Winter appeared to be devoting his mind to circumventing the vagaries of a fragile tobacco-leaf. He was a man of powerful build, over forty, heavy but active, deep-chested, round-headed, with bulging blue eyes which radiated kindliness and strength of character. The press photographer described him accurately to Grant. The average Londoner would have taken him for a county gentleman on a visit to the Agricultural Show at Islington, with a morning at Tattersall’s as a variant. Yet, Sam Weller’s extensive and peculiar knowledge of London compared with his as a freshman’s with a don’s of a university. It would be hard to assess, in coin of the realm, the value of the political and social secrets stowed away in that big head. “First, I must put a question or two,” he said, smiling at a baby which cooed at him from the shaded depths of a passing perambulator. “Is there another woman?” “Yes, the postmaster’s daughter, Doris Martin.” “Shy, pretty little bird, of course?” “Everything that is good and beautiful.” “Is Grant a Lothario?” “Excellent chap. Quarter of an hour before the murder he was giving Doris a lesson in astronomy in the garden of _The Hollies_.” “Never heard it called _that_ before.” “This time the statement happens to be strictly accurate.” “Honest Injun?” “I’m sure of it. If anything, the death of Adelaide Melhuish cleared the scales off their eyes. Those two have never kissed or squeezed—yet. They’ll be starting quite soon now.” “How old is Doris?” “Nineteen.” “But a really good-looking girl of nineteen must have had admirers before Grant went to the village.” “She had, and has. Having educated herself out of the rut, however, she left many runners at the post. One is persistent—a youngish horse-coper named Elkin. Adelaide Melhuish probably saw her with Grant. Neither Doris nor Grant knew that Adelaide Melhuish, as such, was in Steynholme. That is to say, the girl had seen Miss Melhuish in the post office, and recognized her as a famous actress, but that is all. And now I shan’t tell you any more, or you’ll know all that I know, which is too much.” The cigar was behaving itself at last, having burnt down to the fracture, so Winter’s thoughts could be given exclusively to the less important matter of the Steynholme affair. “To begin with,” he said instantly. “Ingerman can establish a cast-iron alibi.” “So I imagined. But he’s a bad lot. I throw in that item gratuitously.” The oddly-assorted pair walked in silence until Vauxhall Bridge was in sight. Winter pulled out a watch. “What time did you say my train left Victoria?” he inquired. “Plenty of time yet to make your guess and listen to further details,” scoffed Furneaux. “Frankly, I give it up. But, if I must share in the hunt, I tell you now that, metaphorically speaking, I shall cling to the postmaster’s daughter till torn away by sheer force of evidence.” Furneaux dug his colleague in the ribs.