He was stung into impetuous action by seeing the policeman halt and exchange some words with the girl. He began to run, with the quite definite if equally mad intent of punching Robinson into reasonable behavior. He was saved from an act of unmitigated folly by the girl herself. She caught sight of him, apparently broke off her talk with the policeman abruptly, and, in her turn, took to her heels. Thus, on that strip of sun-baked road, with its easy gradient to the crown of the bridge, there was the curious spectacle offered by two men jogging along with a corpse on a stretcher, a young man and a young woman running towards each other, and a discomfited representative of the law, looking now one way and now the other, and evidently undecided whether to go on or return. Ultimately, it would seem, Robinson went with the stretcher-bearers, because Grant and the girl saw no more of him for the time. Grant had received several shocks since rising from the breakfast-table, but it was left for Doris Martin, the postmaster’s daughter, to administer not the least surprising one. Though almost breathless, and wide-eyed with horror, her opening words were very much to the point. “How awful!” she cried. “Why should any-one in Steynholme want to kill a great actress like Adelaide Melhuish?” Now, the name of the dead woman was literally the last thing Grant expected to hear from this girl’s lips, and the astounding fact momentarily banished all other worries. “You knew her?” he gasped. “No, not exactly. But I couldn’t avoid recognizing her when she asked for her letters, and sent a telegram.” “But—” “Oh, Robinson told me she was dead. I see now what is puzzling you.” “It is not quite that. I mean, why didn’t you tell me she was in Steynholme? Has she been staying here any length of time?” The girl’s pretty face crimsoned, and then grew pale. “I—had no idea—she was—a friend of yours, Mr. Grant,” she stammered. “She used to be a friend, but I have not set eyes on her during the past three years—until last night.” “Last night!” “After you had gone home. I was doing some work, and, having occasion to consult a book, lighted a candle, and put it in the small window near the bookcase. Then I fancied I saw a woman’s face, _her_ face, peering in, and was so obsessed by the notion that I went outside, but everything was so still that I persuaded myself I was mistaken.” “Oh, is that what it was?” Grant threw out his hands in a gesture that was eloquent of some feeling distinctly akin to despair. “You don’t usually speak in enigmas, Doris,” he said. “What in the world do you mean by saying:—‘Oh, is that what it was?’” The girl—she was only nineteen, and never before had aught of tragic mystery entered her sheltered life—seemed to recover her self-possession with a quickness and decision that were admirable.