“In all probability, the man who wore that hat,” chirped Furneaux, taking a nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the table. Robinson started. This June night was full of weird surprises. He set down a jug of beer with a bang—his intent being to fill two glasses already in position, from which circumstance even the least observant visitor might deduce a Mrs. Robinson, _en negligé_, hastily flown upstairs. He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb. “By gum!” he muttered. “Are these bullet-holes?” “They are.” “An’ is this what someone fired at?” “Yes.” “But how in thunder—” He checked himself in time. He did not want to admit that he had been watching the only recognized road to Grant’s house all the evening. “Quite so!” chortled Furneaux, with admirable misunderstanding. “You’re quick on the trigger, Robinson—almost as quick as that friend of Grant’s who arrived by the 5.30 from London. You perceive at once that no ordinary head could have worn that hat without having its hair combed by the same bullet. It was stuck on to a thick wig. Now, tell me the man, or woman, in Steynholme, who wears a wig and a hat like that, and you and I will guess who killed Miss Melhuish.” Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg was being pulled rather violently. Furneaux read his face like a printed page. Chewing, much against his will, a mouthful of bread and cheese, he mumbled in solemn, broken tones: “Think—Robinson. Don’t—answer—offhand. Has—anybody—ever worn—such things—in a play?” Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were. “By gum!” he cried again. “Fred Elkin—in a charity performance last winter.” Furneaux choked with excitement. “A horsey-looking chap, on to-day’s jury,” he gurgled. “That’s him!” “The scoundrel!” “No wonder he looked ill.” “No wonder, indeed. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!” “But, sir—” Robinson was flabbergasted. He could only murmur “Fred Elkin!” in a dazed way. “Have a drink,” said Furneaux sympathetically. “I’ll wet my whistle, too. Only half a glass, please. Now, we mustn’t jump to conclusions. This Elkin looks a villain, but may not be one. That is to say, his villainy may be confined to dealings in nags. But you see, Robinson, what a queer turn this affair is taking. We must get rid of preconceived notions. Superintendent Fowler and you and I will go into this matter thoroughly to-morrow. Meanwhile, breathe not a syllable to a living soul. If I were you, I’d let Mr. Grant understand that we regard him as rather outside the scope of our inquiry. This beer is very good for a country village. You know a good thing when you see it, I expect. Pity I don’t smoke, or I’d join you in a pipe. I must get a move on, now, or that fat landlord will be locking me out. Good night! Yes. I’ll take the hat. _Good_ night!” While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat.