The tenant of _The Hollies_ actually dreaded the loneliness of his dwelling now, though it was that very quality which had drawn him to Steynholme a year earlier. Work or reading was equally out of the question that day. He sought the industrious Bates, who was trenching celery in the kitchen garden. “Have ’ee made out owt about un, sir?” inquired that hardy individual, pausing to spit on the handle of his spade. “No,” said Grant. “The thing is a greater mystery than ever.” “I’m thinkin’ her mun ha’ bin killed by a loony,” announced Bates. “Something of the kind, no doubt. But why are the little less dangerous loonies of Steynholme united in the belief that I am the guilty one?” “Ax me another,” growled Bates. “Who is spreading this rumor? Robinson?” “’E dussen’t, sir. ’E looks fierce, but ’e’ll ’old ’is tongue. T’super will see to that.” “Someone is talking. That is quite certain.” “There’s a chap in the ’Are an’ ’Ounds—kem ’ere last night.” “Ingerman?” “Ay, sir, that’s the name. ’E’s makin’ a song of it, I hear.” “Anybody else?” “Fred Elkin is gassin’ about. Do ’ee know un? Breeds ’osses at Mount Farm, a mile that-a-way,” and Bates pointed to the west. Grant hazarded a guess, and described the face of condemnation seen at the inn. Bates nodded. “That’s un,” he said. Then he drove the spade into the rich loam. “They do say,” he added, apparently as an after-thought, “as Fred Elkin is mighty sweet on Doris, but her’ll ’ave nowt to do wi’ un.” Grant whistled softly. This explanation threw light on a dark place. “The plot thickens,” he said. “Mr. Elkin becomes more interesting than he looks. Are there other disappointed swains in the offing?” “What’s that, sir?” “Has Miss Martin any other suitors?” “Lots of ’em ’ud be after her like wasps round a plum-tree if she’d give ’em ’alf a chance. But _you_ put a stopper on ’em.” Bates was blunt of speech, though a philosopher withal. “Elkin is my only serious rival, then?” laughed Grant, passing off as a joke a thrust which was shrewder than the gardener knew. “’E ’as plenty of brass, but I reckon nowt on ’im,” was the contemptuous answer. “Well, he is not a likely person to kill a woman he had never before seen. Miss Martin will marry whom she chooses, no doubt. The present problem is to find out who murdered Miss Melhuish. Now, had _I_ been the victim you would be thinking hard, Bates.” “I tell ’ee, sir, it wur a loony.” Nor was Bates to be moved from that opinion. He held to it, through thick and thin, for many days.