ildered way.

"I find myself deserted by my Steynholme friends so I am trying to import
one stanch one," said Grant, almost vindictively.

Martin murmured the cost, and Grant stormed out again. This time, passing
the Hare and Hounds, he looked at door and windows. He caught a face
scowling at him over a brown wire blind bearing the words "Wines and
Spirits" on it in letters of dull gold. It was a commonplace type of
face, small-featured, ginger-moustached, and crowned by a billy-cock hat
set at a rakish angle. Its most marked characteristic was the positive
hatred which glowed in the sharp, pale-blue eyes. Grant wondered who this
highly censorious young man might be. At any rate, he meant to ascertain
whether or not the critic was susceptible of satire at his own expense.
He walked up to the window, elevated his eyebrows at the frowning person
within, pretended to read the words on the screen, looked again at the
man inside, and shook his head gravely in the manner of one who has
accurately determined cause and effect.

Fred Elkin was quick-witted enough to appreciate Grant's unspoken
comment. He was also unmannerly enough to put out his tongue. Then Grant
laughed, and turned on his heel.

Mr. Siddle, quietly observant of recent comings and goings, was standing
at the door of the shop, and missed no item of this dumb show. He raised
both hands in silent condemnation of Elkin's childishness, whereupon the
horse-dealer jerked a thumb toward Grant's retreating figure, and went
through a rapid pantomime of the hanging process. His crony disapproved
again, and went in. Now, both those men were on the jury panel, so, to
all appearance, Grant would be judged by at least one deadly enemy, whose
animosity might or might not be fairly balanced by the chemist's
impartial mind.

The tenant of The Hollies actually dreaded the loneliness of his
dwelling now, though it was that very quality which had drawn him to
Steynholme a year earlier. Work or reading was equally out of the
question that day. He sought the industrious Bates, who was trenching
celery in the kitchen garden.

"Have 'ee made out owt about un, sir?" inquired that hardy individual,
pausing to spit on the handle of his spade.

"No," said Grant. "The thing is a greater mystery than ever."

"I'm thinkin' her mun ha' bin killed by a loony," announced Bates.

"Something of the kind, no doubt. But why are the little less dangerous
loonies of Steynholme united in the