No word bearing on the main topic in these men’s minds was said during dinner. Grant was attentive to his guests, but markedly silent, almost distrait. Two such talkers as Hart and Peters, however, covered any gaps in this respect. Cigars and pipes were in evidence, and, horrible though it may sound in the ears of a gourmet, the port was circulating, when Winter turned and gazed at the small window.

“Is that where the ghost appears!” he inquired.

“Yes,” said Grant. “You know the whole story, of course?”

“Furneaux misses nothing, I assure you.”

“He missed a daylight apparition this afternoon, at any rate. I have no secrets from my friends, so I may as well tell you—”

“That Siddle called, and implored you to consider Doris Martin’s future by avoiding her at present,” put in the Chief Inspector.

Such shocks were losing some of their effect, on the principle that a man hears the burst of the thousandth high-explosive shell with a good deal less trepidation than attended the efforts of the first dozen. Still, Grant gazed at the speaker in profound astonishment.

“You Scotland Yard men seem to know everything,” he said.

“A mere pretense. Try him on sheep-raising in the Argentine, Jack,” murmured Hart.

“Wally, this business is developing a very serious side,” protested Grant. Hart stretched a long arm for the port decanter.

“Come, friend!” he addressed it gravely. “Let us commune! You and I together shall mingle joyous memories of

“A draught of the Warm South,
The true, the blushful Hippocrene.”

“We read Siddle’s visit aright, it would appear,” said Winter quietly.

“Yes. That was his mission, put in a nutshell.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him that, after Wednesday, I would ask Doris Martin to marry me, which is the best answer I can give him and all the world.”

“Why ‘after Wednesday’?”

“Because I shall know then the full extent of the annoyance which Ingerman can inflict.”

“Did you give Siddle that reason?”

“Yes.”

Winter frowned.

“You literary gentlemen are all alike,” he said vexedly. “You become such adepts in analyzing human duplicity in your books that you never dream of trying to be wise as a serpent in your own affairs. The author who will split legal hairs by way of brightening his work will sign a contract with a publisher that draws tears from his lawyer when a dispute arises. Why be so candid with a rank outsider, like Siddle?”

“I distrust the man. Doris distrusts him, too.”

“So you take him into your confidence.”

“No. I merely give him chapter and verse to prove that his interference is useless.”

“Have you engaged a lawyer for Wednesday?”

“No. Why should I? My hands are clean.”

“But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to this man in the morning, and mention my name—Winter, of course, not Franklin.”

“Codlin’s your friend, not Short,” said Hart. “Sorry. It’s a time-worn jape, but it fitted in admirably.”

The detective scribbled a name and address on a card.

“I don’t think you need worry about Ingerman,” he went on, “though it’s well to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop irrelevant statements, especially if ready for them. But there must be no more of this heart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He, too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the only stumbling-block.”

“Siddle! That stick!” gasped Grant.

“Ridiculous, indeed monstrous,” agreed Winter, rather heatedly, “but nevertheless a candidate for the lady’s hand.”

Then he laughed. Peters’s keen eyes were watching him, and Wally Hart was giving more heed to the conversation than was revealed by a fixed stare at the negro’s head in meerschaum.

“You’ve bothered me,” he went on. “I thought you had more sense. Don’t you understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through the filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?”

“The man’s visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I just blurted out the facts.”

“Well, you’ve rendered the services of a solicitor absolutely indispensable now.”

Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followed the scent of Winter’s red herring like the youngest hound in a pack; but Wally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to the right line.

“May I—” they both broke in simultaneously.

“Place to the fourth estate,” bowed Hart solemnly.

“Thanks,” said the journalist. “May I put a question, Winter?”

“A score, if you like.”

“Totting up the average of the murder cases in which Furneaux and you have been engaged, in how many days do you count on spotting your man?”

“Sometimes we never get him.”

“Oh, come a bit closer than that.”

“Generally, given a clear run, with an established motive, we know who he is within eight days.”

“Wednesday, in effect?”

“Can’t say, this time?”

“Suppose, as a hypothesis, you are convinced of a man’s guilt, but can obtain little or no evidence?”

“He goes through life a free and independent citizen of this or any other country. Arrests on suspicion are not my long suit.”

“How does one get evidence?” purred Hart. “It isn’t scattered broadcast by a clever criminal. And you fellows seem to object to my method, which has been the only effectual one so far in this affair.”

“If you had shot that specter the other night there would have been the deuce to pay.”

“But you would now be sure of the murderer?”

“Why do you assume that?”

“Like Eugene Aram, he can’t keep away from the scene of his crime.”

Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape.

“Detective work is nearly all guessing,” he said sententiously, “yet one must beware of what I may term obvious guessing. If cause and effect were so closely allied in certain classes of crime my department would cease to exist, and the protection of life and property might be left safely to the ordinary police. By the way, P. C. Robinson has been rather inactive during two whole days. That makes me suspicious. What’s he up to? Can you throw a light on him, Peters?”

The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease prying. He kicked Hart under the table.

“Hi!” yelled Wally. “What’s the matter? Strike your matches on your own shin, not mine.”

“Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed,” said Winter firmly.

“Very well. He needn’t emphasize the warning by a hob-nailed boot. When my injured feelings have recovered I’ll discourse to you of strange folk and stranger doings on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, and your stock as an Argentine plutocrat will rise one hundred per cent, next time you’re badgered by a man who knows the country.”

“Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail,” laughed Peters. “His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of the picture-buying.”

“Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known,” said Winter. “He gave every publicity to it.”

“Did he secure a bargain, I wonder?” said Grant.

“Oh, I expect so. He doesn’t waste his hard-earned money, even for official purposes.”

But Winter was well aware of, and kept to himself one phase of the art deal, at any rate. Furneaux had persuaded Siddle to fasten two bulky packages with string!

He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever in attire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at full length on Winter’s bed.

“Been up all night,” he explained. “Chemical analysis is fascinating but slow work—like watching a moth evolve from a grub. Had a fearful job, too, to get an analyst to chuck a theater and attend to business. The blighter talked of office hours. CrÉ nom! Ten till four, and an hour and a half for lunch! Why can’t we run our show on those lines, James!”

Winter finished carefully the left side of his broad expanse of face.

“You came down by the mail, I suppose?” he said casually.

“What a genius you are!” sighed Furneaux. “If I were trembling with expectation I could no more put a banal question like that than swallow the razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the common decency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintage wines while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich.”

Winter scraped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip.

“Shall I go to the bathroom first, or listen?” he inquired.

“Ah, well, I’m tired, and hiking these frail bones to bed till twelve, so I’ll give you a condensed version,” snapped Furneaux. “Elkin’s illness, begun by whiskey and over-excitement, developed into steady poisoning by Siddle. The chemist used a rare agent, too—pure nicotine—easy, in a sense, to detect, but capable of a dozen reasonable explanations when revealed by the post-mortem. But Elkin wasn’t to be killed outright, I gather. The idea was to upset stomach and brain till he was half crazy. As you can read print when it’s before your eyes, I needn’t go into the matter of motive; Elkin’s behavior supplies all details.”

“How about the knots? Hurry! I hate the feeling of soap drying on my skin.”

“One running noose and twice two half hitches on each package.”

“Good! Charles, we’re going to pull off a real twister.”

“We! Well, that tikes it, as the girl said when her hat blew off with the fluffy transformation pinned to it.”

Winter rushed to the bathroom, and Furneaux crept languidly to bed.

Before going to Knoleworth, Mr. Franklin consulted with Tomlin as to a suitable dinner, to which the other guests staying in the inn, namely, Mr. Peters and the Scotland Yard gentleman—the little man with the French name—might be invited. This important point settled, Mr. Franklin caught an early train, and was absent all day, being, in fact, closeted with Superintendent Fowler and a Treasury solicitor.

Furneaux was sound asleep long after twelve o’clock, and swore at Tomlin in French when the landlord ventured to arouse him. Tomlin went downstairs scratching his head.

“Least said soonest mended,” he communed, “but we may all be murdered in our beds if them’s the sort of ’tecs we ’ave to look arter us.”

However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some pressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and the kitchen was redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in the dining-room, of course, and Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin’s party. The scraps of talk he overheard were nothing more exciting than the prospects of a certain horse for the Stewards’ Cup. Peters had the tip straight from the stables. A racing certainty, with a stone in hand.

After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and tapped him professionally on the shoulder.

“A word with you outside,” he said.

Ingerman was irritated—perhaps slightly alarmed.

“Can’t we talk here?” he said, in that singularly melodious voice of his.

“Better not, but I shan’t detain you more than five minutes.”

“Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?”

“Not from me. Tell him yourself afterwards, if you like.”

In the quiet street the detective suddenly linked arms with his companion. Probably he smiled sardonically when he felt a telltale quiver run through Ingerman’s lanky frame.

“You’ve brought down Norris, I see?” he began.

“Yes.”

“Meaning to make things hot for Grant tomorrow?”

“Meaning to give justice the materials—”

“Cut the cackle, Isidor. I know you, and it’s high time you knew me. Grant has retained Belcher. Ah! that gets you, does it? You haven’t forgotten Belcher. Now, be reasonable! Or, rather, don’t run your head into a noose. Grant had no more to do with the murder of your wife than you had. Call off Norris, and Grant withdraws Belcher. Twig? It’s dead easy, because the Treasury solicitor will simply ask for another week’s adjournment, as the police are not ready to go on. In the meantime, you pay off Norris, and save your face. Is it a deal?”

“Am I to understand—”

“Don’t wriggle! The key of the situation is held by Belcher. Name of a pipe! What prompting does Belcher need from me or anybody else after the Bokfontein Lands case?”

“But—”

“Isidor, this is the last word. I was at the funeral on Saturday, and met your wife’s mother and sister. They do love you, don’t they?”

Ingerman died game.

“If I have your assurance that Mr. Grant is really innocent of Adelaide’s death, that is sufficient,” he said slowly.

“Well, if it pleases you to put it that way, I’m agreeable. Which is your road? Back to the hotel? I’m for a short stroll. Mind you, no wobbling! Go straight, and I’ll attend to Belcher. But, good Lord! How his eyes will sparkle when they light on you to-morrow!”

Neither the redoubtable Belcher, nor the Bokfontein Lands, nor poor Adelaide Melhuish’s mother and sister may figure further in this chronicle. The inquest opened at the appointed hour next day, and was closed down again for a week with a celerity that was most disappointing both to the jury and the general public. Of three legal luminaries present only one, the Treasury man, uttered a few bald words. Belcher and Norris did not even announce the names of their clients. Norris noticed that Belcher surveyed Ingerman with a grim smile, but thought nothing of it until he received a check later in the week. Then he made some inquiries, and smiled himself.

The foreman of the jury looked a trifle pinched, though his cheeks bore two spots of hectic color. Mr. Franklin, drawn to the court by curiosity, happened to glance at him once, and found him gazing at Furneaux in a peculiarly thoughtful manner.

Elkin, thriving on a diet of tea and eggs, was also interested in the representative of Scotland Yard. He seemed to ignore Grant entirely. Doris Martin was not in court. Superintendent Fowler had called about half past nine to tell her she would not be asked to attend that day.

Near Mr. Franklin sat a few village notabilities, who, since they had not the remotest connection with anyone concerned in the tragedy, have been left hitherto in their Olympian solitude. He listened to their comments.

“As usual, the police are utterly at sea,” said one.

“Yes, ‘following up important clews,’ the newspapers say,” scoffed another.

“It’s a disgraceful thing if a crime like this goes undetected and unpunished.”

“Which is the Scotland Yard man!”

“The small chap, in the blue suit.”

“What? That little rat!”

“Oh, he’s sharp. I met a man in the train and he told me—”

Mr. Franklin grinned amiably; Hobbs, the butcher, intercepting his eye, grinned back. It is not difficult to imagine what portion of the foregoing small talk reached Furneaux subsequently.

Oddly enough, both detectives had missed a brief but illuminating incident which took place in the Hare and Hounds the previous night, while Winter was finishing a cigar with Peters, and Furneaux was bludgeoning Ingerman into compliance with his wishes.

Elkin’s remarkable improvement in health was commented on by Hobbs, and Siddle took the credit.

“That last mixture has proved beneficial, then?” he said, eying the horse-dealer closely.

“Top-hole,” smirked Elkin. “But it’s only fair to say that I’ve chucked whiskey, too.”

“Did you finish the bottle?”

“Which bottle?”

“Mine, of course.”

“Nearly.”

“Don’t take any more. It was decidedly strong. I’ll send a boy early to-morrow morning with a first-rate tonic, and you might give him any old medicine bottles you possess. I’m running short.”

Elkin hesitated a second or two.

“I’ll tell my housekeeper to look ’em up,” he said. After the inquest he communicated this episode to Furneaux as a great joke.

“Queer, isn’t it?” he guffawed. “A couple of dozen bottles went back, as I’m always getting stuff for the gees, but those two weren’t among ’em. You took care of that, eh? When will you have the analysis?”

“It’ll be fully a week yet,” said the detective. “Government offices are not run like express trains, and this is a free job, you know. But, be advised by me. Stick to plain food, and throw physic to the dogs.”

Another singular fact, unobserved by the public at large, was that a policeman, either Robinson or a stranger, patrolled the high-street all day and all night, while no one outside official circles was aware that other members of the force watched The Hollies, or were secreted among the trees on the cliffside, from dusk to dawn.

Next morning, however, there was real cause for talk. Siddle’s shop was closed. Over the letter-box, neatly printed, was gummed a notice:

“Called away on business. Will open for one hour after arrival of 7 p. m. train. T. S.”

Everyone who passed stopped to read. Even Mr. Franklin joined Furneaux and Peters in a stroll across the road to have a look.

“I want you a minute,” said the big man suddenly to Furneaux. There was that in his tone which forbade questioning, so Peters sheered off, well content with the share permitted him in the inquiry thus far.

“That fellow, Hart, is no fool,” went on Winter rapidly. “He said last night ‘How does one get evidence?’ It was not easy to answer. Siddle has gone to his mother’s funeral. What do you think!”

“You’d turn me into a housebreaker, would you?” whined Furneaux bitterly. “I must do the job, of course, just because I’m a little one. Well, well! After a long and honorable career I have to become a sneak thief. It may cost me my pension.”

“There’s no real difficulty. An orchard—”

“Bet you a new hat I went over the ground before you did.”

“Get over it quickly now, and get something out of it, and I’ll give you a new hat. Got any tools?”

“I fetched ’em from town Tuesday morning,” chortled Furneaux. “So now who’s the brainy one?”

He skipped into the hotel, while Winter went to the station to make sure of Siddle’s departure and destination. Yes, the chemist had taken a return ticket to Epsom, where a strip of dank meadow-land on the road to Esher marks the last resting-place of many of London’s epileptics. On returning to the high-street, Winter lighted a cigar, a somewhat common occurrence in his everyday life, where-upon Furneaux walked swiftly up the hill. A farmer, living near the center of the village, owned a rather showy cob. Winter found the man, and persuaded him to trot the animal to and fro in front of the hotel. There was a good deal of noise and hoof-clattering, and people came to their doors to see what was going on. Obviously, if they were watching the antics of a skittish two-year-old in the high-street, their eyes were blind to proceedings in the back premises. Even the postmaster and his daughter were interested onlookers, and a policeman, who might have put a summary end to the display, vanished as though by magic.

Luckily, Winter was a good judge of a horse. When the cob was stabled, and the farmer came to the inn to have a drink, he was forced to admit a tendency to cow hocks, which, it would seem, is held a fatal blemish in the Argentine.

Meanwhile, Furneaux had dodged into a lane and thence to a bridle-path which emerged near Bob Smith’s forge. When he had traversed, roughly speaking, one-half of a rectangle in which the Hare and Hounds occupied the center of one of the longer sides, he climbed a gate and followed a hedge. Though not losing a second, he took every precaution to remain unseen, and, to the best of his belief, gained an inclosed yard at the back of Siddle’s premises without having attracted attention. He slipped the catch of a kitchen window only to discover that the sash was fastened by screws also. The lock of the kitchen door yielded to persuasion, but there were bolts above and below. A wire screen in a larder window was impregnable. Short of cutting out a pane of glass, he could not effect an entry on the ground floor.

Nimble as a squirrel, and risking everything, he climbed to the roof of an outhouse, and tried a bedroom window. Here he succeeded. When the catch was forced, there were no further obstacles. In he went, pausing only to look around and see if any curious or alarmed eye was watching him. He wondered why every back yard on that side of the high-street was empty, not even a maid-servant or woman washing clothes being in sight, but understood and grinned when the commotion Winter was creating came in view from a front room.

Then he undertook a methodical search, working with a rapid yet painstaking thoroughness which missed nothing. From a wardrobe he selected an overcoat and pair of trousers which reeked with turpentine. They were old and soiled garments, very different from the well-cut black coat and waistcoat, with striped cloth trousers, worn daily by the chemist. He drew a blank in the remainder of the upstairs rooms, which included a sitting-room, though he devoted fully quarter of an hour to reading the titles of Siddle’s books.

A safe in the little dispensing closet at the back of the shop promised sheer defiance until Furneaux saw a bunch of keys resting beside a methylated spirit lamp.

“’Twas ever thus!” he cackled, lighting the lamp. “Heaven help us poor detectives if it wasn’t!”

In a word, since murder will out, Siddle had forgotten his keys! Probably, he had gone to the safe for money, and, while writing the notice as to his absence, had laid down the keys and omitted to pick them up again.

Furneaux disregarded ledgers and account books. He examined a bank pass-book and a check-book. In a drawer which contained these and a quantity of gold he found a small, leather-bound book with a lock, which no key on the bunch was tiny enough to fit. A bit of twisted wire soon overcame this difficulty, and Furneaux began to read.

There were quaint diagrams, and surveyor’s sketches, both in plan and section, with curious notes, and occasional records of what appeared to be passages from letters or conversations. The detective read, and read, referring back and forth, absorbed in his task, no doubt, but evidently puzzled.

At last, he stuffed the book into a pocket, completed his scrutiny of the safe, examined the bottles on the shelf labeled “poisons,” and took a sample of the colorless contents of one bottle marked “C₁₀H₁₄N₂.”

Then he went to the kitchen, replaced all catches and the lock of the door, and let himself out by the way he had come.

Winter saw him from afar, and hastened upstairs to the private sitting-room. Furneaux appeared there soon.

“Well?” said the Chief Inspector eagerly.

“Got him, I think,” said Furneaux.

Not much might be gathered from that monosyllabic question and its answer, but its significance in Siddle’s ears, could he have heard, would have been that of the passing bell tolling for the dead.