"Think—Robinson. Don't—answer—offhand. Has—anybody—ever worn—such things—in a play?"
Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were.
"By gum!" he cried again. "Fred Elkin—in a charity performance last winter."
Furneaux choked with excitement.
"A horsey-looking chap, on to-day's jury," he gurgled.
"That's him!"
"The scoundrel!"
"No wonder he looked ill."
"No wonder, indeed. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!"
"But, sir—"
Robinson was flabbergasted. He could only murmur "Fred Elkin!" in a dazed way.
"Have a drink," said Furneaux sympathetically. "I'll wet my whistle, too. Only half a glass, please. Now, we mustn't jump to conclusions. This Elkin looks a villain, but may not be one. That is to say, his villainy may be confined to dealings in nags. But you see, Robinson, what a queer turn this affair is taking. We must get rid of preconceived notions. Superintendent Fowler and you and I will go into this matter thoroughly to-morrow. Meanwhile, breathe not a syllable to a living soul. If I were you, I'd let Mr. Grant understand that we regard him as rather outside the scope of our inquiry. This beer is very good for a country village. You know a good thing when you see it, I expect. Pity I don't smoke, or I'd join you in a pipe. I must get a move on, now, or that fat landlord will be locking me out. Good night! Yes. I'll take the hat. Good night!"
While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat.
"One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from a good-natured ass!" he communed. "Here am I, Furneaux, plagued beyond endurance by a first-class murder case, and I must go and busy myself with the love affair of a postmaster's daughter and a feather-headed novelist!"
When Tomlin admitted him to the Hare and Hounds, he buttonholed the landlord, who, at that hour, was usually somewhat obfuscated.
"Sir," said the detective gravely, "I am told that you Steynholme folk indulge occasionally in such frivolities as amateur theatricals?"
"Once in a way, sir. Once in a way. Afore I lock up the bar, will you—"
"Not to-night. I've mixed port and beer already, and I'm only a little fellow. Now you, Mr. Tomlin, can mix anything, I fancy?"
"I've tried a few combinations in me time, sir."
"But, about these theatrical performances—is there any scenery, costumes, 'props' as actors call them?"
"Yes, sir. They're stored in the loft over the club-room—the room where the inquest wur held."
"What, here?"
Furneaux's shrill cry scared Mr. Tomlin.
"Y-yes, sir," he stuttered.
"Is that my candle?" said the detective tragically. "I'm tired, dead beat. To-night, Mr. Tomlin, you are privileged to see the temporary wreck of a noble mind. God wot, 'tis a harrowing spectacle."
Furneaux skipped nimbly upstairs. Tomlin proceeded to lock up.
"It's good for trade," he mumbled, "but I'll be glad when these 'ere Lunnon gents clears out. They worry me, they do. Fair gemme a turn, 'e did. A tec', indeed! He's nothin' but a play-hactor hisself!"
CHAPTER X
The Case Against Grant
Next morning, after a long conference with Superintendent Fowler, from which, to his great chagrin, P. C. Robinson was excluded, Furneaux went to the post office, dispatched an apparently meaningless telegram to a code address, and exchanged a few orthodox remarks with Doris and her father about the continued fine weather. While he was yet at the counter, Ingerman crossed the road and entered the chemist's shop.
"Let me see," said the detective musingly, "by committing a slight trespass on your left-hand neighbor's garden, can I reach the yard of the inn?"
"What the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve over," smiled Doris. "Mrs. Jefferson went to Knoleworth early to-day, and took her maid. By shopping at the stores there, they save their fares, and have a day out each week."
"May I go that way, then?" he said. "Suppose you send that goggle-eyed skivvy of yours on an errand."
This was done, and Furneaux made the desired transit.
Now, Tomlin, to whom the comings and goings of all and sundry formed the staple of the day's gossip, had seen the detective go out, but could "take his sollum davy" that the queer little man had not returned. He, too, had watched Ingerman going to Siddle's. Ten minutes later Elkin came down the hill, and headed for the same rendezvous. Five minutes more, and Hobbs, the butcher, joined the others. Tomlin was seething with curiosity, but there were some casual customers in the "snug," so he could not abandon his post.
Soon, however, Ingerman led Elkin and Hobbs to the inn. Evidently, the "financier" had been making some small purchases. He was in high spirits. Ordering appetizers before the mid-day meal, he announced that he was returning to London that afternoon, but would be in Steynholme again for the adjourned inquest.
"No matter how my business suffers, I mean to see this affair through," he vowed. "You gentlemen can pretty well guess my private convictions. You were good enough to give me your friendship, so I spoke as openly as one dares when no charge has actually been laid against any particular person."
"Ay," said Elkin, with whom sunshine seemed to disagree, because he looked miserably ill. "We know what you mean, Mr. Ingerman. If the police were half sharp they'd have nabbed their man before this ... Did you put any water in this gin, Tomlin?"
"Water?" wheezed Tomlin indignantly. "Water?"
"Well, no offense. I can't taste anything. I believe I could swallow dope and not feel it on my tongue."
"You do look bad, an' no mistake, Fred," agreed Hobbs. "Are you vettin' yerself? Don't. Every man to his trade, sez I. Give Dr. Foxton a call."
"I'm taking his medicine regular. Perhaps I need a change."
"'Ave a week-end in Lunnon," said Hobbs, with a broad wink.
"Change of medicine, I mean. I'm not leaving Steynholme till things make a move. My next trip to London will be my honeymoon."
"You look like a honeymooner, I don't think," guffawed Hobbs.
"You wouldn't laugh if I told you what you really look like," cried Elkin angrily. "Bet you a level fiver I'm married this year. Now, put up or shut up!"
Furneaux peeped in, through a door, always open, which led to the stairs.
"Can I have my account, Mr. Tomlin?" he said. "I'm going to town by the next train."
"You don't mean to say, Mr. Furneaux, that you are abandoning the case so soon?" broke in Ingerman.
"Did I say that?" inquired the detective meekly.
"No. One can't help drawing inferences occasionally."
"Great mistake. Look at our worthy landlord. He's been drawing inferences as well as corks, and he's beat to the world."
Tomlin was, indeed, gazing at his smaller guest open-mouthed.
"S'elp me!" he gurgled. "I could ha' sworn—"
"Bad habit," and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. "Even the wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. I really fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do you