"Pretty good," he told himself with a grin. "Let 'em speed!" There was even further reason for jubilation. During his patrol of the roads within the village's corporate limits, he had found the deserted blue taxi, where Don Haskins, fleeing the New York police, had left it to continue his journey to Greenacres on foot. Taking the number, he had reported his find to the New York company which controlled an entire fleet of like cabs. There ought to be a ten-spot from the taxi company, the constable told himself. All in all, it had been a most satisfactory night. Ham Griggs was a heavy-set, dull-faced man of forty-odd; he had, prior to his elevation into public office, been a caretaker for one of the summer homes which border the Hudson River. Having an appetite in proportion to his stalwart build, he ate with a gusty heartiness. When the last chicken bone had been picked clean, he leaned back in the chair, which creaked protestingly on its two rear, straining legs, loosened his belt, and took from inside his uniform cap, always the policeman's cigar cache, a rich-looking Havana which had been the ineffectual peace offering of a gentleman who had been doing forty miles per, when Mr. Griggs halted him. "Ah!" murmured the constable, puffing deeply. "Betcha this is a twenty-center--mebbe twenty-five." He removed it from his mouth and examined the embossed band with utmost respect. "A smoke like this sure tops off a good feed." His coat unbuttoned, his thumbs hooked beneath the straps of his wide-webbed suspenders, he continued smoking until the electric light seemed to be swimming in a sea of smoke. And then the telephone rang, a loud, insistent jangling from the front of the cottage. Ham Griggs' chair thudded down on all fours with such force that there was the sound of cracking wood. "Now I wonder what that is?" he grunted. Ardmore being a quiet, law-abiding community, a night call for the constable was highly unusual. He lumbered hastily to his feet and plunged toward the sitting room, where the telephone was located. The bell was still ringing when he took down the receiver. "Hello!" he shouted into the transmitter. "Hello there! Dang it, central, quit ringin' in my ear; you'll bust an eardrum!" Possibly in retaliation of this impolite tone, the switchboard operator buzzed again. "Constable?" "Yeah, this is Ham Griggs." "Doctor Bushnell speaking, constable. There's been a tragedy at Greenacres--the Gilmore place, you know. Can you come at once?" "Whatcha mean--tragedy, doc?" "There'll be time enough for that when you get here," came the voice of the village physician. "I gotta right to know," grunted Ham Griggs. "Let's have it." His voice was officially important now. "Y'mean robbery?" "Worse than that, constable. Oh, I might as well tell you--Kirklan Gilmore's wife has been killed. It is--murder." "Good Lord, murder!" cried Griggs, his voice rising thunderously loud. "Who killed her, doc? Who done it?"