And the worst of it was that, as Gregg no doubt guessed, he was not in a position to act. His information, as far as it went, pointed to but one thing: Gregg’s deliberate attempt to conceal from the police his former connection with Mrs. Draycott. Beyond this, Fayre had nothing to go on, unless he could trace the mysterious car to Gregg. According to Stockley, the proprietor of the garage, he had taken out the hired car at five-thirty. This would give him ample time to drive to one of the several other garages within a radius of ten to fifteen miles, change his car, pick up Mrs. Draycott and arrive at the farm at about the time the murder was presumably committed. But here the London number on the car described by the carter arose as a distinct stumbling-block, for it was extremely improbable that a local garage would have a London car for hire. On the other hand, if by some extraordinary chance one of them had let out such a car, it should be easy enough to get on the track of it; but Fayre realized that the doctor had him at a hopeless disadvantage unless he could manage to trace his movements on the night of the twenty-third, and he recognized the cleverness of the man in forcing his hand before his investigations were complete. And yet, for the life of him, he could not make up his mind whether Gregg’s outburst had been mere bluff or the genuine anger of a man smarting under the sting of a false accusation. Either way Fayre had cut an uncommonly poor figure and he was painfully aware of the fact. Chapter XIV After dinner that night Lord Staveley, wishing to ring up his bookie, strolled into the little ante-room that housed the telephone. Here, to his surprise, he discovered Fayre. He had settled himself comfortably in the one armchair and, with the help of the local telephone directory, was busy compiling a list on a half-sheet of paper. Bill Staveley eyed him quizzically. “Rotten place to spend the evening,” he observed with cheerful scorn. “Looking for a good dentist, or is it Sherlock Holmes on the trail?” “It’s Holmes in the devil of a muddle,” was Fayre’s acid rejoinder. “I’ve come a cropper, Bill!” “In other words, you’ve met your match. Who’s the local genius?” “Gregg. I started out to pump him according to the most approved methods and he pumped me instead and very efficiently too! And he was uncommonly disagreeable about it.” “He would be. What have you got against him? I suppose you know that, amongst other things, he’s the Police Surgeon?” “I don’t care if he’s the Prime Minister!” snapped Fayre, still hot from his gruelling at Gregg’s hands. “But I’d give something to know where he was on the night of Mrs. Draycott’s death!” Bill Staveley gave a low whistle. “As bad as that, is it? Why, he was at the farm, wasn’t he? I thought he gave evidence.”