lud,
and gentlemen of the jury.' But, having persuaded you to agree that,
willy nilly, Miss Doris is the hub of our little universe for the hour,
I now swear you and this fire-eater in as assistants. There must be no
more speeches, no punching of heads, very little love-making, and that
by order--"

"Has the postmaster's daughter a delectable sister, O Liliputian cop?"
demanded Hart.

"No. Two of 'em would have caused a riot long since. Mr. Grant will do
all, and more than all, necessary in that direction."

Grant leaned forward. He spoke very earnestly.

"I want you to believe me when I tell you," he said, "that I never gave
serious thought to the notion of marrying Miss Martin until such a
possibility was suggested last night by that swab, Ingerman."

"Ah, Ingerman! You kept a record of what he said, I gather?"

"Yes, here it is."

Grant rose, and went to a writing-desk with nests of drawers which stood
against the wall on the left of the door. He never used it for its
primary purpose. When the table was laid for meals, Minnie or her mother
had orders to remove all papers and books to the top of the desk. The
house contained no other living-room of size. The hall was spacious; a
smoking den next the dining-room had degenerated into a receptacle of
guns, fishing-rods, golf-clubs, Alpenstocks, skis and other such sporting
accessories. The remainder of the ground-floor accommodation was given up
to the Bateses.

Unlocking a drawer, Grant produced a notebook, which he handed to
Furneaux. The detective laid it on the table. He was sitting with
his back to the large window. Hart faced him. Grant's chair was
between the two.

"By the way, as you're on your feet, Mr. Grant," said Furneaux, "you
might just show me exactly where you were standing when you saw the face
at the window."

"For the love of Mike, what's this?" gurgled Hart. "'The face at the
window'; 'the postmaster's daughter.' How many more catchy cross-heads
will you bring into the story?"

"Poor Adelaide Melhuish undoubtedly came here on Monday night and looked
in at me while I was at work," said Grant sadly. "You know the history of
my calf love three years ago, Wally."

"Shall I ever forget it? You bored me stiff about it. Then, when the
crash came, you walked me off my legs in the Upper Engadine. Ugh! That
night on the Forno glacier. It gives me a chill to think of it now.
Furneaux, pass the port. Your name is wrongly spelt. It should be
fourn