quick on the trigger, Robinson--almost as quick as that friend of Grant's
who arrived by the 5.30 from London. You perceive at once that no
ordinary head could have worn that hat without having its hair combed by
the same bullet. It was stuck on to a thick wig. Now, tell me the man, or
woman, in Steynholme, who wears a wig and a hat like that, and you and I
will guess who killed Miss Melhuish."

Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg was
being pulled rather violently. Furneaux read his face like a printed
page. Chewing, much against his will, a mouthful of bread and cheese, he
mumbled in solemn, broken tones:

"Think--Robinson. Don't--answer--offhand. Has--anybody--ever worn--such
things--in a play?"

Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were.

"By gum!" he cried again. "Fred Elkin--in a charity performance
last winter."

Furneaux choked with excitement.

"A horsey-looking chap, on to-day's jury," he gurgled.

"That's him!"

"The scoundrel!"

"No wonder he looked ill."

"No wonder, indeed. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill
deeds done!"

"But, sir--"

Robinson was flabbergasted. He could only murmur "Fred Elkin!" in a
dazed way.

"Have a drink," said Furneaux sympathetically. "I'll wet my whistle,
too. Only half a glass, please. Now, we mustn't jump to conclusions.
This Elkin looks a villain, but may not be one. That is to say, his
villainy may be confined to dealings in nags. But you see, Robinson,
what a queer turn this affair is taking. We must get rid of preconceived
notions. Superintendent Fowler and you and I will go into this matter
thoroughly to-morrow. Meanwhile, breathe not a syllable to a living
soul. If I were you, I'd let Mr. Grant understand that we regard him as
rather outside the scope of our inquiry. This beer is very good for a
country village. You know a good thing when you see it, I expect. Pity I
don't smoke, or I'd join you in a pipe. I must get a move on, now, or
that fat landlord will be locking me out. Good night! Yes. I'll take
the hat. _Good_ night!"

While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat.

"One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from a
good-natured ass!" he communed. "Here am I, Furneaux, plagued beyond
endurance by a first-class murder case, and I must go and busy myself
with the love affair of a postmaster's daughter and a feather-headed
novelist!"