, meeting Peters in the passage, winked at him, and the
journalist tortured his brains to turn out some readable stuff which
should grip the million on Sunday yet not to be damaging to the man whose
hospitality he enjoyed over night.

In a word, the passing of Adelaide Melhuish was exploited thoroughly as
an indictment of her one-time lover, and the only two in Steynholme not
aware of the fact were Grant, himself, and Wally Hart.

By a singular coincidence, not ridiculously beyond the ken of a verger,
when Doris went to church on Sunday morning, she found herself beside
Mr. Franklin.

At the close of the service the same big man whom she had noticed as a
neighbor in the pew overtook her at the post office door. He lifted his
hat. A passer-by heard him say distinctly:

"Pardon me for troubling you, but can you tell me at what time the mail
closes for London?"

"At four-thirty," said Doris.

No other person overheard Mr. Franklin's next words:

"I am now going to drop a letter in the box. It's for you. Get it at
once. It is of the utmost importance."

Doris was startled, as well she might be. But--she went straight for the
letter. It was marked: "Private and Urgent," and ran:

DEAR MISS MARTIN. I am here _vice_ Mr. Furneaux, who is engaged on other
phases of the same inquiry. My business is absolutely unknown. I figure
at the inn as "Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina." Indeed, Mr. Furneaux left the
village because he realized the difficulties facing him in that respect.
Now, I trust you, and I hope you will justify my faith. You know
Superintendent Fowler. I want you to meet me and him this afternoon at
two o'clock at the crossroads beyond the mill. A closed car will be in
waiting, and we can have half an hour's talk without anyone in Steynholme
being the wiser. Remember that this village, like the night, has a
thousand eyes. Naturally, I would not trouble you in this way if the
cause was not vital to the ends of justice. Whether or not you decide to
keep this appointment, I have every confidence that you will respect my
wish that _no one_, other than yourself, shall be informed of my
identity. But I believe you will be wise, and come.

I am,

Yours faithfully,

J.L. WINTER,

Chief Inspector, C.I.D., Scotland Yard, S.W.

A card was inclosed, as a sort of credential. But, somehow, it was not
needed. Doris had seen "Mr. Franklin" more than once, and she had heard
him singing the hymns in church. He looked worthy