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?"
"They are."
"An' is this what someone fired at?"
"Yes."
"But how in thunder—"
He checked himself in time. He did not want to admit that he had been watching the only recognized road to Grant's house all the evening.
"Quite so!" chortled Furneaux, with admirable misunderstanding. "You're quick on the trigger, Robinson—almost as quick as that friend of Grant's who arrived by the 5.30 from London. You perceive at once that no ordinary head could have worn that hat without having its hair combed by the same bullet. It was stuck on to a thick wig. Now, tell me the man, or woman, in Steynholme, who wears a wig and a hat like that, and you and I will guess who killed Miss Melhuish."
Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg was being pulled rather violently.