“One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from a good-natured ass!” he communed. “Here am I, Furneaux, plagued beyond endurance by a first-class murder case, and I must go and busy myself with the love affair of a postmaster’s daughter and a feather-headed novelist!” When Tomlin admitted him to the Hare and Hounds, he buttonholed the landlord, who, at that hour, was usually somewhat obfuscated. “Sir,” said the detective gravely, “I am told that you Steynholme folk indulge occasionally in such frivolities as amateur theatricals?” “Once in a way, sir. Once in a way. Afore I lock up the bar, will you—” “Not to-night. I’ve mixed port and beer already, and I’m only a little fellow. Now you, Mr. Tomlin, can mix anything, I fancy?” “I’ve tried a few combinations in me time, sir.” “But, about these theatrical performances—is there any scenery, costumes, ‘props’ as actors call them?” “Yes, sir. They’re stored in the loft over the club-room—the room where the inquest wur held.” “What, _here_?” Furneaux’s shrill cry scared Mr. Tomlin. “Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered. “Is that my candle?” said the detective tragically. “I’m tired, dead beat. To-night, Mr. Tomlin, you are privileged to see the temporary wreck of a noble mind. God wot, ’tis a harrowing spectacle.” Furneaux skipped nimbly upstairs. Tomlin proceeded to lock up. “It’s good for trade,” he mumbled, “but I’ll be glad when these ’ere Lunnon gents clears out. They worry me, they do. Fair gemme a turn, ’e did. A tec’, indeed! He’s nothin’ but a play-hactor hisself!” Chapter X. The Case Against Grant Next morning, after a long conference with Superintendent Fowler, from which, to his great chagrin, P. C. Robinson was excluded, Furneaux went to the post office, dispatched an apparently meaningless telegram to a code address, and exchanged a few orthodox remarks with Doris and her father about the continued fine weather. While he was yet at the counter, Ingerman crossed the road and entered the chemist’s shop. “Let me see,” said the detective musingly, “by committing a slight trespass on your left-hand neighbor’s garden, can I reach the yard of the inn?” “What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over,” smiled Doris. “Mrs. Jefferson went to Knoleworth early to-day, and took her maid. By shopping at the stores there, they save their fares, and have a day out each week.” “May I go that way, then?” he said. “Suppose you send that goggle-eyed skivvy of yours on an errand.” This was done, and Furneaux made the desired transit.