The girl wrested herself free from his grip. She realized what was coming, and forestalled it. “I care nothing for your motive,” she cried. “You forget yourself! Please go!” She literally ran into the house. The chemist, unless he elected to behave like a love-sick fool, had no option but to follow, and make his way to the street by the side door. The only other happening of significance that Sunday was an unheralded visit by Winter to the policeman’s residence. He popped in after dusk, opening the door without knocking. “You in, Robinson?” he inquired. “Yes, sir. Will you—” “Shan’t detain you more than a minute. At the inquest you said that you personally untied the rope which bound Miss Melhuish’s body. Here are a piece of string and a newspaper. Would you mind showing me what sort of knot was used?” Robinson was nearly struck dumb, and his fingers fumbled badly, but he managed to exhibit two hitches. “Ah, thanks,” said Winter, and was off in a jiffy. From the window of a darkened room Robinson watched the erect, burly figure of the detective until it was merged in the mists of night. “Well, I’m—,” he exclaimed bitterly. “John, what are you swearing about?” demanded his wife from the kitchen. “Something I heard to-day,” answered her husband. “There was a chap of my name, John P. Robinson, an’ he said that down in Judee they didn’t know everything. And, by gum, he was right. They knew mighty little about London ’tecs, I’m thinking. But, hold on. Surely—” He bustled into his coat, and hastened to _The Hollies_. No, neither Mr. Grant nor Mr. Hart had spoken to a soul about the knot. Nor had Bates. Of course, Robinson did not venture to describe Winter. Finally, he put the incident aside as a clear case of thought-reading. Chapter XV. A Matter of Heredity Shortly before noon on Monday occurred two events destined to assume a paramount importance in the affair which was wringing the withers of Steynholme. As in the histories of both men and nations, these first steps in great developments began quietly enough. For one thing, Furneaux returned to the village. For another, the London telegraphist, who expected the day to prove practically a blank, was reading a newspaper when the telegraph instrument clicked the local call. Doris was checking and distributing the stock of stamps which had arrived that morning; her father was counting mail-bags in a small annex to the main room, the Knoleworth office having acquired a habit of making up shortages by docking the country branches. No member of the public happened to be present. The girl could have heard what the Morse code was tapping forth had she chosen, but she had trained herself to disregard the telegraph when occupied on other work. Suddenly, however, the telegraphist’s pencil paused. “Hello!” he said. “Theodore Siddle! That’s the chemist opposite, isn’t it!” “Yes,” said Doris, suspending her calculations at mention of the name. “Well, his mother’s dead.”