin.
Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly mobile face.
"Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven't heard of the Steynholme murder?" he gasped.
"I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I landed in England only a week ago from France, my ignorance, though abyssmal, is pardonable. Moreover, I can say truly that I am far more interested in pedigree horses than in vulgar criminals."
Peters explained fluently. This was no ordinary crime. A beautiful and popular actress had been done to death in a brutal way, and the country was already