No man, even the wisest, likes to be told an unpalatable truth. For a few seconds, Grant was seriously annoyed with this village Solon, and nearly blurted out an angry command that he should hold his tongue. Luckily, since Bates was only trying to be helpful, he was content to say sarcastically: “Of course, if you are so well posted in my movements last night, you can assure the coroner and the Police that I did not strangle some strange woman, tie a rope around her, and throw her in the river.” “Me an’ my missis couldn’t help seein’ you an’ Doris a-lookin’ at the stars through a spyglass when us were goin’ to bed,” persisted Bates. “We heerd your voices quite plain. Once ’ee fixed the glass low down, an’ said, ‘That’s serious. It’s late to-night.’ An’ I tell ’ee straight, sir, I said to the missis:—‘It will be serious, an’ all, if Doris’s father catches her gallivantin’ in our garden wi’ Mr. Grant nigh on ten o’clock.’ Soon after that ’ee took Doris as far as the bridge. The window was open, an’ I heerd your footsteps on the road. You kem’ in, closed the window, an’ drew a chair up to the table. After that, I fell asleep.” Perturbed and anxious though he was, Grant could hardly fail to see that Bates meant well by him. The mental effort needed for such a long speech said as much. The allusion to Sirius, amusing at any other time, was now most valuable, because an astronomical almanac would give the hour at which that brilliant star became visible. Other considerations yielded at once, however, to the fear lest Robinson and his note-book were already busy at the post office. Without another word, he hurried away by the side-path through the evergreens, leaving Bates staring after him, and, with more whisker-pulling, examining the rope and staple, which, by the policeman’s order, were not to be disturbed. Grant reached the highroad just as Robinson and the men with the stretcher were crossing a stone bridge spanning the river about a hundred yards below _The Hollies_. A slight, youthful, and eminently attractive female figure, walking swiftly in the opposite direction, came in sight at the same time, and Grant almost groaned aloud when the newcomer stood stock still and looked at the mournful procession. He, be it remembered, was somewhat of an idealist and a poet; it grieved his spirit that those two women, the quick and the dead, should meet on the bridge. He took it as a portent, almost a menace, he knew not of what. He might have foreseen that unhappy eventuality, and prevented it, but his brain refused to work clearly that morning. A terrible and bizarre crime had bemused his faculties. He seemed to be in a state of waking nightmare.