He went to bed rather early, but could not sleep until the small hours. Probably his rest, such as it was, would have been even more disturbed had he been able to accompany Ingerman to the Hare and Hounds Inn. A small but select company had gathered in the bar parlor. The two hours between eight and ten were the most important of the day to the landlord, Mr. Tomlin. It was then that he imparted and received the tit-bits of local gossip garnered earlier, the process involving a good deal of play with shining beer-handles and attractively labeled bottles. But this was a special occasion. Never before had there been a Steynholme murder before the symposium. Hitherto, such a grewsome topic was supplied, for the most part, by faraway London. To-night the eeriness and dramatic intensity of a notable crime lay at the very doors of the village. So Tomlin was more portentous than usual; Hobbs, the butcher, more assertive, Elkin, the “sporty” breeder of polo ponies, more inclined to “lay odds” on any conceivable subject, and Siddle, the chemist, a reserved man at the best, even less disposed to voice a definite opinion. Elkin was about twenty-five years of age, Siddle looked younger than his probable thirty-five years, while the others were on the stout and prosperous line of fifty. They were discussing the murder, of course, when Ingerman entered, and ordered a whiskey and soda. Instantly there was dead silence. Looks and furtive winks were exchanged. There had been talk of a detective being employed. Perhaps this was he. Mr. Tomlin knew the stranger’s name, as he had taken a room, but that was the extent of the available information. “A fine evenin’, sir,” said Tomlin, drawing a cork noisily. “Looks as though we were in for a spell o’ settled weather.” “Yes,” agreed Ingerman, summing up the conclave at a glance. “Somehow, such a lovely night ill accords with the cause of my visit to Steynholme.” “In-deed, sir?” “Well, you and these other gentlemen may judge for yourselves. It will be no secret tomorrow. I am the husband of the lady who was found in the river outside Mr. Grant’s residence this morning.” Sensation, as the descriptive reporters put it. Mr. Tomlin was dumbly but unanimously elected chairman of the meeting, and was vaguely aware of his responsibilities. He drew himself a fresh glass of bitter. “You don’t tell me, sir!” he gasped. “Well, the idee! The pore lady’s letters were addressed to Miss Adelaide Melhuish. Perhaps you don’t know, sir, that she stayed here!” “Oh, yes. I was told that by the local police-constable. Have I, by any chance, been given her room?” “No, sir. Not likely. It’s locked, and the police have the key till the inquest is done with.”