“You can imagine the state of my mind,” he said, “when I assure you that, until this moment, it never occurred to me even to ask where these articles came from or what had become of them.” “I can sympathize with you,” said the journalist. “A brutal murder seems horribly out of place in this environment. It is a mysterious business altogether. I wonder if Scotland Yard will take it up.” Grant surprised him by clapping him on the back. “By Jove, my friend, the very thing! Of course, such an investigation requires bigger brains than our local police are endowed with. Scotland Yard _must_ take it up. I’ll wire there at once. If necessary, I’ll pay all expenses.” The newspaper man had his doubts. The “Yard,” he said, acted in the provinces only if appealed to by the authorities directly concerned. But Grant was not to be stayed by a trifle like that. He hurried to the post office, hoping that Doris Martin might walk back with him. The girl and her father were busy behind the counter when he entered. He noticed that Doris was rather pale. She was about to attend to him, but Mr. Martin intervened. It struck Grant that the postmaster was purposely preventing his daughter from speaking to him. For some inexplicable reason, he felt miserably tongue-tied, and was content to write a message to the Chief Commissioner of Police, London, asking that a skilled detective should be sent forthwith to Steynholme. Mr. Martin read it gravely, stated the cost, and procured the requisite stamps. In the event, Grant quitted the place without exchanging a word with Doris, while her father, usually a chatty man, said not a syllable beyond what was barely needed. As he passed down the hill and by the side of the Green he was aware of being covertly watched by many eyes. He saw P. C. Robinson peering from behind a curtained window. Siddle, the chemist, came to the shop door, and looked after him. Hobbs, the butcher, ceased sharpening a knife and gazed out. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds Inn, surveyed him from the “snug.” These things were not gracious. Indeed, they were positively maddening. He went home, gave an emphatic order that no one, except Miss Martin, if she called, was to be admitted and savagely buried himself in a treatise on earth-tides. But that day of events had not finished for him yet. He had, perforce, eaten a good meal, and was thinking of going to the post office in order to clear up an undoubted misapprehension in Mr. Martin’s mind, when Minnie Bates came with a card. “If you please, sir,” said the girl, “this gentleman is very pressing. He says he’s sure you’ll give him an interview when you see his name.” So Grant looked, and read:— Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman _Prince’s Chambers, London, W._ Chapter IV. A Cabal