“Don’t need to, now,” cackled Furneaux. “It’s the profile of a wall, gate, and outhouse along which one could reach the window of the club-room. Would you mind stopping grinning like a Cheshire cat?” “Anything else?” “Yes. This one: ‘_S. M.? 1820_.’ That beats you, eh?” “Dished completely.” “Doris Martin, as usual, supplies the answer. An old volume of the _Sussex Miscellany_, probably that for 1820, contains the full story of Owd Ben. I might have mentioned it to you, but focussed on current events. Siddle has it among his books, which, by the way, are made up largely of scientific and popular criminal records.” “Is that the lot?” “I’m afraid so. Have a look.” “Just a minute. I want to think.” Winter turned and gazed through the open window. Seldom had a more gracious June decked England with garlands. The hour was then high noon, and a pastoral landscape was drowned in sunshine. The Chief Inspector cut the end off a cigar dreamily but with care. “Broadmoor—perhaps,” he muttered. “But we can’t hang him yet, Charles. A couple of knots and a theory won’t do for the Assizes. We haven’t a solitary witness. Hardly a night but he goes home at 9.30. If only he had killed Grant! But—Adelaide Melhuish!” In sheer despair he struck a match. “Well, let’s overhaul these duds,” said Furneaux savagely. “I’ll chance the dinner hour for the return visit. Steynholme folk eat at half past twelve to the tick, and you can hardly get up another horse show.” There was a knock at the door. “Let me in, quick!” came Peters’s voice, and the handle was tried forcibly. “Go away! I’m busy!” cried Winter. “This is urgent, devilish urgent,” said Peters. Furneaux snatched up the note-book, and Winter tore off his coat, throwing it over the package which reposed in an armchair. Then the Chief Inspector unlocked the door, blocking the way aggressively. “Now, I must say—” he began. But Peters clutched his shoulder with a nervous hand. “Siddle has just hurried up the street and entered his shop,” he hissed. The journalist had not only kept his eyes open, but excelled in the art of putting two and two together, an arithmetical calculation which, as applied to the affairs of life, is not so readily arrived at as many people imagine. “Buncoed! He’s missed his keys!” shrilled Furneaux. “Confound the man! He might at least have attended his mother’s funeral!” stormed Winter, retrieving his coat. Thus it happened that Furneaux was the first down the stairs, though the three emerged from the door of the inn on each other’s heels. A stout man, in all likelihood a farmer with horses for sale, was mounting the two steps which led to the entrance. His head was down, and his weight forward, so he successfully resisted Furneaux’s impact, but Peters and Winter were irresistible, and he tumbled over with a muffled yell.