“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” observed the Chief Constable. “I’m aware of it,” replied Blick. “And as I have reason to believe that Sunday, amongst rustic communities, is a great day for gossip, I intend to hear what these Markenmore villagers are saying. I fancy they’re saying a good deal amongst themselves.” “And how will you get to hear?—a stranger!” asked the Chief Constable with a laugh. “Easily,” replied Blick. “All village gossip either begins or ends at the village ale-house. I shall hear no end at the Sceptre, I think.” “One way of getting information, to be sure,” assented the Chief Constable. “Well, Sunday or no Sunday, keep me posted up, Blick, if you hear of anything really pertinent.” Blick promised, and went off to Markenmore, and that night, of set purpose, he put his business clean out of his mind, and spent a quiet evening in reading the local histories and guide-books which he had procured from Selcaster when he first took up his quarters at the Sceptre. There was a great deal of interesting information in those books, and before he went to bed he had learned much about the Markenmore neighbourhood and the Markenmore family, whose pedigree, long and intricate, was given in full in one of the volumes. And next morning he stayed late in bed, and lounged mentally as well as physically, and it was not until after his mid-day dinner that he thought of his professional problem at all. It was recalled to him first when he strolled along the quiet street in the middle of the peaceful Sunday afternoon and came across Benny Cripps, the sexton, who sat on a stone bench outside the lych-gate of the churchyard, smoking his pipe. There was a look of invitation in Benny’s eye, and Blick sat down by him. “Taking a bit of rest from your Sunday labours, eh?” he said. “Nice spot to smoke your pipe in, this.” “Custom o’ mine,” answered Benny. “I do allays smoke a pipe or two o’ bacca here of a Sunday arternoon, year in, year out—wet or fine. I do keep that up. If ’tis fine weather, along o’ this ancient stone bench; if so be as ’tis wet, under that there lych-gate. And while I smokes, I meditates.” “On what?” asked Blick. “Different subjects at different times,” answered the sexton. “If so be as you wants to know the precise nature of my speckylations on this here occasion, I may tell ’ee as how when you come along, I was a-thinking of you!” “Of me, eh?” said Blick. “And what about me?” “Thinking as how if you’re a-endeavouring to find out about that there murder, ’tis a long furrow as lies afore ’ee,” replied Benny. “And main stiff soil to plough through! You ain’t got much forrader, I reckon, since I see ’ee last?” “No!” admitted Blick. The sexton took his long clay pipe out of his lips, and rubbed his nose reflectively with the stem. “Well!” he remarked, after a pause. “There ain’t no wiser man in all this here parish than what I’m reckoned for to be, and I do allow as all this here mystery have a woman at the bottom of it—sure-ly!”