“As for the name,” explained Ingerman, in his suave voice, “that was a mere stage pseudonym, an adopted name. My wife was a famous actress, and there is a sort of tacit agreement that a lady in the theatrical profession shall be known to the public as ‘Miss’ rather than ‘Mrs.’” “Well, there!” wheezed Tomlin. “Who’d ever ha’ thought it?” The landlord was not quite rising to the occasion. He was, in fact, stunned by these repeated shocks. So Hobbs took charge. “It’s a sad errand you’re on, sir,” he said. “Death comes to all of us, man an’ beast alike, but it’s a terrible thing when a lady like Miss— Mrs. ——” “Ingerman is my name, but my wife will certainly be alluded to by the press as Miss Melhuish.” “When a lady like Miss Melhuish is knocked on the ’ead like a—” Mr. Hobbs hesitated again. He also felt that the situation was rather beyond him. “But my wife was flung into the river and drowned,” said Ingerman sadly. “No, sir. She was killed fust. It was a brutal business, so I’m told.” “Do you mean that she was struck, her skull battered?” came the demand, in an awed and soul-thrilling whisper. “Yes, sir. An’ the wust thing is, none of us can guess who could ha’ done it.” “Lay yer five quid to one, Hobbs, that the police cop the scoundrel afore this day fortnight,” cried Elkin noisily. Then Mr. Siddle put in a mild word. “Gentlemen,” he said, “let me remind you that we four will probably be jurors at the inquest.” That was a sobering thought. Elkin subsided, and Hobbs looked critically at the remains of a gill of beer. Ingerman took stock of the chemist. He might easily induce the others to believe that Grant was the real criminal, but the quiet man in the black morning-coat and striped cloth trousers was of finer metal. He knew instantly that if he could persuade this one “probable juror” of Grant’s guilt, the remainder would follow his lead like a flock of sheep. But there was no need to hurry. Next day’s inquest would be a mere formality. The real struggle would begin a week or a fortnight later. “You have said a very wise thing, sir,” he murmured appreciatively. “Even my feelings must be kept under better control. But this is no ordinary murder. Before it is cleared up there will be astounding revelations. Mark the word—astounding.” Hobbs, whose heavy cheeks were of a brick-red tint, almost startled the conclave by a sudden outburst which gave him an apoplectic appearance. “You’re too kind’earted, Siddle,” he cried. “Wot’s the use of talkin’ rubbish. We all know where the body was found. We all know that Doris Martin an’ Mr. Grant were a’sweet-’eartin’ in the garden—” “Look here, Hobbs, just keep Doris Martin’s name out of it!” shouted Elkin, smiting the table with his fist till the glasses danced. “Gentlemen!” protested Siddle gently. “It’s all dashed fine, but I’m not—” blustered Elkin. He yielded to Ingerman’s outstretched hand.