He produced a cube of billiard-chalk as he spoke and, taking out a penknife, trimmed the paper away. “Just chalk around the outline of the body, please, inspector. This paved path will show the marks excellently. If we need the marks later on, we can always lay some boards over them to keep the rain off.” While the inspector, obviously much against the grain, was chalking his lines, Sir Clinton turned to the constable. “Perhaps you could give us some help, constable. Did you know Peter Hay?” “Knew him well, sir.” “You can't throw any light on this business?” “No, sir. It's amazing to me, sir, if there's anything in what the doctor says.” “Ah! And what does the doctor say?” “Swears it's foul play somehow, sir.” “Indeed? He didn't go so far as that when he spoke to me about it.” The constable seemed rather confused to find himself taken so literally. “Didn't quite mean that, sir. What I meant was I could see from his manner that something's amiss.” Sapcote, conscious that he had let his tongue run away with him, glanced anxiously at Sir Clinton's face. The expression on it reassured him. Evidently this wasn't the kind of a man who would eat you if you made a slip. The chief constable rose considerably in his subordinate's estimation. “Nice little garden, this,” Sir Clinton remarked, casting his eyes round the tiny enclosure. “A bit on the shady side, perhaps, with all these trees about. Did you ever come up here to visit Peter Hay, constable?” “Often and often, sir. Many's the time we've sat on that seat over there when I've been off duty; or else in the house if it got too cold for my rheumatism.” “Suffer from rheumatism, constable? That's hard lines. One of my friends has some stuff he uses for it; he swears by the thing. I'll write down the name for you and perhaps it'll do you some good.” Sir Clinton tore a leaf out of his pocket-book, jotted a name on it, and handed the paper over to the constable, who seemed overwhelmed by the attention. Decidedly this superior of his was a “real good sort.” “Peter Hay was getting on in like,” Sir Clinton went on, with a glance at the silvering hair of the body before him. “I suppose he had his troubles too. Rheumatism, or something like that?” “No, sir. Nothing of the kind. Barring these strokes of his, he was sound as a bell. Used to go about in all weathers and never minded the rain. Never seemed to feel the cold the way I do. Kept his jacket for the church, they used to say about here. Often in the evenings we'd be sitting here and I'd say to him: ‘Here, Peter, shirt-sleeves must keep you warmer than my coat keeps me, but it's time to be moving inside.’ And then in we'd go and he'd begin fussing about with that squirrel of his.” “What sort of a man was he?” Sir Clinton asked. “Stiff with strangers, or anything like that? Suppose I'd come wandering in here, would he have been grumpy when he came to turn me out?”