partment after
office hours. Grant, like most members of the general public, held the
vague belief that Government officials do very little work. Still, one
might reasonably expect better things from the institution which was
supposed to safeguard law-abiding citizens.

Calm analysis of Ingerman's nebulous threats had revealed a hostile
force not to be despised. Possibly, the man was already in league with
that narrow-minded village constable, so every passing hour made more
urgent the need of a trained intelligence being brought to bear on the
mystery of Adelaide Melhuish's killing. Grant racked his brains to
discover who could possibly have a motive for committing the crime.
Naturally, his thoughts flew to Ingerman. Surely that sinister-looking
person should be forced to give an account of himself instead of, as was
probable, being allowed to instill further nonsense into the suspicious
mind of P.C. Robinson.

There were two morning deliveries of London letters in Steynholme, one at
eight and another at half past ten. Grant waited until the postman had
left a publisher's circular (the only letter for The Hollies by the
second mail). Then, in a fever of impatience, he jammed on a hat and went
out. He would wait no longer. He would telegraph Scotland Yard again,
and, incidentally, demand an audience at the post office.

No sooner had he entered the highroad than he saw P.C. Robinson on guard.
That important person was standing on the bridge, apparently taking the
air. He was nibbling the chin-strap of his helmet; both thumbs were
locked in his belt. From that strategic position three roads came under
observation.

It was a fine morning, and Grant's sense of humor was not proof against
this open espionage. He smiled, and determined to take a rise out of
"Sherlock," as Bates had christened the policeman.

The bridge lay a hundred yards to the left. The road was straight until
it curved around the house and its shrubberies, so the view was blocked
on that side. Grant filled and lighted a pipe with a deliberateness meant
to be provoking, glancing several times doubtfully at P.C. Robinson, who,
of course, was grandly unaware of his presence. Then he strolled off to
the right, and, when hidden, took to his heels for a hundred yards
sprint. Turning into a winding bridle-path tucked between hedges of thorn
and hazels, he walked to a point where it crossed a patch of furze. At a
little distance a hand-bridge spanned the riv