belief that I am the guilty one?"

"Ax me another," growled Bates.

"Who is spreading this rumor? Robinson?"

"'E dussen't, sir. 'E looks fierce, but 'e'll 'old 'is tongue. T'super
will see to that."

"Someone is talking. That is quite certain."

"There's a chap in the 'Are an' 'Ounds--kem 'ere last night."

"Ingerman?"

"Ay, sir, that's the name. 'E's makin' a song of it, I hear."

"Anybody else?"

"Fred Elkin is gassin' about. Do 'ee know un? Breeds 'osses at Mount
Farm, a mile that-a-way," and Bates pointed to the west.

Grant hazarded a guess, and described the face of condemnation seen at
the inn. Bates nodded.

"That's un," he said. Then he drove the spade into the rich loam. "They
do say," he added, apparently as an after-thought, "as Fred Elkin is
mighty sweet on Doris, but her'll 'ave nowt to do wi' un."

Grant whistled softly. This explanation threw light on a dark place.

"The plot thickens," he said. "Mr. Elkin becomes more interesting than he
looks. Are there other disappointed swains in the offing?"

"What's that, sir?"

"Has Miss Martin any other suitors?"

"Lots of 'em 'ud be after her like wasps round a plum-tree if she'd give
'em 'alf a chance. But _you_ put a stopper on 'em."

Bates was blunt of speech, though a philosopher withal.

"Elkin is my only serious rival, then?" laughed Grant, passing off as a
joke a thrust which was shrewder than the gardener knew.

"'E 'as plenty of brass, but I reckon nowt on 'im," was the
contemptuous answer.

"Well, he is not a likely person to kill a woman he had never before
seen. Miss Martin will marry whom she chooses, no doubt. The present
problem is to find out who murdered Miss Melhuish. Now, had _I_ been the
victim you would be thinking hard, Bates."

"I tell 'ee, sir, it wur a loony."

Nor was Bates to be moved from that opinion. He held to it, through thick
and thin, for many days.

Grant wandered into the front garden. His eyes rose involuntarily to the
distant post office, and he noticed at once that the dormer window was
closed. Yet Doris shared his own love of fresh air, and that window had
always been open till that very hour. Somehow, this simple thing seemed
to shut him out of her life. He walked to the river, and gazed at the
spot where the body was drawn ashore. In the absence of rain the water
ran clear as gin, and the marks made by the feet of Adelaide Melhuish's
murderer were still perceptible. If only those misshapen