"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