As the weeks went by, Frattenbury and the newspapers forgot all about the murder. There were other matters for local gossip. People hinted that Francis Norwood was getting closer than ever with his cash. He demanded payments almost before he gave advice or transacted business. He sold a block of cottages belonging to him. And sundry creditors began to say they wished he was as ready to pay his bills as he was to be paid. The Dean returned from his trip to the Riviera, and Colson called on him again. This time he came out of the Deanery evoking blessings on the heads of the clergy, instead of curses. There was another long conference between the three policemen—and their faces were graver than ever. Colson watched the shipping news anxiously, and one day took himself off to Plymouth, returning with a sallow-faced man who joined the trio at a further conference that evening—and it was very late when Colson took the stranger to his own house—where Mrs. Colson had a spare room ready for him. “To-morrow, then,” the Chief Constable had said, when Colson left, and Colson had repeated the words. In the morning, the detective, who was carrying the stick he had found in the dinghy, met Canon Fittleworth. He stopped him. “In confidence, sir,” he said, “I shall have some news to tell you this evening—about your late cousin. Shall you be at home?” “Indeed?” said the Canon, much interested. “Let me see—I’m alone in the house, and I’ve asked Mr. Norwood to dine with me—at half-past seven. Can you come about an hour earlier?” A smile lingered on the detective’s face, and he replied: “Mr. Norwood might like to hear my news as well. Should I be intruding at—say nine o’clock?” “Come, by all means.” “Thank you, sir—you won’t mention this to Mr. Norwood?” “If you don’t want me to.” “I’d rather not, sir.” “Very well.” Colson, after this interview, did not pursue his way up the street. Instead, he retraced it to the police station. “Better still, by and by,” he remarked. About eight o’clock he was walking up the street again, carrying the stick. He rang the bell of a quiet house in a quiet street. He was about five minutes inside that house, and then he went back to the police station, outwardly calm, but inwardly realising that this was the most intense moment of his life. “It’s perfectly true, sir,” he said to the Chief Constable, holding out the walking-stick. The Chief Constable sighed deeply. “Very well,” he said, “then there’s nothing more to say about it.” A little before nine the three policemen, and the stranger staying in Colson’s house, walked up the South Street together, and disappeared through the gateway half-way up the street into the quiet regions of the Cathedral Close. “I ordered the taxi, sir,” said Colson. “It will be all ready—outside the house—about half-past nine.” Major Renshaw nodded in silence. He was feeling the situation acutely. CHAPTER XX Colson’s “Imagination”