blest if I can understand why _you_ make such a study of the vile weed."

"Most criminals are addicted to the habit. I classify them by their brand
of tobacco. For instance, a clever forger would never descend to thick
twist, while a swell mobsman would turn with horror from a woodbine."

Minnie entered, and nodded, whereupon Grant led the others upstairs to
wash. From the bathroom he looked out over a darkening landscape. Doris's
dormer window was open. She was leaning on the sill, but he could not
tell whether or not her eyes were turned his way. Her attitude was
pensive, disconsolate, curiously forlorn for a girl normally
high-spirited. He was on the point of signaling to her when he remembered
Furneaux's presence. There was something impish, almost diabolically
clever, in that little man's characteristics which induced wariness.

The dinner was a marvel, considering the short notice given to the cook.
Luckily, Mrs. Bates, a loyal soul, had resolved to tempt her employer's
appetite that evening. Village gossip had it that the police were about
to arrest him, and she was determined he should enjoy at least one good
meal before being haled to prison. Hence, the materials were present.
The rest was a matter of quantities, and Sussex seldom stints itself in
that respect.

The chatter round the table was light and amusing. The three were well
matched conversationally. Furneaux evidently held the opinion once
expressed by a notable Walrus--that the time had come

To talk of many things:
Of shots--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings.

He was in excellent form, and the others played up to him. Hart's slow
drawl was ever trenchant and witty, and Grant forgot his woes in
congenial company. As for the mercurial detective himself, it might be
said of him as of the school-master of Auburn:

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.

It was he who dropped them with a bounce from the realm of fancy to the
unpleasing region of ugly fact. No sooner had Minnie cleared the table,
and brought in the coffee, than he whisked around on Grant as though
hitherto he had been only awaiting an opportunity of scarifying him.

"Now," he said, propping an elbow on the table, and supporting his chin
on a clenched fist, "the embargo is off the Steynholme affair. _You_
didn't kill Adelaide Melhuish, Mr. Grant. Who did?"

"I wish I could tell you," was the emphatic answer