ou'll drop in at the
_Monitor_ office any time you like, Mr. Brent--mornings preferable--I'll
give you the benefit of my experience: Hathelsborough folk, sir, are, in
my opinion, the queerest lot in all England. But you want to see
Alderman Crood--now, go to the end of the market-place, turn down Barley
Market, and drop a hundred yards or so down the hill at the end--then
you'll smell Crood's tan-yard, even if you don't see it. His is the big,
solid-looking house at the side--you can't miss it."

The editor-reporter shot up an alley at his left, at the head of which
was a lighted window with MONITOR OFFICE on it in black letters; and
Brent went on his way to seek the Deputy-Mayor. As he passed Low Cross,
and the east end of the great church, and turned into the wide,
irregular space called Barley Market, he tried to analyse his feelings
about the tragic event on which he had chanced without warning. He had
left Fleet Street early that afternoon, thinking of nothing but a few
days' pleasant change, and here he was, in that quiet, old-world town,
faced with the fact that his kinsman and host had been brutally murdered
at the very hour of his arrival. He was conscious of a fierce if dull
resentment--the resentment of a tribesman who finds one of his clan done
to death, and knows that the avenging of blood is on his shoulders from
henceforth. He had no particular affection for his cousin, and
therefore no great sense of personal loss, but Wallingford after all was
of his breed, and he must bring his murderer to justice.

Alderman Crood's house, big, broad, high, loomed up across him as the
odours of the tan-yard at its side and rear assailed his nostrils. As he
went towards it, the front door opened a little, and a man came out. He
and Brent met in the light of a street lamp, and Brent recognized a
policeman whom he had seen in the Mayor's Parlour. The man recognized
him, and touched his helmet. Brent stopped.

"Oh," he said, "have you been to tell Mr. Crood of what has happened?"

"Just that, sir," replied the policeman. "He's Deputy-Mayor, sir."

"I know," said Brent. "Then, he's at home?"

"Yes, sir."

Brent was going forward, but a sudden curiosity seized on him. He
paused, glancing at the policeman suggestively.

"Did--did Mr. Crood say anything?" he asked.

The policeman shook his head.

"Nothing, sir, except that he supposed Superintendent Hawthwaite was
seeing to everything."

"Did you happen to tell hi