The village did not recover its poise for hours. Grant and Hart, to whom Bates brought the news about one o’clock, rose from an untasted luncheon and hurried to the high-street. Knots of people stared at Grant, some sheepishly, others with frank relief, because all who knew him liked him. One man, a retired ironmonger and an impulsive fellow, came forward and wrung his hand heartily. A few prominent residents followed suit. Grant was greatly embarrassed, but managed to endure these awkward if well-meant congratulations. There could be no mistaking their intent. He had been tried for murder at the bar of public opinion, and was now formally acquitted. Even Fred Elkin, ignorant as yet of his own peril, yielded to the influences of the moment and bustled through the crowd. “Mr. Grant,” he cried outspokenly, “I ask your pardon. I seem to have made a d—d fool of myself!” “Easier done than said,” chimed in Hart. “But, among all this bell-ringing, can anyone tell what has actually happened? Where’s Peters?” “In the post office.” The two went in, and found the journalist scribbling against time. Hart coolly grabbed a few slips of manuscript, and commenced reading. Grant looked about for Doris. She was not visible, but Mr. Martin, pallid and nervous, nodded toward the sitting-room. The younger man, taking the gesture as a tacit invitation, entered the room. Doris was sitting there, crying bitterly. Poor girl! She had seen that portion of the drama which was enacted in the street, and the shock of it was still poignant. She looked up and met her lover’s eyes. Neither uttered a word, but Grant did a very wise thing. He caught her by the shoulders, raised her to her feet, and, after kissing her squarely on the lips, gave her a comforting hug. “It will be all right now, Doris,” he whispered tenderly. “Such thunderstorms clear the air.” An eminent novelist might have found many more ornate ways of avowing his sentiments, but never a more satisfactory one. At any rate, it served, so what more need be said? Certain rills of evidence accumulated into a fair-sized stream before night fell. P. C. Robinson, for instance, scored a point by ascertaining that Peggy Smith had seen Furneaux dropping from the bedroom window of the chemist’s shop. She was some hundreds of yards away, and could not be positive that some man, perhaps a glazier, had not been there legitimately effecting repairs. Still, when she met Siddle hurrying from the station, she told him of the incident. “He never even thanked me,” she said, “but broke into a run. The look in his eyes was awful.” The girl had, in fact, confirmed his worst fears, and her neighborly solicitude had merely hastened the end. Again, the railway officials showed that Siddle had returned from Victoria instead of taking train to the asylum. Furneaux had guessed aright. The discovery that his keys had been left behind drove the man into a panic of fright.