“That’s what you may call the police opinion,” broke in Elkin. “We Steynholme folk have a pretty clear notion, I can assure you.” “The matter is still _sub judice_, and may remain so a long time,” said Siddle. “It is simply stupid to attach a kind of responsibility to the man who happens to occupy the house associated with the crime. I have no patience with that sort of reasoning.” Hobbs, who did not want to quarrel with Elkin, suddenly championed him. “That’s all very well,” he rumbled. “But the hevidence you an’ me ’eard, Siddle, an’ the hevidence we know we’re goin’ to ’ear, is a lot stronger than that.” “I’m sure you’ll pardon me, friends,” said Siddle, rising with an apologetic smile, “but I happen to be foreman of the coroner’s jury, and I feel that this matter is not for me, at any rate, to discuss publicly.” Out he went, not even heeding Tomlin’s appeal to drink the ginger-ale he had just ordered. “Just like ’im,” sighed Hobbs. “Good-’earted fellow! Would find hexcuses for a black rat.” Elkin talked more freely now that the chemist’s disapproving eye was off him. Ultimately, Mr. Franklin elected to smoke a cigar in the open air, and strolled forth. He sauntered down the hill, stood on the bridge, and admired the soft blue tones of the landscape in the half light of a summer evening. Shortly before closing time, Robinson appeared, it being part of his routine duty to see that no noisy revelers disturbed the peace of the village. He noticed the stranger at once, and elected to walk past him. Thus, he received yet another shock when Mr. Franklin addressed him by name. “Good evening, Robinson,” said the pleasant, clear-toned voice. “I’ve been expecting you to turn up. Kindly go back home, and leave the door open. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, of Scotland Yard.” “You don’t say so, sir!” stammered Robinson. “But I do say it, and will prove it to you, of course. I’ll be with you in a minute or two. There’s someone coming. You and I must not be seen together.” Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He met Bates, going to the post with letters. Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he kept a sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even walked quickly to the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished. Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates thrust his head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some weight on his mind. “Beg pardon,” he said, “but I thought you’d like to know. The place is just swarmin’ with ’em.” “Bees?” inquired Hart. Bates stared fixedly at the speaker for a second or two. “No, sir, ’tecs,” he said. “There’s a big ’un now—just the opposite to the little ’un, Hawkshaw. I ’ope I ’aven’t to tackle this customer, though. He’d gimme a doin’, by the looks of ’im.”