But his thoughts were far a-field from joyriders, stray cattle, hawkers without licenses, and other similar small fry which come into the constabulary net. It would be a feather in his cap if he could only strike the trail of the veritable Steynholme murderer. The entrancing notion possessed him morning, noon, and night. Mrs. Robinson declared that it even dominated his dreams. Robinson was sharp. He knew quite well that the brains of the London detectives held some elusive quality which he personally lacked. They seemed to peer into the heart of a thing so wisely and thoroughly. He did not share Superintendent Fowler’s somewhat derogatory estimate of Furneaux, with whom he was much better acquainted than was his superior officer, while Chief Inspector Winter’s repute stood so high that it might not be questioned. Still, to the best of his belief, the case had beaten both these doughty representatives of Scotland Yard; there was yet a chance for the humble police-constable; so Robinson squared his shoulders, seamed his brows, and marched majestically down the Knoleworth road. He had an eye for _The Hollies_, of course, though neither he nor anybody else could discern more than the bare edge of the lawn from bridge or road, owing to the dense screen of evergreen trees and shrubs planted by the tenant who remodeled the property. But the spot where the body of Adelaide Melhuish was drawn ashore was visible, and the sight of it started a dim thesis in the policeman’s mind which took definite shape during less than an hour’s stroll. Thus, at four o’clock exactly, he was pulling the bell at _The Hollies_. Almost simultaneously, Mr. Siddle knocked modestly on the private door of the post office, to reach which one had to pass down a narrow yard. “Mr. Grant at home?” inquired Robinson, when Minnie appeared. Yes, the master was on the lawn with Mr. Hart. The policeman found the two there, seated in chairs with awnings. They had been discussing, of all things in the world, the futurist craze in painting. Hart held by it, but Grant carried bigger guns in real knowledge of the artist’s limitations as well as his privileges. Hart was the first to notice the newcomer’s presence, and greeted him joyously. “Come along, Robinson, and manacle this reprobate,” he shouted. “He’s nothing but a narrow-minded pre-Rafaelite. A period in prison will dust the cobwebs out of his attic.” “Hello, Robinson!” said, Grant. “Anything stirring?” “Not much, sir. I just popped in to ask if you remembered exactly how the body was roped?” “Indeed, I do not. Some incidents of that horrible half hour have gone into a sad jumble. I recollect you calling attention to the matter, but what your point was I really cannot say now. Perhaps it may come back if you explain.” “Well, we don’t seem to be making a great deal of progress, sir, and I was wondering whether you two gentlemen might help. I don’t want it mentioned. I’m taking a line of me own.”