Peters explained fluently. This was no ordinary crime. A beautiful and popular actress had been done to death in a brutal way, and the country was already deeply stirred by the story. Elkin waited impatiently till the journalist drew breath. Then he broke in. “Pedigree horses you mentioned, sir,” he said, his rancor against Grant being momentarily conquered by the pertinent allusion to his own business. “What sort? Racing, coaching, roadsters, or hacks?” “All sorts. The Argentine, where I have connections, offers an ever-open door to good horseflesh.” “Are you having a look round?” “Yes. There are several decent studs within driving distance of Steynholme. Isn’t that so, landlord?” “Lots, sir,” said Tomlin. “An’ the very man you’re talkin’ to has some stuff not to be sneezed at.” “Is that so?” Mr. Franklin gazed at Elkin in a very friendly manner. “May I ask your name, sir?” Elkin produced a card. Every hoof in his stables appreciated in value forthwith, but he was far too knowing that he should appear to rush matters. “Call any day you like, sir,” he said. “Glad to see you. But give me notice. I generally have an appetizer here of a morning about eleven.” “An’ you want it, too, Fred,” said Hobbs. “Dash me, you’re as thin as a herrin’. Stop whiskey an’ drink beer, like me.” “And you might also follow that gentleman’s example,” interposed Siddle quietly, nodding towards Mr. Franklin. “What’s that?” snapped Elkin. “Don’t worry about murders.” “That’s a nice thing to say. Why should _I_ worry about the d—d mix-up?” The chemist made no reply, but Hobbs stepped into the breach valiantly. “Keep yer ’air on, Fred,” he vociferated. “Siddle means no ’arm. But wot else are yer a-doing of, mornin’, noon, an’ night?” Elkin laughed, with his queer croak. “If you stay here a day or two, you’ll soon get to know what they’re driving at, sir,” he said to Franklin. “The fact is that this chap, Grant, who found the body, and in whose garden the murder was committed, has been making eyes at the girl I’m as good as engaged to. That would make anybody wild—now, wouldn’t it?” “Possibly,” smiled Franklin. “Of course there is always the lady’s point of view. The sex is proverbially fickle, you know. ‘Woman, thy vows are traced in sand,’ Lord Byron has it.” “Ay, an’ some men’s, too,” guffawed Hobbs. “Wot about Peggy Smith, Fred?” Elkin blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the butcher. “What about that tough old bull you bought at Knoleworth on Monday?” he retorted. Hobbs’s face grew purple. Mr. Franklin beckoned to Tomlin. “Ask these gentlemen what they’ll have,” he said gently. The landlord made a clatter of glasses, and the threatened storm passed. “You’ve aroused my curiosity,” remarked Franklin to Peters, but taking the company at large into the conversation. “This does certainly strike one as a remarkable case. Is there no suspicion yet as to the actual murderer?” “None whatever,” said Peters.