“Grumpy, sir? That's the last thing you'd have called him. Or stiff. He was always smiling and had a kind word for everyone, sir. One of the decentest men you could ask for, sir. Very polite to gentlefolk, always; and a nice kindly manner with everyone.” “Not the sort of man to have a bad enemy, then?” “No, indeed, sir.” Inspector Armadale had finished his work with the chalk and was now standing by, evidently impatient to get on with the task in hand. His face betrayed only too plainly that he thought Sir Clinton was wasting time. “Finished?” the chief constable inquired. “Quite,” Armadale replied, in a tone which hinted strongly that there was much more to be done. “In that case, we can turn the body over.” Sir Clinton said, stepping forward as he spoke and beckoning to the constable. Handling him gently, they turned the dead man on his back; and, before rising, Sir Clinton ran his hand over the front of the body. As he stood up, he motioned to Armadale to follow his example. “His waistcoat and trousers are a bit damp,” the inspector said, after he had felt them. “Is that what you mean?” Sir Clinton nodded in confirmation. An expression of comprehension flitted across the inspector's face. “So that was why you asked about the dew last night?” he observed. “I wondered what you were after, sir.” “Something of the sort was in my mind,” the chief constable admitted. “Now have a look at the face, inspector. Has there been any bleeding at the nose? Or do you see anything else of any interest?” Armadale bent down and inspected the dead man's face closely. “Nothing out of the common that I can see,” he reported. “Of course, the face is congested a bit. That might be the stroke, I suppose.” “Or else the settling of the blood by gravity after death,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Well, I hadn't expected to find any nose-bleeding. If he'd bled at the nose it might have saved him from apoplexy.” Armadale looked up inquiringly. “You think it's merely apoplexy, sir?” “I'm afraid this is a ‘place’ within the meaning of the Act, inspector; otherwise I'd be quite ready to bet you a considerable sum that if Dr. Rafford carries out a post mortem, he'll report that death was due to congestion of the brain.” The inspector seemed to read some hidden meaning into Sir Clinton's words, for he nodded sagely without making any vocal comment. “What next, sir?” he asked. “Shall we take the body into the cottage and go over it there?” Sir Clinton shook his head. “Not yet. There's just one thing I'd like to be sure about; and it may not be easy to see. There's a better light out here. Turn up the trousers from the ankle, inspector, and have a good look for marks—probably on the front of the shins. It's a long shot, but I've a notion you'll find something there.” Armadale did as he was bidden.