“Tuesday week,” said Mr. Bowyer as they drove off; “that was the date of Main’s first letter, and the day on which, by his account, Rewse was taken ill. Then if that was the shot that killed Rewse, he must have been lying dead in the place while Main was writing those letters reporting his sickness to his mother. The cold-blooded scoundrel!” “Yes,” Hewitt replied, “I think it probable in any case that Tuesday was the day that Rewse was shot. It wouldn’t have been safe for Main to write the mother lying letters about the small-pox before. Rewse might have written home in the meantime, or something might have occurred to postpone Main’s plans, and then there would be impossible explanations required.” Over a very bad road they jolted on, and in the end arrived where the road, now become a mere path, passed a tumble-down old farmhouse. “This is where the woman lives who cooked and cleaned house for Rewse and Main,” Mr. Bowyer said. “There is the cottage, scarce a hundred yards off, a little to the right of the track.” “Well,” replied Hewitt, “suppose we stop here and ask her a few questions? I like to get the evidence of all the witnesses as soon as possible. It simplifies subsequent work wonderfully.” They alighted, and Mr. Bowyer roared through the open door and tapped with his stick. In reply to his summons, a decent-looking woman of perhaps fifty, but wrinkled beyond her age, and better dressed than any woman Hewitt had seen since leaving Cullanin, appeared from the hinder buildings and curtsied pleasantly. “Good-morning, Mrs. Hurley, good-morning,” Mr. Bowyer said, “this is Mr. Martin Hewitt, a gentleman from London, who is going to look into this shocking murder of our young friend, Mr. Rewse, and sift it to the bottom. He would like you to tell him something, Mrs. Hurley.” The woman curtsied again. “An’ it’s the jintleman is welcome, sor, sad doin’s as ut is.” She had a low, pleasing voice, much in contrast with her unattractive appearance, and characterised by the softest and broadest brogue imaginable. “Will ye not come in? Mother av Hiven! An’ thim two livin’ together, an’ fishin’ an’ readin’ an’ all, like brothers! An’ trut’ ut is, he was a foine young jintleman, indade, indade!” “I suppose, Mrs. Hurley,” Hewitt said, “you’ve seen as much of the life of those two gentlemen here as anybody?” “True ut is, sor; none more--nor as much.” “Did you ever hear of anybody being on bad terms with Mr. Rewse--anybody at all, Mr. Main or another?” “Niver a soul in all Mayo. How could ye? Such a foine young jintleman, an’ fair-spoken an’ all.” “Tell me all that happened on the day that you heard that Mr. Rewse was ill--Tuesday week.”