the long dewy grass on the shady side of
the shed. As for rigidity, if Manderson died in a struggle, or laboring
under sudden emotion, his corpse might stiffen practically
instantaneously: there are dozens of cases noted, particularly in cases
of injury to the skull, like this one. On the other hand, the stiffening
might not have begun until eight or ten hours after death. You can't
hang anybody on _rigor mortis_ nowadays, inspector, much as you may
resent the limitation. No; what we _can_ say is this. If he had been
shot after the hour at which the world begins to get up and go about its
business, it would have been heard and very likely seen, too. In fact,
we must reason--to begin with, at any rate--on the assumption that he
wasn't shot at a time when people might be awake--it isn't done in these
parts. Put that time at six-thirty A. M. Manderson went up to bed at
eleven P. M. and Martin sat up till twelve-thirty. Assuming that he went
to sleep at once on turning in, that leaves us something like six hours
for the crime to be committed in; and that is a long time. But whenever
it took place, I wish you would suggest a reason why Manderson, who was a
fairly late riser, was up and dressed at or before six-thirty; and why
neither Martin, who sleeps lightly, nor Bunner, nor his wife heard him
moving about, or letting himself out of the house. He must have been
careful. He must have crept about like a cat.... Do you feel as I do,
Murch, about all this: that it is very, very strange and baffling?"

"That's how it looks," agreed the inspector.

"And now," said Trent, rising to his feet, "I'll leave you to your
meditations, and take a look at the bedrooms. Perhaps the explanation of
all this will suddenly burst upon you while I am poking about up there.
But," concluded Trent in a voice of sudden exasperation, turning round
in the doorway, "if you can tell me at any time how under the sun a man
who put on all those clothes could forget to put in his teeth, you may
kick me from here to the nearest lunatic asylum, and hand me over as an
incipient dement."

CHAPTER IV

POKING ABOUT

There are moments in life, as one might think, when that which is within
us, busy about its secret affair, lets escape into consciousness some
hint of a fortunate thing ordained. Who does not know what it is to feel
at times a wave of unaccountable persuasion that it is about to go well
with him?--not the feverish confidence of men in da