The inquest was surprisingly tame after the stirring events which had led up to it. Indeed, save for two incidents, the proceedings were almost dull.

The coroner, a Knoleworth solicitor named Belcher, prided himself on conducting this cause cÉlÈbre with as little ostentation as he would have displayed over an ordinary inquiry. Messrs. Siddle, Elkin, Tomlin and Hobbs, with eight other local tradesmen and farmers, formed the jurors, and the chemist was promptly elected foreman; no witnesses were ordered out of court; the formalities of “swearing in” the jury and “viewing” the body were carried through rapidly. Almost before Grant had time to assimilate these details Superintendent Fowler, who marshalled the evidence, called his name. The coroner’s officer tendered him a well-thumbed Bible, while the coroner himself administered the oath.

Grant eyed the somewhat soiled volume, and opened it before putting it to his lips. The action probably did not please the jury. Elkin nudged Tomlin, and sniggered at the rest of his colleagues, as much as to say: “What did I tell you? The cheek of him!”

Elkin, by the way, looked ill. When his interest flagged for an instant his haggard aspect became more noticeable.

Ingerman was there, of course. Furneaux sat beside Mr. Fowler. A stranger, whom Grant did not recognize, proved to be the County Chief Constable. There was a strong muster of police, and the representatives of the press completely monopolized the scanty accommodation for the public. To Grant’s relief, Doris Martin was not in attendance.

He told the simple facts of the finding of Adelaide Melhuish’s corpse. A harmless question by the coroner evoked the first “scene” which set the reporters’ pencils busy.

“Did you recognize the body!” inquired Mr. Belcher.

“I did.”

“Then you can give the jury her name?”

Before Grant could answer, Ingerman sprang up, his sallow face livid with passion.

“I protest, sir, against this man being permitted to identify my wife,” he said.

He was either deeply moved, or proved himself an excellent actor. His flute-like voice vibrated with an intense emotion. Thus might Mark Antony have spoken when vowing that Brutus was an honorable man.

“Who are you?” demanded the coroner sharply.

“Isidor George Ingerman, husband of the deceased lady,” came the clear-toned reply.

“Well, sit down, sir, and do not interrupt the court again,” said the coroner.

“I demand, sir, that you note my protest.”

“Sit down! Were you any other person I would have you removed. As it is, I am prepared to regard your feelings to the extent of explaining that the witness is not identifying the body but relating a fact within his own knowledge.”

Ingerman bowed, and resumed his seat.

For some reason, Grant stared blankly at Furneaux. The latter did not meet his glance, but put a finger on those thin lips. It might, or might not, be a warning to repress any retort he had in mind. At any rate, obeying a nod from the coroner, he merely said:

“She was a well-known actress, Miss Adelaide Melhuish.”

Mr. Belcher’s pen hesitated a little. Then it scratched on. Undoubtedly, he was himself exercising the restraint he meant to impose on others.

“You are quite sure?” he said, after a pause.

“Quite.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grant. Wait here until you sign your deposition. Of course, you are aware that this inquiry will stand adjourned, and the whole matter will be gone into fully at a later date.”

“So I have been informed, sir.”

Ingerman was the next witness. He, like a good democrat, kissed the cover of the Bible. The coroner began by giving him some advice.

“This is a purely formal inquiry, to permit of a death certificate being issued. You will oblige me, therefore, by answering my questions without introducing any extraneous subject.”

Ingerman adhered to these instructions. Having already shot a carefully-prepared bolt, he meant avoiding any further conflict with the authorities. His evidence was brief and to the point. The deceased was his wife. They were married at a London registrar’s office on a given date, six years ago. His wife acted under her maiden name. There was no family.

The court was well lighted by four long windows in the eastern wall, which each witness faced, so Grant was free to study his avowed enemy at leisure. He thought he made out a crafty underlook in Ingerman which he had failed to detect the previous night. That slow, smooth voice seemed to weigh each syllable. Such a man would never blurt out an unconsidered admission. He was a foe to be reckoned with. The subtle malignancy of that well-timed outburst was proof positive in that respect.

The jury, apparently, attached much weight to his words. On some faces there was an expectancy which merged into marked disappointment when his evidence came to an end. The foreman alone displayed the judicial attitude warranted by the oath he had taken. Somehow, Grant had faith in Mr. Siddle. The man looked intellectual. When spoken to in his shop his manner was invariably reserved. But that was his general repute in Steynholme—a quiet, uninterfering person, who had come to the village a young man, yet had never really entered into its life. For instance, he neither held nor would accept any public office. At first, people wondered how he contrived to eke out a living, but this puzzle was solved by his admitted possession of a small annuity.

Dr. Foxton, general practitioner, who held undisputed sway in the district, told how he had conducted an autopsy on the body of the deceased. He found a deep, incised wound on the back of the skull, a wound which would have caused death in any event. The instrument used must have been a heavy and blunt one. Miss Melhuish was dead or dying when thrown into the river. The body was well nourished, and the vital organs sound. Undoubtedly she had been murdered.

Bates followed, and evoked a snigger by the outspokenness of blunt Sussex.

“I hauled ’um in,” he said, “an’ knew it wur a dead ’un by the feel of the rope.”

The coroner was not curious. He merely wished to put on record the time and manner in which Mr. Grant summoned assistance.

Then P. C. Robinson entered the box, and contrived to bring about the second “incident.”

He told how, “from information received,” he went to The Hollies, and found Mr. Grant standing near the river with a dead body at his feet.

“One side of Mr. Grant’s face was covered with blood,” he went on.

If the policeman was minded to create a sensation, he certainly succeeded. A slight hum ran through the court, and then all present seemed to restrain their breathing lest a word of the evidence should be lost. The mention of “blood” in a murder case was a more adroit dodge than Robinson himself guessed, perhaps. Few of his hearers troubled to reflect that a smudge of fresh gore on Grant’s cheek could hardly have any bearing on the death of a woman whose body had admittedly lain all night in the river. It sufficed that Robinson had introduced a touch of the right color into the inquiry. Even the coroner was worried.

“Well!” he said testily.

“I took down his statement, sir,” said the witness, well knowing that he had wiped off Grant’s morning score in the matter of Bush Walk.

“Never mind his statement. That must await the adjourned hearing. What did you do with the body?”

“Took it to the stable of the Hare and Hounds, sir.”

“Where it was viewed recently by the jury?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is the body identified by Mr. Ingerman as that of his wife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will do.... Superintendent Fowler, will this day week at ten o’clock suit you?”

“Yes, sir,” said the superintendent.

“Then the inquest stands adjourned until that day and hour. Gentlemen of the jury, you must be here punctually.”

“Can’t we ask any questions?” cried Elkin, in an injured tone.

“No. You cannot,” snapped the coroner emphatically.

After a few formalities, which included the reading and signing of the depositions, the courthouse emptied. The whole thing was over in half an hour. Grant, determined to have a word with the representative of Scotland Yard, went openly to Furneaux, and asked him to come to The Hollies and join him in a cup of tea.

“No,” was the curt answer. “I’m busy. I’ll see you later.”

It was difficult to reconcile the detective’s present stand-off manner with his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly hint conveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman’s interruption.

Rather sick at heart, Grant went out into the sunshine. He was snap-shotted a dozen times by press photographers. One man, backing impudently in front of him in order to secure a sharp focus, tripped over the raised edge of a cartway into a yard, and sat down violently.

The onlookers laughed, but Grant helped the photographer to rise.

“If you want a really good picture of the Steynholme murderer, come to my place, and I’ll give you one,” he said.

The pressman was grateful, because Grant’s action had tended to mitigate his discomfiture.

“No one but a fool thinks of you as a murderer, Mr. Grant,” he said. “What I really want is a portrait of ‘the celebrated’ author in whose grounds the body was found.”

“Come along, then, and I’ll pose for you.”

The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the gods gave. He could not guess that his host was pining for human companionship. He could not fathom Grant’s disappointment, on reaching The Hollies, at finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter Hart. And he was equally unconscious of the immense service he rendered by compelling his host to talk and act naturally. He enlightened Grant, too, in the matter of inquests.

“Next week there will be a gathering of lawyers,” he said. “The police will be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is thought sufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ a solicitor, I expect, judging from his attitude to-day. In fact, any one whose interests are affected ought to secure legal assistance. One never knows how these inquiries twist and turn.”

“Thank you,” said Grant, smiling at the journalist’s tact. “I’ll order tea to be got ready while you’re taking your pictures. By the way, what sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?”

“A pocket marvel,” was the enthusiastic answer. “Haven’t you heard of him before? Well, you wouldn’t, unless you followed famous cases professionally. He seldom appears in the courts—generally manages to wriggle out of giving direct evidence. But I’ve never known him to fail. He either hangs his man or drives him to suicide. If I committed a crime, and was told that Furneaux was after me, I’d own up and save trouble, because I wouldn’t have the ghost of a chance of winning clear.”

“He strikes one as too flippant for a detective.”

“Yes. Lots of people have thought that, and they’re either disappearing in quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time at Portland. I wonder if Winter also is coming down on this job.”

“Who is ‘Winter’?”

“The Chief Inspector at the ‘Yard.’ A big, cheerful-looking fellow—from his appearance might be a gentleman-farmer and J. P., with a taste for horses and greyhounds. He and Furneaux are called the Big ’Un and the Little ’Un, and each is most unlike the average detective. But Heaven help any wrong-doer they set out to trail! They’ll get him, as sure as God made little apples.”

“Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall be pleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard that fat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did it purposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, the literal truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose there caught my cheek as I entered this room on Tuesday morning—before I discovered the body—and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visible still? I saw it to-day while shaving.”

“Yes,” said the other, chortling over the “copy” his colleagues were missing. “The mark is there right enough. Queer how inanimate objects like a rose-tree can make mischief. I remember a case in which a chestnut in a man’s pocket sent him to penal servitude. There was absolutely no evidence against him, except a possible motive, until that chestnut was found and proved to be one of a particular species, grown only in a certain locality.”

“How fortunate that the Dorothy Perkins is popular!” laughed Grant. “Will your paper publish photographs of the principals in this affair?”

“I expect so. I’ve a fine collection—the jury, all in a row—and you, making that speech to the mob.”

“Oh! Will that appear?”

“By Jove, yes, sir. It was wired off before the inquest opened.”

Grant reddened slightly. His own impetuous action had blurted out to the whole world that which Steynholme was only thinking. No wonder Furneaux had warned him to go slow. Perhaps the little man was annoyed because of his challenge to the village crowd? Well, be it so. He meant, and would live up to, every word of it!

The afternoon dragged after the pressman’s departure. What Grant really hungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and himself. But, short of a foolish attempt to carry the post office by storm, he saw no means of realizing his desire. He must, perforce, await the less troubled hours of the morrow or next day. Doris would surely give her father an exact account of the conversation between Grant, Furneaux, and herself that morning, and that greatly perplexed man could hardly fail to see how unjust was the tittle-tattle of the village.

So, avoiding Mrs. Bates, whose fell intent it was to ask him what he wanted for dinner, he struck off along the road to Knoleworth, walked eight miles in two hours, and reached The Hollies about seven o’clock, rather inclined for a meal and much more contented with life.

Minnie announced that a gentleman “who brought a bag” had been awaiting him since half-past five, and was now asleep on the lawn! A glance at the aforesaid bag, still reposing in the entrance hall, sent Grant quickly into the garden. A long, broad-shouldered person was stretched on a wicker chair, and evidently enjoying a nap. A huge meerschaum pipe and tobacco pouch lay on the grass. The newcomer’s face was covered by a broad-brimmed, decidedly weather-beaten slouch hat, which, legend had it, was purchased originally in South America in the early nineties, and had won fame as the only one of its kind ever worn in the Strand.

“Hullo! Wally! Glad to see you!” shouted Grant joyously.

The sleeper stirred.

“No, not another drop!” he muttered. “You fellows must have heads of triple brass and stomachs of leather!”

“Get up, you rascal, or I’ll spill you out of the chair!” said Grant.

A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright eyes gazed up into his.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” drawled a quiet voice. “Why the blazes did you send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I’ve had for a week?”

“But why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have met the train.”

“I did. Here’s the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had a fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected.”

“You wired from Victoria, I suppose?”

“Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn’t Victoria respectable?”

Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer in existence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of rebellion was raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart post-haste by train, steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to death five times, and decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as often.

“I’m a sort of outlaw. That’s why I sought your help,” explained Grant.

“I know all about you, Jack,” said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe and filling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent the head of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use.

“I felt like a pint of Sussex ale after a hot journey in the train, so hied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me your real name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a hobby of enlightening strangers as to your right place in society.”

“I must interview Elkin.”

“Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I might be doing you more harm than good, or I would have given him a thick ear this afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“A little fellow named Furneaux is coming here to dinner at seven-thirty. Said he would drop in by the back door, and mutter ‘Hush! I’m Hawkshaw, the detective.’ He resembles a cock-sparrow, so I asked him why he didn’t fly in through an attic window. He took my point at once, and remarked that he wanted none of my lip, or he would ask me officially what became of Don Ramon de Santander’s big pink pearl. It’s a queer yarn. There was a bust-up in Guatemala—”

“Look here, Wally,” broke in Grant anxiously. “Are you serious? Did Furneaux really say he was coming here?”

“He did, and more—he expressed a partiality for a chicken roasted on a spit. You have a spit in your kitchen, he says, and a pair of chickens in your larder.”

“How did you contrive to meet him?”

“You’re a poor guesser, Jack. He met me. ‘That you, Mr. Hart?’ he said. ‘Mr. Grant’s house is the first on the right across the bridge. Tell him’—and the rest of it.”

“Have you warned Mrs. Bates?”

“Mrs. Bates being?”

“My housekeeper.”

“No, sir. If she’s anything like your housemaid, I’m glad I didn’t, or I should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a job to reach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in the village lockup.”

Grant hurried away, and placated Mrs. Bates after a stormy interlude. Precisely at 7.30 p. m. Minnie came and said that “Mr. Hawkshaw” had arrived.

“Bring him out here,” said Grant. “Fetch some sherry and glasses, and give us five minutes’ notice before dinner is served.”

“Please, sir,” tittered Minnie, “the gentleman prefers to stay indoors. He said his complexion won’t stand the glare.”

“Very well,” smiled Grant, rising. “Put the sherry and bitters on the sideboard.”

“Say,” murmured Hart, “is this chap really a detective?”

“Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard.”

“Never more than five feet four, I’ll swear. But I wouldn’t have missed this for a pension. I have a revolver in my hip pocket, of course. One would feel lonely without it, even in England. But I hope you can stage a few knives and daggers, and a red light. I can cut masks out of a strip of black velvet. That girl will have a piece stowed away somewhere.”

The two entered the dining-room study, where the table was now laid for dinner. Furneaux was seated on the edge of a chair in the darkest corner. His eyes gleamed at them strangely.

“Can you trust Bates?” he said to Grant.

It was a wholly unexpected question, and Grant answered sharply:

“Of course, I can.”

“Tell him to make sure that no one trespasses on your lawn between now and ten o’clock. Close that window, draw the blind and curtains, and block that small window, the one through which you saw the ghost.”

“Ye gods!” cackled Hart ecstatically.

“Why all these precautions?” demanded Grant, rather amused now.

“I’m supposed to be on the very verge of arresting you, and it would weaken the faith of my allies if I were seen drinking your wines and eating your chicken.”

“By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit on which to roast them?”

“I looked you over at five-thirty this morning, having traveled from London by the mail train. I must lecture you on your inefficient window-catches, Mr. Grant. Several self-respecting burglars of my acquaintance would give your house the go-by as being too easy. And, one other matter. I suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme murder again before the coffee arrives shall be fined a sovereign for each offense, such fine, or fines, to form a fund for the relief of his hearers. CrÉ nom d’un pipe! Three intelligent men can surely discuss more interesting topics while they eat!”