“Just as I’ve put it, sir. He tripped a bit over the time on Monday night. But it’s only fair to say that he might have had Tomlin’s license in mind.” “That issue will be settled to-morrow. I’ll find out the commercial traveler’s name, and send a telegram from Knoleworth before noon.... Who is Peggy Smith?” Robinson set down an empty glass with a stare of surprise. “Bob Smith’s daughter, sir,” he answered. “No doubt. But, proceed.” “Well, sir, she’s just a village girl. Her father is a blacksmith. His forge is along to the right, not far. She’ll be twenty, or thereabouts.” “Frivolous?” “Not more than the rest of ’em, sir.” “Have you seen her flirting with Elkin?” Robinson took thought. “Now that I come to think of it, she might be given a bit that way. Her father shoes Elkin’s nags, so there’s a lot of comin’ an’ goin’ between the two places. But folks would always look on it as natural enough. Yes, I’ve seen ’em together more than once.” “In that case, he can hardly grumble if the postmaster’s daughter has an eye for another young man.” “Miss Martin!” snorted Robinson. “She wouldn’t look the side of the road he was on. Fred Elkin isn’t her sort.” “But he said to-night in the Hare and Hounds that he and Miss Martin were practically engaged.” “Stuff an’ nonsense! Sorry, sir, but I admire Doris Martin. I like to see a girl like her liftin’ herself out of the common gang. She’s the smartest young lady in the village, an’ not an atom of a snob. No, no. She isn’t for Fred Elkin. Before this murder cropped up everybody would have it that Mr. Grant would marry her.” “How does the murder intervene?” Robinson shifted uneasily in his chair. He knew only too well that he himself had driven a wedge between the two. “Steynholme’s a funny spot, sir,” he contrived to explain. “Since it came out that Doris an’ Mr. Grant were in the garden at _The Hollies_ at half past ten on Monday night, without Mr. Martin knowin’ where his daughter was, there’s been talk. Both the postmaster an’ the girl herself are up to it. You can see it in their faces. They don’t like it, an’ who can blame ’em!” “Who, indeed? But this Elkin—surely he had some ground for a definite boast, made openly, among people acquainted with all the parties?” “There’s more than Elkin would marry Doris if she lifted a finger, sir.” “Can you name them?” “Well, Tomlin wants a wife.” Winter laughed joyously. “Next?” he cried. “They say that Mr. Siddle is a widower.” “The chemist? Foreman of the jury?” “Yes, sir.” “From appearances, he is a likelier candidate than either Elkin or Tomlin. Anybody else?” “I shouldn’t be far wrong if I gave you the name of most among the young unmarried men in the parish.” “Dear me! I must have a peep at this charmer. But I want those names, Robinson.”