Now, Tomlin, to whom the comings and goings of all and sundry formed the staple of the day’s gossip, had seen the detective go out, but could “take his sollum davy” that the queer little man had not returned. He, too, had watched Ingerman going to Siddle’s. Ten minutes later Elkin came down the hill, and headed for the same rendezvous. Five minutes more, and Hobbs, the butcher, joined the others. Tomlin was seething with curiosity, but there were some casual customers in the “snug,” so he could not abandon his post. Soon, however, Ingerman led Elkin and Hobbs to the inn. Evidently, the “financier” had been making some small purchases. He was in high spirits. Ordering appetizers before the mid-day meal, he announced that he was returning to London that afternoon, but would be in Steynholme again for the adjourned inquest. “No matter how my business suffers, I mean to see this affair through,” he vowed. “You gentlemen can pretty well guess my private convictions. You were good enough to give me your friendship, so I spoke as openly as one dares when no charge has actually been laid against any particular person.” “Ay,” said Elkin, with whom sunshine seemed to disagree, because he looked miserably ill. “We know what you mean, Mr. Ingerman. If the police were half sharp they’d have nabbed their man before this ... Did you put any water in this gin, Tomlin?” “Water?” wheezed Tomlin indignantly. _“Water?”_ “Well, no offense. I can’t taste anything. I believe I could swallow dope and not feel it on my tongue.” “You do look bad, an’ no mistake, Fred,” agreed Hobbs. “Are you vettin’ yerself? Don’t. Every man to his trade, sez I. Give Dr. Foxton a call.” “I’m taking his medicine regular. Perhaps I need a change.” “’Ave a week-end in Lunnon,” said Hobbs, with a broad wink. “Change of medicine, I mean. I’m not leaving Steynholme till things make a move. My next trip to London will be my honeymoon.” “You look like a honeymooner, I don’t think,” guffawed Hobbs. “You wouldn’t laugh if I told _you_ what you really look like,” cried Elkin angrily. “Bet you a level fiver I’m married this year. Now, put up or shut up!” Furneaux peeped in, through a door, always open, which led to the stairs. “Can I have my account, Mr. Tomlin?” he said. “I’m going to town by the next train.” “You don’t mean to say, Mr. Furneaux, that you are abandoning the case so soon?” broke in Ingerman. “Did I say that?” inquired the detective meekly. “No. One can’t help drawing inferences occasionally.” “Great mistake. Look at our worthy landlord. He’s been drawing inferences as well as corks, and he’s beat to the world.” Tomlin was, indeed, gazing at his smaller guest open-mouthed. “S’elp me!” he gurgled. “I could ha’ sworn—”