and shrubs, watch the Bunnings' door until Mrs.
Bunning left it, jug in hand, and then to slip across the grass-grown,
cobble-paved lane, silent and lonely enough, and up to the Mayor's
Parlour. But all that presupposed knowledge of the place and of its
people and their movements.

He went back to the market-place and towards the _Chancellor_.
Peppermore came hurrying out of the hotel as Brent turned into it. He
carried a folded paper in his hand, and he waved it at Brent as, at
sight of him, he came to a sudden halt.

"Just been looking for you, Mr. Brent!" he said mysteriously. "Come into
some quiet spot, sir, and glance at this. Here we are, sir, corner of
the hall."

He drew Brent into an alcove that opened close by them, and affecting a
mysterious air began to unfold his paper, a sheet of news-print which,
Brent's professional eye was quick to see, had just been pulled as a
proof.

"All that affair to-day, Mr. Brent," he whispered, "most unsatisfactory,
sir, most unsatisfactory--unconvincing, inconclusive, Mr. Brent! The
thing's getting no farther, sir, no farther, except, of course, for the
very pertinent fact about Mrs. Bunning's absence from her quarters that
fateful evening. My own impression, sir, is that Hawthwaite and all the
rest of 'em don't know the right way of going about this business. But
the _Monitor's_ going to wade in, sir--the _Monitor_ is coming to the
rescue! Look here, sir, we're going to publish a special edition
to-night, with a full account of to-day's proceedings at the inquest,
and with it we're going to give away, as a gratis supplement--what do
you think, sir? This, produced at great cost, sir, in the interest of
Justice! Look at it!"

Therewith Peppermore, first convincing himself that he and his companion
were secure from observation, spread out before Brent a square sheet of
very damp paper, strongly redolent of printers' ink, at the head of
which appeared, in big, bold, black characters, the question:

WHO TYPED THIS LETTER?

Beneath it, excellently reproduced, was a facsimile of the typewritten
letter which Wallingford had shown to Epplewhite and afterwards left in
his keeping. And beneath that was a note in large italics inviting
anyone who could give any information as to the origin of the document
to communicate with the Editor of the _Monitor_, at once.

"What d'ye think of that for a _coup_, Mr. Brent?" demanded Peppermore
proudly. "Up to Fleet Street form that, sir,