tures to show a flicker of
surprise. In that rural district an actual, downright murder was almost
unknown. Even a case of manslaughter, arising out of a drunken quarrel
between laborers at fair-time, did not occur once in five years.

"Oh, she came here on Sunday, did she?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Yesterday, too, she spoke of Mr. Grant to Hobbs, the butcher,
and Siddle, the chemist."

The two were closeted in the sitting-room of Robinson's cottage, which
was situated on the main road near the bridge. It faced the short, steep
hill overhanging the river. A triangular strip of turf formed the village
green, and the houses of Steynholme clustered around this and a side road
climbing the hill. From door and windows nearly every shop and residence
in the village proper could be seen. In front of the Hare and Hounds had
gathered a group of men, and it was easy to guess the topic they were
discussing. The superintendent, who did not know any of them, had no
difficulty in identifying Hobbs, who looked a butcher and was dressed
like one, or Tomlin, who was either born an innkeeper or had been coached
in the part by a stage expert. A thin, sharp-looking person, pallid and
black-haired, wearing a morning coat and striped trousers, must surely be
Siddle, while a fourth, the youngest there, and of rather sporting guise,
was apparently a farmer of a horse-breeding turn.

"Who is that fellow in the leggings?" inquired the superintendent
irrelevantly. He was looking through the window, and Robinson considered
that the question showed a lack of interest in his statement, though he
dared not hint at such a thing.

"He's a Mr. Elkin, sir," he said. "As I was saying--"

"How does Mr. Elkin make a living?" broke in the other.

"He breeds hacks and polo ponies," said Robinson, rather shortly.

"Ah, I thought so. Well, go on with your story."

Robinson was irritated, and justly so. His superior had put him off his
"line." He took it up again sharply, leaving out of court for the moment
the various rills of evidence which, in his opinion, united into a
swift-moving stream.

"The fact is, sir," he blurted out, "there is an uncommonly strong case
against Mr. John Menzies Grant."

"Phew!" whistled the superintendent.

"I think you'll agree with me, sir, when you hear what I've gathered
about him one way and another."

Robinson was sure of his audience now. Quite unconsciously, he had
applied the chief canon of realism in art. He had