"That's our job, constable, to find out. You'll come right away?" "Sure I will. Whatcha think I'm constable for? How--how was she killed?" "Shot, Griggs; let's not waste any more time talking now." And at the other end of the line the receiver clicked, breaking the connection. It was not surprising that the persistent ringing of the phone and Ham Griggs' loud-pitched voice should have aroused the constable's daughter, Etta. She appeared in the sitting-room doorway, her hair done up in curlers, her rather plain face a glistening smudge of cold cream. "What's happened, fawther?" she demanded, her none-too-plump arms hugged tight across her flat chest. "Ain't I told you to cut out that 'fawther' stuff?" growled Ham Griggs. "Yes, fawther, but did you say somebody had been murdered?" "That's the size of it," nodded the constable, beginning to button his coat. "Out to Greenacres--Gilmore's new wife, so Doc Bushnell says." "My Gawd!" gasped Etta Griggs, momentarily forgetting her little book, "Social English." Etta was ambitious for herself; she was engaged in writing a play, and wished to equip herself to move as one of the elect in literary circles, when the moment of her great success should arrive. "The--the author's wife? Why, they ain't--they haven't been married a month yet! Did he kill her, fawther?" Ham Griggs was impatient of questions, eager to be off, but his daughter barred the sitting room's one door, and he knew that the only way to pass without absolute violence was to answer her. "I don't know nothin' 'bout it," he grunted, "except what the doc told me, which was precious little. Seems like she's been shot. I dunno who done it. Now get outta the way, Etta, an' let me get goin'." "Chances are he did," mused Etta; "we literati are so temperamental, so given to quick, strong passions." "You just natcherally make me sick!" snorted her father, as he plunged past her. A moment later she heard his motor cycle bark into life and, with staccato explosions from the exhaust, race out of the yard and down the quiet village street. Etta's rôle in the Greenacres tragedy was more important than one might imagine it could be, and for no greater reason than that she aspired to be a playwright. Her play had reached its fourth and final act; with a few minor corrections here and there, it was ready for its journey to New York. She had not the slightest doubt of its immediate acceptance and production.