r as I can judge, they refer either to a sort of
settlement with his wife or chance phrases used by Doris Martin which
might imply that she was heart whole and fancy free. There's not a bally
word dealing with the murder, or that can be twisted into the vaguest
allusion to it. But here's a plan and section which have a sort of
significance. I've seen the place, so recognized it, or thought I did. We
must check it, of course. Here you are! You know the footbridge across
the river from Bush Walk?"

"Yes."

"The eastern end is supported on a hollow pier of masonry, in which one
might tog up unseen. These drawings would be useful as an _Aide
Memoire_ on a dark night. A false step, with the river in flood, might
be awkward."

"What's that on the opposite page?"

"I give it up--at present."

This somewhat rare display of modesty on Furneaux's part was readily
understandable. A series of straight lines and angles conveyed very
little hint of their purport; but Winter smiled behind his friend's back.

"I've been prowling about this wretched inn longer than you," he said.
"Look outside, to the left."

"Don't need to, now," cackled Furneaux. "It's the profile of a wall,
gate, and outhouse along which one could reach the window of the
club-room. Would you mind stopping grinning like a Cheshire cat?"

"Anything else?"

"Yes. This one: 'S.M.? 1820.' That beats you, eh?"

"Dished completely."

"Doris Martin, as usual, supplies the answer. An old volume of the
_Sussex Miscellany_, probably that for 1820, contains the full story of
Owd Ben. I might have mentioned it to you, but focussed on current
events. Siddle has it among his books, which, by the way, are made up
largely of scientific and popular criminal records."

"Is that the lot?"

"I'm afraid so. Have a look."

"Just a minute. I want to think."

Winter turned and gazed through the open window. Seldom had a more
gracious June decked England with garlands. The hour was then high noon,
and a pastoral landscape was drowned in sunshine. The Chief Inspector cut
the end off a cigar dreamily but with care.

"Broadmoor--perhaps," he muttered. "But we can't hang him yet, Charles. A
couple of knots and a theory won't do for the Assizes. We haven't a
solitary witness. Hardly a night but he goes home at 9.30. If only he had
killed Grant! But--Adelaide Melhuish!"

In sheer despair he struck a match.

"Well, let's overhaul these duds," said Furneaux savagely. "I'll cha