!" affirmed Coppinger.

"Why then, has he been murdered?" asked Brent. "What's at the bottom of
it?"

All three men shook their heads. They looked at each other. They looked
at Brent.

"Ay--what?" said Crood.

"Just so!" agreed Mallett.

"That's precisely where it is," concluded Coppinger. "Exactly!"

"More in it than anyone knows of--most probably--at present, Mr. Brent,"
observed Crood, with solemn significance. "Time, sir, time! Time, sir,
may tell--may!"

Brent saw that he was not going to get any information under that roof,
and after a further brief exchange of trite observations he rose to take
his leave. Alderman Crood wrung his hand.

"Sorry I am, sir, that your first visit to my establishment should be
under such painful circumstances," he said unctuously. "I hope you'll
favour me with another talk, sir--always pleased to see a London
gentleman, I'm sure--we're behind, perhaps, in these parts, Mr. Brent,
but honest and hearty, sir, honest and hearty. Queenie, my love, you'll
open the door for the young gentleman?"

The girl took Brent into the gloomy hall. Halfway along its shadows, she
suddenly turned on him with a half shy, half daring expression.

"You are from London?" she whispered.

"From London?--yes," said Brent. "Why?"

"I want to--to talk to somebody about London," she went on, with a
nervous, backward glance at the door they had just left. "May I--will
you let me talk to--you?"

"To be sure!" answered Brent. "But when--where?"

"I go into the Castle grounds every afternoon," she answered timidly.
"Could--could you come there--some time?"

"To-morrow afternoon?" suggested Brent. "Say three o'clock? Would that
do?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Thank you--I'll be there. It seems--queer, but
I'll tell you. Thank you again--you'll understand to-morrow."

She had her hand on the big street door by then. Without more words she
let him out into the night; he heard the door close heavily behind him.
He went back towards the heart of the little town, wondering. Only a few
hours before, he had been in the rush and bustle of Fleet Street, and
now, here he was, two hundred miles away, out of the world, and faced
with an atmosphere of murder and mystery.

CHAPTER IV

BULL'S SNUG

When Brent came again to the centre of the town he found that
Hathelsborough, instead of sinking to sleep within an hour of curfew,
according to long-established custom, had awakened to new life. There
were