ing up his mind what to say, yet faltered at the
last moment.

Robinson ruminated darkly. As a matter of fact, long after eleven o'clock
on that fateful night, he himself had seen Elkin walking homeward. He was
well aware that the licensing hours were not strictly observed by the
Hare and Hounds when "commercial gentlemen" were in residence. Closing
time was ten o'clock, but the "commercials," being cheery souls, became
nominal hosts on such occasions, and their guests were in no hurry to
depart. Robinson saw that he had probably jumped to a conclusion, an
acrobatic feat of reasoning which Furneaux had specifically warned him
against. At any rate, he resolved now to leave well enough alone.

"Well, we don't seem to get any forrarder," he said. "You ought to take
more care of your health, Mr. Elkin. You're a changed man these days."

"I'll be all right when this murder is off our chests, Robinson. You
won't have a tiddley? Right-o! So long!"

Robinson walked slowly toward Steynholme. At a turn in the road he halted
near the footpath which led down the wooded cliff and across the river to
Bush Walk. He surveyed the locality with a reflective frown. Then, there
being no one about, he made some notes of the chat with Elkin. The man's
candor and his misstatements were equally puzzling. None knew better than
the policeman that the vital discrepancy of fully an hour and a half on
the Monday night would be difficult to clear up. Tomlin, of course, would
have no recollection of events after ten o'clock, but the commercial
traveler, who could be traced, might be induced to tell the truth if
assured that the police needed the information solely for purposes in
connection with their inquiry into the murder. That man must be found.
His testimony should have an immense significance.

That evening, shortly before seven o'clock, a stalwart,
prosperous-looking gentleman in tweeds "descended" from the London
express at Knoleworth. The local train for Steynholme stood in a bay on
the opposite platform, and this passenger in particular was making for it
when he nearly collided with another man, younger, thinner, bespectacled,
who hailed him with delight.

"You, too? Good egg!" was the cry.

The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality.

"Where the deuce are you off to?" he demanded.

"To Steynholme--same as you, of course."

"Look here, Peters, a word in your ear. If you know me during the next
few days, yo