The Starvel Hollow Tragedy An Inspector French Case by Freeman Wills Crofts Contents I The Tragedy II The Inquest III Mr. Tarkington Develops a Theory IV Inspector French Goes North V French Picks Up a Scent VI Talloires, Lac D’Annecy VII Posthumous Evidence VIII Dr. Philpot’s Story IX The Value of Analysis X Whymper Speaks at Last XI A Startling Theory XII A Somewhat Gruesome Chapter XIII The Piece of Yellow Clay XIV The Secret of The Moor XV French Baits His Trap XVI A Double Recall XVII Concerning Wedding Rings XVIII Cumulative Evidence XIX The Last Lap XX Conclusion To MY WIFE who suggested the idea from which this story grew CHAPTER ONE The Tragedy Ruth Averill moved slowly across the drawing room at Starvel, and stood dejectedly at the window, looking out at the Scotch firs swaying in the wind and the sheets of rain driving across the untidy lawn before the house. The view was even more depressing than usual on this gloomy autumn afternoon. Beyond the grass-grown drive and the broken-down paling of posts and wire which bounded the grounds, lay the open moor, wild and lonely and forbidding. A tumble of dun-coloured sedgy grass with darker smudges where rock out-cropped, it stretched up, bleak and dreary, to the lip of the hollow in which the dilapidated old house had been built. To the girl standing in the window with a brooding look of melancholy on her pretty features the outlook seemed symbolical of her life, for Ruth Averill was not one of those whose lives could be said to have fallen in pleasant places. But, in spite of her unhappy expression, she was good to look at as she stood watching the storm. Though rather under medium height she had a charming figure and something of a presence. She was dark, as though in her veins might flow some admixture of Spanish or Italian blood. Her features were small and delicate, but her firmly rounded chin gave promise of character. She scarcely looked her twenty years of age. But though she had the fresh vitality of youth, there was something old-fashioned in her appearance not out of accord with her surroundings. She wore her long dark hair piled up in great masses over her broad forehead. Her dress was of the plainest, and in the fashion of three years earlier. Though scrupulously neat, it was worn threadbare. Her shoes were cracked and her stockings showed careful darns. For Ruth Averill was an orphan, dependent on the bounty of her uncle, Simon Averill, for every penny. And Simon Averill was a miser.