“Good!” said Hart. “That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinner every day, Jack. He’s a tonic!” Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany Doris to the post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the broad village street, more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he tapped her on the shoulder and said pleasantly: “Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don’t worry. The tangle will right itself in time.” “Poor Mr. Grant is suffering,” she ventured to murmur. “And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I’ll wait here till you are behind a locked door.” “No one in Steynholme will hurt me,” she said. “You never can tell. I’m not taking any chances to-night, however.” So Doris sped swiftly up the hill. Arrived at her house, she waved a hand to the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response. A fine June night in England is never really dark, so the two could not only see each other but, when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply on his heel, was able to make out the sudden straightening of a pucker in the blind of a ground-floor room in P. C. Robinson’s abode. The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window. Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “As if you didn’t know,” laughed Furneaux. Robinson turned a key, and looked out. “Oh, it’s you, sir?” he cried. “You’ll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme,” said the detective. “May I come in? No, don’t show a light here. Let’s chat in the back kitchen.” “I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir,” began Robinson apologetically. “It’s laid in the kitchen. On’y bread and cheese an’ a glass of beer. Will you join me?” “With pleasure, if I hadn’t stuffed myself at Grant’s place. Nice fellow, Grant. Pity you and he don’t seem to get on together. Of course, we policemen cannot allow friendship to interfere with duty, but, between you and me, Robinson—strictly in confidence—Grant had no more to do with the actual murder of Miss Melhuish than either of us two.” Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in his own easy-chair. “The ‘actual murder,’ you said, sir?” he repeated. “Yes. It was his presence at _The Hollies_ which brought an infatuated woman there, and thus directly led to her death. That is all. Grant is telling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to break bread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I’ll change my mind, and take a snack of your bread and cheese.” The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied tribute. What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his somewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective’s little finger. “Right you are, sir,” he cried cheerily. “But, if Mr. Grant didn’t kill Miss Melhuish, who did!”