ittle importance to it. "I
suppose people about here see that."

"They don't know about it. Nobody knows about it but me, and I don't tell
everything I sees unless there's something to be got by it. A still
tongue makes a wise 'ead, I say," said William Roper, with a somewhat
vainglorious air.

"Quite right--quite right," said Mr. Flexen heartily. "Many a man's
tongue has lost him a good job."

"You're right there, sir. But not me it won't," said William Roper
with emphasis.

"I can see that. You've too much sense. Well, I shall keep in touch with
you, and when the time comes you'll be called on. Drink my health. Good
day," said Mr. Flexen, giving him half-a-crown.

He walked back to the car, pleased to have done Olivia the service of
closing William Roper's mouth, at any rate for a time. He would talk, of
course, sooner or later, probably sooner. But he might have closed his
mouth for a fortnight.

William Roper walked on to the village and went into the "Bull and Gate."
The village was simmering in a very lively fashion. The return of James
Hutchings to his situation at the Castle was a fact with which it could
not grapple easily. It was bewildered and annoyed.

William Roper had not, as he had assured Mr. Flexen, told what he had
seen on the night of the murder of Lord Loudwater, but he had been
dropping hints. He dropped more. He was a supporter of the theory that
James Hutchings was the murderer because he desired to oust the father of
James Hutchings from his post as head-gamekeeper. That was the reason
also of his belief in James Hutchings' guilt. He was beginning to enjoy
the interest he awakened as the storehouse of undivulged knowledge. When
Mr. Flexen had supposed that he would remain silent for a fortnight, he
had overestimated both his modesty and his reticence.

Later in the day the village was further upset by the behaviour of James
Hutchings himself. He came into the "Bull and Gate" with an easy air,
showed himself but little more civil than usual, and told the landlord
that he had just arranged that the parson should publish the banns of his
marriage with Elizabeth Twitcher on the following Sunday. The village was
staggered. This was not the way in which it expected a man who would
presently be tried and hanged for murder to behave.

In all fairness to James Hutchings, it must be said that he would not
have acted with this decision of his own accord. Elizabeth had bidden him
to it, urging tha