that
he had not seen the last of an implacable and bitter enemy.

It was something new and very disturbing for a writer to find himself in
the predicament of a man with an absolutely clear conscience yet
perilously near the meshes of the criminal law. He had often analyzed
such a situation in his books, but fiction diverged so radically from
hard fact that the sensation was profoundly disconcerting, to say the
least. He did not go to the post office. He was not equal to any more
verbal fire-works that evening. So he lit a pipe, and reviewed Ingerman's
well-rounded periods very carefully, even taking the precaution to jot
down exact, phrases. He analyzed them, and saw that they were capable of
two readings. Of course, it could not be otherwise. The plausible rascal
must have conned them over until this essential was secured. Grant even
went so far as to give them a grudging professional tribute. They held a
canker of doubt, too, which it was difficult to dissect. Their veiled
threats were perplexing. While their effect, as apart from literal
significance, was fresh in his mind, he made a few notes of different
interpretations.

He went to bed rather early, but could not sleep until the small hours.
Probably his rest, such as it was, would have been even more disturbed
had he been able to accompany Ingerman to the Hare and Hounds Inn.

A small but select company had gathered in the bar parlor. The two hours
between eight and ten were the most important of the day to the landlord,
Mr. Tomlin. It was then that he imparted and received the tit-bits of
local gossip garnered earlier, the process involving a good deal of play
with shining beer-handles and attractively labeled bottles.

But this was a special occasion. Never before had there been a
Steynholme murder before the symposium. Hitherto, such a grewsome topic
was supplied, for the most part, by faraway London. To-night the
eeriness and dramatic intensity of a notable crime lay at the very doors
of the village.

So Tomlin was more portentous than usual; Hobbs, the butcher, more
assertive, Elkin, the "sporty" breeder of polo ponies, more inclined to
"lay odds" on any conceivable subject, and Siddle, the chemist, a
reserved man at the best, even less disposed to voice a definite opinion.

Elkin was about twenty-five years of age, Siddle looked younger than his
probable thirty-five years, while the others were on the stout and
prosperous line of fifty.

They were