Antony stood watching him with a little smile at his enthusiasm. Then he looked round slowly, as if in search of something. Suddenly he saw what he wanted. Twenty yards farther on a lane wandered off to the left, and there was a gate a little way up on the right-hand side of it. Antony walked to the gate, filling his pipe as he went. Then he lit his pipe, sat on the gate, and took his head in his hands. “Now then,” he said to himself, “let’s begin at the beginning.” It was nearly eight o’clock when William Beverley, the famous sleuth-hound, arrived, tired and dusty, at ‘The George,’ to find Antony, cool and clean, standing bare-headed at the door, waiting for him. “Is dinner ready?” were Bill’s first words. “Yes.” “Then I’ll just have a wash. Lord, I’m tired.” “I never ought to have asked you,” said Antony penitently. “That’s all right. I shan’t be a moment.” Half-way up the stairs he turned round and asked, “Am I in your room?” “Yes. Do you know the way?” “Yes. Start carving, will you? And order lots of beer.” He disappeared round the top of the staircase. Antony went slowly in. When the first edge of his appetite had worn off, and he was able to spare a little time between the mouthfuls, Bill gave an account of his adventures. The landlord of the “Plough and Horses” had been sticky, decidedly sticky—Bill had been unable at first to get anything out of him. But Bill had been tactful; lorblessyou, how tactful he had been. “He kept on about the inquest, and what a queer affair it had been, and so on, and how there’d been an inquest in his wife’s family once, which he seemed rather proud about, and I kept saying, ‘Pretty busy, I suppose, just now, what?’ and then he’d say, ‘Middlin’,’ and go on again about Susan—that was the one that had the inquest—he talked about it as if it were a disease—and then I’d try again, and say, ‘Slack times, I expect, just now, eh?’ and he’d say ‘Middlin’’ again, and then it was time to offer him another drink, and I didn’t seem to be getting much nearer. But I got him at last. I asked him if he knew John Borden—he was the man who said he’d seen Mark at the station. Well, he knew all about Borden, and after he’d told me all about Borden’s wife’s family, and how one of them had been burnt to death—after you with the beer; thanks—well, then I said carelessly that it must be very hard to remember anybody whom you had just seen once, so as to identify him afterwards, and he agreed that it would be ‘middlin’ hard,’ and then—” “Give me three guesses,” interrupted Antony. “You asked him if he remembered everybody who came to his inn?” “That’s it. Bright, wasn’t it?” “Brilliant. And what was the result?” “The result was a woman.” “A woman?” said Antony eagerly. “A woman,” said Bill impressively. “Of course I thought it was going to be Robert—so did you, didn’t you?—but it wasn’t. It was a woman. Came quite late on Monday night in a car—driving herself—went off early next morning.” “Did he describe her?”