“And where’s that _body_?” barked the Colonel, with sudden wrath, as if he expected his companion to produce it instead of a rabbit out of his helmet. “We can’t do anything without that. We can’t even establish the fact of murder at all.” “Well, we can’t do much without a body,” the Inspector went so far as to admit, “and that’s a fact.” The Colonel relapsed for a moment or two into moody silence. “If you ask me, Cottingham,” he said, a little explosively, “I believe the whole thing’s a mare’s nest. I don’t believe there is a body. I don’t believe there was even a murder. I believe Graves has been seeing visions.” “Oh, come, sir,” chided the Inspector, who had no intention of being robbed of his murder in this high-handed manner. “Graves doesn’t drink as much as that, he doesn’t. Besides, he heard the shot and he examined the body. The man was dead right enough, Graves says. Tall, big chap, he was, one of them foreigners; Frenchy or German or something. Big black beard, he’d got, Graves said, and wearing——” “Yes, yes,” interrupted the Colonel testily. “I know perfectly well what Graves said, and in my opinion he imagined the whole thing. May have seen something, perhaps, and imagined the rest. Apparently handcuffed two people together, if one _can_ believe a single word he says (probably two quite innocent people, if I know Graves), and——” “But what about Mr. Foster, sir?” interrupted the Inspector, his perturbation overcoming his manners. “You know what he says. You wouldn’t say he drank, would you, sir? Not Mr. Foster?” “I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said the Colonel coolly, “if somebody wasn’t pulling Mr. Foster’s leg. And I shouldn’t be even surprised,” he added quite gently, “if the same people weren’t trying to pull yours too.” “Lor’, sir!” gasped the Inspector, and lapsed into silence. “In which case,” said the Colonel, very softly, “it’s our business to make them sorry for it. Very sorry indeed. Just bear that in mind, will you?” By the expression on the Inspector’s face it seemed that he bore it with difficulty. The two walked on in silence, chewing the cud of the Colonel’s devastating theory. Along the road towards them, moving blithely and conversing with the utmost animation, came two figures. “That’s Mr. Nesbitt, sir,” said the Inspector. “And that’s Mr. Doyle with him.” “Doyle? That’s the feller who wrote all that twaddle in the _Sunday Courier_ this morning, isn’t it?” “He did say he was going to send in a report of the case,” agreed the Inspector a little uneasily. He had read the report through that morning, till he almost knew it by heart, and no more delighted Inspector of Police would have been found in the country; now his delight was beginning to show signs of waning.