“Most criminals are addicted to the habit. I classify them by their brand of tobacco. For instance, a clever forger would never descend to thick twist, while a swell mobsman would turn with horror from a woodbine.” Minnie entered, and nodded, whereupon Grant led the others upstairs to wash. From the bathroom he looked out over a darkening landscape. Doris’s dormer window was open. She was leaning on the sill, but he could not tell whether or not her eyes were turned his way. Her attitude was pensive, disconsolate, curiously forlorn for a girl normally high-spirited. He was on the point of signaling to her when he remembered Furneaux’s presence. There was something impish, almost diabolically clever, in that little man’s characteristics which induced wariness. The dinner was a marvel, considering the short notice given to the cook. Luckily, Mrs. Bates, a loyal soul, had resolved to tempt her employer’s appetite that evening. Village gossip had it that the police were about to arrest him, and she was determined he should enjoy at least one good meal before being haled to prison. Hence, the materials were present. The rest was a matter of quantities, and Sussex seldom stints itself in that respect. The chatter round the table was light and amusing. The three were well matched conversationally. Furneaux evidently held the opinion once expressed by a notable Walrus—that the time had come _To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages—and kings._ He was in excellent form, and the others played up to him. Hart’s slow drawl was ever trenchant and witty, and Grant forgot his woes in congenial company. As for the mercurial detective himself, it might be said of him as of the school-master of Auburn: _And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew._ It was he who dropped them with a bounce from the realm of fancy to the unpleasing region of ugly fact. No sooner had Minnie cleared the table, and brought in the coffee, than he whisked around on Grant as though hitherto he had been only awaiting an opportunity of scarifying him. “Now,” he said, propping an elbow on the table, and supporting his chin on a clenched fist, “the embargo is off the Steynholme affair. _You_ didn’t kill Adelaide Melhuish, Mr. Grant. Who did?” “I wish I could tell you,” was the emphatic answer. “Do you suspect anybody? You needn’t fear the libel law in confiding your secret thought to me, and I assume that Mr. Hart is trustworthy—where his friends are concerned?” “Why that unkind differentiating clause, my pocket Vidocq?” put in Hart. “Because two Kings and a baker’s dozen of Presidents have, at various times, sent most unflattering reports to this country about you.” “I must have annoyed ’em most damnably.” “You had. I congratulate you, but Heaven only knows where I may convoy you some day on an extradition warrant....Proceed, Mr. Grant.”