And Trenholme, not knowing that death had answered the shot, took his own departure, singing as he walked, his thoughts altogether on life, and more especially on life as revealed by the limbs of a girl gleaming in the dark waters of a pool. CHAPTER II "WHO HATH DONE THIS THING?" Trenholme's baritone was strong and tuneful--for the Muses, if kind, are often lavish of their gifts--so the final refrain of an impassioned love song traveled far that placid morning. Thus, when he reached the iron gates, he found the Roxton policeman standing there, grinning. "Hello!" said the artist cheerily. Of course he knew the policeman. In a week he would have known every man and dog in the village by name. "Good mornin', sir," said the Law, which was nibbling its chin strap and had both thumbs stuck in its belt. "That's a fine thing you was singin'. May I arsk wot it was? I do a bit in that line meself." "It's the _cantabile_ from Saint-Saens' _Samson et Dalila_," replied Trenholme. "Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix!" "Is it now? An' wot may that be, sir?" The policeman's humor was infectious. Trenholme laughed, too. Realizing that the words and accent of Paris had no great vogue in Hertfordshire, he explained, and added that he possessed a copy of the song, which was at the service of the force. The man thanked him warmly, and promised to call at the inn during the afternoon. "By the way, sir," he added, when Trenholme had passed through the wicket, "did you hear a shot fired while you was in the park?" "Yes." "Jer see anybody?" "A keeper, who seemed rather annoyed about the shooting. Some one had fired a rifle." "It sounded like that to me, sir, and it's an unusual thing at this time of the year." "A heavy-caliber rifle must sound unusual at any time of the year in an enclosed estate near London," commented Trenholme. "My idee exactly," said the policeman. "I think I'll go that way. I may meet Bates." "If Bates is a bandy-legged person with suspicious eyes, a red tie, many pockets, brown leggings, and a yellow dog, you'll find him searching the wood beyond the lake, which is the direction the shot came from." The policeman laughed. "That's Bates, to a tick," he said. "If he was 'wanted,' your description would do for the _Police Gazette_." They parted. Since Trenholme's subsequent history is bound up more closely with the policeman's movements during the next hour than with his own unhindered return to the White Horse Inn, it is well to trace the exact course of events as they presented themselves to the ken of a music-loving member of the Hertfordshire constabulary.