It mattered a great deal. Robinson could testify that Elkin did not cross Steynholme bridge “soon after eleven.” “Nothing much,” was the answer. “You see, I’m anxious to find out who might be stirring at that hour, an’ you know everybody for miles around. I’d like to fix your journey by the clock, if I could.” “Dash it all, man, I was full to the eyes. There! You have it straight.” “Were you out on Monday night?” “The night of the murder?” “Yes.” “I left the Hare and Hounds at ten, and came straight home.” “Who was there with you?” “The usual crowd—Hobbs, and Siddle, and Bob Smith, and a commercial traveler. Siddle went at half past nine, but he generally does.” “You met no one on the road?” “No.” The monosyllable seemed to lack Elkin’s usual confidence. It sounded as if he had been making up his mind what to say, yet faltered at the last moment. Robinson ruminated darkly. As a matter of fact, long after eleven o’clock on that fateful night, he himself had seen Elkin walking homeward. He was well aware that the licensing hours were not strictly observed by the Hare and Hounds when “commercial gentlemen” were in residence. Closing time was ten o’clock, but the “commercials,” being cheery souls, became nominal hosts on such occasions, and their guests were in no hurry to depart. Robinson saw that he had probably jumped to a conclusion, an acrobatic feat of reasoning which Furneaux had specifically warned him against. At any rate, he resolved now to leave well enough alone. “Well, we don’t seem to get any forrarder,” he said. “You ought to take more care of your health, Mr. Elkin. You’re a changed man these days.” “I’ll be all right when this murder is off our chests, Robinson. You won’t have a tiddley? Right-o! So long!” Robinson walked slowly toward Steynholme. At a turn in the road he halted near the footpath which led down the wooded cliff and across the river to Bush Walk. He surveyed the locality with a reflective frown. Then, there being no one about, he made some notes of the chat with Elkin. The man’s candor and his misstatements were equally puzzling. None knew better than the policeman that the vital discrepancy of fully an hour and a half on the Monday night would be difficult to clear up. Tomlin, of course, would have no recollection of events after ten o’clock, but the commercial traveler, who could be traced, might be induced to tell the truth if assured that the police needed the information solely for purposes in connection with their inquiry into the murder. That man must be found. His testimony should have an immense significance. That evening, shortly before seven o’clock, a stalwart, prosperous-looking gentleman in tweeds “descended” from the London express at Knoleworth. The local train for Steynholme stood in a bay on the opposite platform, and this passenger in particular was making for it when he nearly collided with another man, younger, thinner, bespectacled, who hailed him with delight.