ng the bell once more, gave the necessary
instructions, and the room was cleared of its art. He was quite sure now
that Furneaux was, as he put it, "dotty." The latter, however, sat and
enjoyed his tea as though well pleased with his bargain.

"And how are things going in the murder at The Hollies?" inquired the
horse-dealer, by way of a polite leading up to the visitor's
unexplained business.

"Fairly well," said the detective. "My chief difficulty was to convince
certain important people that you didn't kill Miss Melhuish. Once I--"

"Me!" roared Elkin, his pale blue eyes assuming a fiery tint. "_Me!_"

"Once I established that fact," went on the other severely, "a real
stumbling-block was removed. You see, Elkin, you have behaved throughout
like a perfect fool, and thus lent a sort of credibility to an otherwise
absurd notion. Your furious hatred of Mr. Grant, for instance, born of an
equally fatuous--or, shall I say? fat-headed--belief that Miss Martin
would marry you for the mere asking, led you into deep waters. It was a
mistake, too, when you lied to P.C. Robinson as to the time you came home
on that Monday night. You told him you walked straight here from the Hare
and Hounds at ten o 'clock. You know you didn't--that it was nearer half
past eleven when you reached this house. Consider what that discrepancy
alone might have meant if Scotland Yard failed to take your measure
correctly. Then add the fact that the murderer wore the hat, wig, and
whiskers in which you made a guy of yourself while filling the role of
Svengali last winter. Now, I ask you, Elkin, where would you have stood
with the average British jury when the prosecution established those
three things: Motive, your jealousy of Grant; time, your unaccounted-for
disappearance during the hour when the crime was committed; and disguise,
a clumsy suggestion of Owd Ben's ghost? Really, I have known men brought
to the scaffold on circumstantial evidence little stronger than that.
Instead of glaring at me like a cornered rat you ought to drop on your
knees and thank providence, as manifested through the intelligence of the
'Yard,' that you are not now in a cell at Knoleworth, ruminating on your
own stupidity, and in no small jeopardy of your life."

Many emotions chased each other across Fred Elkin's somewhat mean and
cruel face while Furneaux rated him in this extraordinary manner.
Surprise, wrath, even fear, had their phases. But, dominating all other
s