“Yes, sir,” said the superintendent. “Then the inquest stands adjourned until that day and hour. Gentlemen of the jury, you must be here punctually.” “Can’t we ask any questions?” cried Elkin, in an injured tone. “No. You cannot,” snapped the coroner emphatically. After a few formalities, which included the reading and signing of the depositions, the courthouse emptied. The whole thing was over in half an hour. Grant, determined to have a word with the representative of Scotland Yard, went openly to Furneaux, and asked him to come to The Hollies and join him in a cup of tea. “No,” was the curt answer. “I’m busy. I’ll see you later.” It was difficult to reconcile the detective’s present stand-off manner with his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly hint conveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman’s interruption. Rather sick at heart, Grant went out into the sunshine. He was snap-shotted a dozen times by press photographers. One man, backing impudently in front of him in order to secure a sharp focus, tripped over the raised edge of a cartway into a yard, and sat down violently. The onlookers laughed, but Grant helped the photographer to rise. “If you want a really good picture of the Steynholme murderer, come to my place, and I’ll give you one,” he said. The pressman was grateful, because Grant’s action had tended to mitigate his discomfiture. “No one but a fool thinks of you as a murderer, Mr. Grant,” he said. “What I really want is a portrait of ‘the celebrated’ author in whose grounds the body was found.” “Come along, then, and I’ll pose for you.” The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the gods gave. He could not guess that his host was pining for human companionship. He could not fathom Grant’s disappointment, on reaching _The Hollies_, at finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter Hart. And he was equally unconscious of the immense service he rendered by compelling his host to talk and act naturally. He enlightened Grant, too, in the matter of inquests. “Next week there will be a gathering of lawyers,” he said. “The police will be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is thought sufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ a solicitor, I expect, judging from his attitude to-day. In fact, any one whose interests are affected ought to secure legal assistance. One never knows how these inquiries twist and turn.” “Thank you,” said Grant, smiling at the journalist’s tact. “I’ll order tea to be got ready while you’re taking your pictures. By the way, what sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?”