Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the “back parlor” through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gave a delightful glimpse of _The Hollies_. A window-box of mignonette filled the air with its delicate perfume. Grant hoped that Doris would be there, but the only signs of her recent presence were a hat and an open book on the table. “Now, Mr. Martin,” he said gravely, “you and I should have a serious talk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certain malicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To me these things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter’s age they are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you can regulate your actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is why I am here to-day. That is why I came here yesterday, but your attitude took me aback, and I was idiot enough to go without a word of explanation. I was too shaken then to see my clear course, and follow it regardless of personal feelings. This morning I am master of myself, and I insist that you listen now while I tell you exactly what occurred on Monday night.” “Surely—these matters—are—for the authorities,” stammered the older man. “What? Your daughter’s good name?” Mr. Martin reddened. His agitation was pitiful. “That is hardly in question, sir,” he said brokenly. “I am speaking of the tongue of slander. Heaven help and direct me! I would suffer death rather than see Doris subjected to the leers and innuendoes of every lout in the village.” Grant’s earnestness could hardly fail to impress his friend. But Martin had either made up his mind or been warned not to discuss the murder, and adhered loyally to that line of conduct. He retreated toward the door leading to the post office proper. “It is too late to interfere now,” he said. “What on earth do you mean?” demanded Grant, yielding to a gust of anger. “The whole—of the circumstances—are being inquired into by the police,” came the hesitating answer. “Has that prying scoundrel, Robinson, dared to cross-examine Doris?” “He came here, of course, but Scotland Yard has taken up the inquiry.” “A detective—here?” “Yes. He is with Doris in the garden at this moment.” Grant knew the topography of the house. Without asking permission, he tore through yet a third door leading to a kitchen and scullery, nearly upsetting a tiny maid who had her ear or eye to the key-hole, and raced into the garden in which the postmaster kept his bees. Doris, standing with her hands behind her back, was looking at The Hollies, and deep in conversation with an alert and natty little man who was evidently absorbed in what she was saying. Grant, in a whirl of fury, was only conscious that Doris’s companion was slight, almost diminutive, of frame, very erect, and dressed in a well-fitting blue serge suit, neat brown boots and straw hat, when the two heard his footsteps.