"We can disregard your confidences, or explanations, to the
police," said Ingerman smoothly. "Three years ago, I suppose, my
wife spoke of me?"

"If you mean Miss Adelaide Melhuish--yes."

"I do mean her. To be exact, I mean the lady who was murdered outside
this house last night."

Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of
even a novelist's skill in repartee. Thus far, he, Grant, had been merely
uncivil, using a bludgeon for wit, whereas the visitor was making play
with a finely-tempered rapier.

"Now that you have established your identity, Mr. Ingerman, perhaps you
will tell me why you are here," he said.

"I have come to Steynholme to inquire into my wife's death."

"A most laudable purpose. I was given to understand, however, that at one
time you took little interest in her living. I have not seen Mrs.
Ingerman for three years--until last night, that is--so there is a
chance, of course, that husband and wife may have adjusted their
differences. Is that so?"

"Until last night!" repeated Ingerman, almost in a startled tone. "You
admit that?"

Grant turned and pointed.

"I saw, or fancied I saw, her face at that window," he said. "She
looked in on me about ten minutes to eleven. I was hard at work, but
the vision, as it seemed then, was so weird and unexpected, that I went
straight out and searched for her. Perhaps 'searched' is not quite the
right word. To be exact, I opened the French window, stood there, and
listened. Then I persuaded myself that I was imagining a vain thing,
and came in."

"What was she doing here?"

"I don't know."

"She arrived in Steynholme on Sunday evening, I am told."

"I heard that, too."

"You imply that you did not meet her?"

"No need to imply anything, Mr. Ingerman. I did not meet her. Beyond
the fanciful notion that I had seen her ghost last night, the first I
knew of her presence in the village was when I recognized her dead body
this morning."

"Strange as it may sound, I am inclined to believe you."

Grant said nothing. He wanted to get up and pitch Ingerman into the road.

"But who else will take that charitable view?" purred the other, in
that suave voice which so ill accorded with his thin lips and slightly
hooked nose.

"I really don't care," was the weary answer.

"Not at the moment, perhaps. You have had a trying day, no doubt. My
visit at its close cannot be helpful. But--"

"I am feeling rather tired mentally," int