ps.

In that moment of crisis only three men did not lose their heads. Winter
cleared away the gapers, while Furneaux remained with the body. P.C.
Robinson came up the hill at a run, and was sent for a stretcher,
bringing from Hobbs's shop the very one on which the ill-fated Adelaide
Melhuish was carried from the river bank.

But where was Peters? In the post office, writing the first of a series
of thrilling dispatches to a London evening newspaper. What journalist
ever had a more sensational murder-case to supply "copy"? And when was
"special correspondent" ever better primed for the task? He wrote on, and
on, till the telegraphist cried halt. Then he hied him to London by
train, and began the more ambitious "story" for next morning. What he did
not know he guessed correctly. A fagged but triumphant man was Jimmie
Peters when he "blew in" to the Savage Club at 1 A.M. to seek sustenance
and a whiskey and soda before going home.

Furneaux was white and shaken when Winter escorted the stretcher-bearers
to the orchard.

"Poor devil!" he said, as the men lifted the body. "Foredoomed from
birth! We can eradicate these diseases from cattle. Why not from men!"

The villagers could not understand him. Already, in some mysterious way,
the word had gone around that Siddle had murdered the actress, and taken
his own life to avoid arrest, after shooting at the detective who was hot
on his trail.

Not until Peters's articles came back to Steynholme did the public at
large realize that the chemist undoubtedly meant to kill Doris Martin. He
was going straight to the post office when the way was barred by
Furneaux. The bullet which missed the latter actually pierced the zinc
plate of the letter-box, and scored a furrow, inches long, in an oak
counter which it struck laterally.

The village did not recover its poise for hours. Grant and Hart, to whom
Bates brought the news about one o'clock, rose from an untasted luncheon
and hurried to the high-street. Knots of people stared at Grant, some
sheepishly, others with frank relief, because all who knew him liked him.
One man, a retired ironmonger and an impulsive fellow, came forward and
wrung his hand heartily. A few prominent residents followed suit. Grant
was greatly embarrassed, but managed to endure these awkward if
well-meant congratulations. There could be no mistaking their intent. He
had been tried for murder at the bar of public opinion, and was now
formally acquitted.