as a bare three
minutes' walk. Might he ask if the gentleman was staying long?

Foyle wasn't sure. It depended on how he liked the country and on the
weather. "By the way," he went on, with an air of one faintly curious,
"didn't Mr. Grell, who was murdered in London, have some property this
way? Dalehurst Grange or something? I suppose you never saw him?"

"That I 'ave," asserted the porter, eager to associate himself, however
remotely, with the tragedy. "I've seen him time and again. He always
used this station when he came down from London--though that wasn't
often, worse luck. He was a nice sort of gentleman, though some of the
folks down here pretended that 'e was not what you'd call in proper
society, because he was an American. But I always found 'im generous and
free-'anded. And to think of 'im being done to death! My missus says
she's afraid to go to bed afore I go off duty now. It was a great shock
to us, that murder."

He spoke with a solemn shake of the head, as though he lived in daily
dread of assassination himself. "You see the last train through, I
suppose?" asked Foyle irrelevantly.

"Yes, sir. The ten-nine up. As I was saying, what with these 'ere
murders and things----"

"Have they shut the Grange up, or is there still some one living there?"

"Well, they got rid of most of the servants. I believe there's still a
'ousekeeper there and a maid, as well as a gardener. I remember when Mr.
Grell first took over the place, Bill Ellis--'e's the blacksmith--ses to
me----" He entered into lengthy reminiscence, to which Foyle only paid
casual heed. He had learned what he wanted to know. Grell, if he had
left the neighbourhood the preceding night, had not done so from
Deepnook, where he would have infallibly been recognised.

The porter was still talking when they passed under the branching arms
of the giant chestnut that shaded the courtyard of one of the prettiest
of the old coaching inns of England. Foyle slipped a shilling into his
guide's hand, and registered himself as "Alfred Frampton--London."

Local gossip is often of service to the man who knows how to lead it
into the right channels. The superintendent decided that an hour or two
might be profitably wasted in the lounge, where half-a-dozen men were
sitting at a small table before a huge, open fireplace. He ordered a
drink and sat a little apart, relying on their provincial curiosity to
presently drag him into the conversation. By the time the l