“Well, I’ll be here to-night. I’m going into Frattenbury presently, and shall cycle out, probably a bit late.” “You can have the room Mr. Grayson had, sir. It’s a pleasant one, above this, looking out over the water.” “Who is Mr. Grayson?” he asked. “A young gentleman—an artist—who’s been lodging here nearly a week. He left early this morning.” “Oh, did he?” said the detective, lighting his pipe. “This seems a rare place for people leaving early on Sunday mornings.” “Eh, sir?” “Oh, never mind. Tell me about this lodger of yours. What time did he go away?” “It was just before the murder was discovered, sir. He came downstairs early this morning, and said would I get him some breakfast because he’d suddenly changed his plans and was going away. Seemed strange, didn’t it, sir? A nice, quiet young gentleman he was, too.” “How did he go?” “On his bicycle, sir—same as he came here. Oh, he was a perfect gentleman, never gave me trouble, and paid up all right.” The detective had taken out his notebook. “I wish you’d give me a description of this young man, Mrs. Yates,” he said. “Oh, Mr. Colson, sir,” she exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say as how you think ’twas him as done it?” The detective laughed. “Come, come, Mrs. Yates,” he said; “I never said it was so bad as that. But, you see, we policemen like to know about all the people that were near a crime. That’s why I’m asking you to help me. The smallest evidence may be valuable, and this young man may have noticed something yesterday. You see, he left before the murder was discovered, so he couldn’t know we wanted him, could he?” Mrs. Yates, all suspicions removed by Colson’s bland manner, gave him, so far as she could remember, a description of her lodger, which the detective carefully took down. When she had finished, he said: “Thank you, Mrs. Yates; excellent! You really ought to belong to the force, you remember everything so well. Observation is a very great gift, and you’ve got it. Splendid!” Mrs. Yates smiled a smile of satisfaction. She was not proof against flattery. The detective saw he had scored a point. “Now I’m going to take you into my confidence,” he went on blandly. “I’ll let you into a little secret. We detectives aren’t half as clever as people think we are, and I don’t mind telling you—quite between ourselves, you know—that this is going to be a difficult case. You wouldn’t think it, perhaps, but, up to the present moment, I haven’t the slightest idea as to who committed the murder.” Mrs. Yates had sat down in a chair and was regarding him fixedly, taking it all in. “Lor’ sir,” she exclaimed, “you don’t say so?” He nodded gravely. “It’s quite true,” he said, “and I want you to help me.” “Me, sir? What can I do?” “You’re a discreet woman, Mrs. Yates—a very sensible woman. And I’m sure you can hold your tongue if you like.” “I never was one to gossip.”