“Your contention, sir, is just what the man of the world would hold,” he said, “but, in this village, where we live on neighborly terms, such an incident would be impossible in almost any other house than _The Hollies_.” Mr. Franklin nodded. He was convinced. Tomlin, Hobbs, and a local draper bore out the chemist’s reasonable theory. Next morning Steynholme was again united in condemning Grant, while the postmaster and his daughter were not wholly exempted from criticism. The dinner itself was an altogether harmless and cheery meal. By common consent not one word was said about the murder. Hart was amusing on the question of bees—almost flippant, Mr. Martin deemed him. Peters had a wide store of strange experiences to draw on, while Grant, if rather silent in deference to two such brilliant talkers, found much satisfaction in regarding Doris as a hostess. The next day being Saturday, or market day, the village was busy. At eleven o’clock there was a somewhat unnecessary display of nodding plumes and long-tailed black horses at the removal of the coffin to the railway station. For some reason, the funeral arrangements had not been bruited about until Elkin made that envenomed attack on Grant in the Hare and Hounds the previous night. Ingerman had sent a gorgeous wreath, the only one forthcoming locally. This fact, of course, invited comment, though no whisperer in the crowd troubled to add that the interment was only announced in that day’s newspapers. Peters, meeting Mr. Franklin on the stairs of the inn, put a note into his hand. It read: “Why don’t you have a chat with Grant? The public mind is being inflamed against him. It’s hardly fair.” Mr. Franklin, meeting Peters in the passage, winked at him, and the journalist tortured his brains to turn out some readable stuff which should grip the million on Sunday yet not to be damaging to the man whose hospitality he enjoyed over night. In a word, the passing of Adelaide Melhuish was exploited thoroughly as an indictment of her one-time lover, and the only two in Steynholme not aware of the fact were Grant, himself, and Wally Hart. By a singular coincidence, not ridiculously beyond the ken of a verger, when Doris went to church on Sunday morning, she found herself beside Mr. Franklin. At the close of the service the same big man whom she had noticed as a neighbor in the pew overtook her at the post office door. He lifted his hat. A passer-by heard him say distinctly: “Pardon me for troubling you, but can you tell me at what time the mail closes for London?” “At four-thirty,” said Doris. No other person overheard Mr. Franklin’s next words: “I am now going to drop a letter in the box. It’s for you. Get it at once. It is of the utmost importance.” Doris was startled, as well she might be. But—she went straight for the letter. It was marked: “Private and Urgent,” and ran: _Dear Miss Martin.