“Yes. Police station Market Basing. Inspector Badgworthy speaking. What?” Slight alteration in the inspector’s manner. As he is greater than Johnson, so others are greater than Inspector Badgworthy. “Speaking, my lord. I beg your pardon, my lord? I didn’t quite hear what you said?” Long pause, during which the inspector listens, quite a variety of expressions passing over his usually impassive countenance. Finally he lays down the receiver, after a brief “At once, my lord.” He turned to Johnson, seeming visibly swelled with importance. “From his lordship—at Chimneys—Murder.” “Murder,” echoed Johnson, suitably impressed. “Murder it is,” said the inspector, with great satisfaction. “Why, there’s never been a murder here—not that I’ve ever heard of—except the time that Tom Pearse shot his sweetheart.” “And that, in a manner of speaking, wasn’t murder at all, but drink,” said the inspector, deprecatingly. “He weren’t hanged for it,” agreed Johnson gloomily. “But this is the real thing, is it, sir?” “It is, Johnson. One of his lordship’s guests, a foreign gentleman, discovered shot. Open window, and footprints outside.” “I’m sorry it were a foreigner,” said Johnson, with some regret. It made the murder seem less real. Foreigners, Johnson felt, were liable to be shot. “His lordship’s in a rare taking,” continued the inspector. “We’ll get hold of Dr. Cartwright and take him up with us right away. I hope to goodness no one will get messing with those footprints.” Badgworthy was in a seventh heaven. A murder! At Chimneys! Inspector Badgworthy in charge of the case. The police have a clue. Sensational arrest. Promotion and kudos for the aforementioned inspector. “That is,” said Inspector Badgworthy to himself, “if Scotland Yard doesn’t come butting in.” The thought damped him momentarily. It seemed so extremely likely to happen under the circumstances. They stopped at Dr. Cartwright’s, and the doctor, who was a comparatively young man, displayed a keen interest. His attitude was almost exactly that of Johnson. “Why, bless my soul,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t had a murder here since the time of Tom Pearse.” All three of them got into the doctor’s little car, and started off briskly for Chimneys. As they passed the local inn, _The Jolly Cricketers_, the doctor noticed a man standing in the doorway. “Stranger,” he remarked. “Rather a nice-looking fellow. Wonder how long he’s been here, and what he’s doing staying at the _Cricketers_? I haven’t seen him about at all. He must have arrived last night.” “He didn’t come by train,” said Johnson. Johnson’s brother was the local railway porter, and Johnson was therefore always well up in arrivals and departures. “Who was there for Chimneys yesterday?” asked the inspector.