's there?" he demanded.

"As if you didn't know," laughed Furneaux.

Robinson turned a key, and looked out.

"Oh, it's you, sir?" he cried.

"You'll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme," said the
detective. "May I come in? No, don't show a light here. Let's chat in the
back kitchen."

"I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir," began Robinson
apologetically. "It's laid in the kitchen. On'y bread and cheese an' a
glass of beer. Will you join me?"

"With pleasure, if I hadn't stuffed myself at Grant's place. Nice fellow,
Grant. Pity you and he don't seem to get on together. Of course, we
policemen cannot allow friendship to interfere with duty, but, between
you and me, Robinson--strictly in confidence--Grant had no more to do
with the actual murder of Miss Melhuish than either of us two."

Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in his
own easy-chair.

"The 'actual murder,' you said, sir?" he repeated.

"Yes. It was his presence at The Hollies which brought an infatuated
woman there, and thus directly led to her death. That is all. Grant is
telling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to break
bread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I'll change my mind, and
take a snack of your bread and cheese."

The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied
tribute. What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his
somewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective's
little finger.

"Right you are, sir," he cried cheerily. "But, if Mr. Grant didn't kill
Miss Melhuish, who did!"

"In all probability, the man who wore that hat," chirped Furneaux, taking
a nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the table.

Robinson started. This June night was full of weird surprises. He
set down a jug of beer with a bang--his intent being to fill two
glasses already in position, from which circumstance even the least
observant visitor might deduce a Mrs. Robinson, _en neglige_,
hastily flown upstairs.

He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb.

"By gum!" he muttered. "Are these bullet-holes?"

"They are."

"An' is this what someone fired at?"

"Yes."

"But how in thunder--"

He checked himself in time. He did not want to admit that he had been
watching the only recognized road to Grant's house all the evening.

"Quite so!" chortled Furneaux, with admirable misunderstanding. "You're