Both men scowled at the distant figure, but neither passed any comment. They parted, the policeman walking straight on, Elkin bearing to the left. The chemist’s shop stood exactly opposite the post office, so Elkin, arriving first, was aware of his unconscious rival’s destination. He had not answered Mr. Siddle’s greeting, but gazed moodily through a barricade of specifics piled in the window. Then he swore. “What’s wrong now?” inquired the chemist quietly. “That Grant. Got a nerve, hasn’t he?” “I can’t say, unless you explain.” “He’s just gone into the post office.” “Why shouldn’t he? He wants stamps, may be; plenty of ’em, I should imagine.” “Oh, you’re a fish, Siddle. You aren’t crazy about a girl, like I am. The sooner Grant’s in jail the better I’ll be pleased.” “If you take my advice, which you won’t, I know, you will not utter that sort of remark publicly.” “Can’t help it. Bet you a fiver I’m engaged to Doris Martin within a week.” Mr. Siddle took thought. “Why so quickly?” he asked, after a pause. “I’ll catch her on the hop, of course. If she’s engaged to me it’ll help her a lot when this case comes into court.” “I cannot believe that Doris would accept any man for such a reason.” “I’m not ‘any man.’ She knows I’m after her. Will you take my bet, even money?” “No. I don’t bet.” “Well, you needn’t put a damper on me. In fact, you can’t. Have you that last prescription of Dr. Foxton’s handy? My liver wants a tonic.” The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and retired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop. “Shall I send it?” came his voice. “No. I’ll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don’t mind.” For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and fretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and had considered them in the “mixture.” The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a stranger, was seated at the telegraphist’s desk, tapping a new instrument. The G. P. O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with press messages. Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. His kindly, somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle. “Good morning, Mr. Martin,” said Grant. “Good morning. What can I do for you?” was the stiff reply. Grant was in no mind to be rebuffed, however. “I must have a word with you in private,” he said. “I’m sorry—but my time is quite full.” “I’m sorry, too, but the matter is urgent.” The click of the sounder became less businesslike. There was an element in the tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist’s attention. Martin, usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was obviously ill at ease. But he simply could not hold out against Grant’s compelling gaze. “Come into the back room,” he said nervously. “Call me if I’m needed,” he added, nodding to his assistant.