Mrs. Fittleworth glanced swiftly at Winnie Cotterill. With a woman’s instinct she knew the girl had had nearly enough strain that day. She was just going to try to turn the conversation when the Canon went on in his best parsonical manner that brooked no interruption: “Of course, I refrained from asking him very much about any possible clues, and so on,” he said. “The police naturally wish to keep these things to themselves. But he did tell me something, which isn’t exactly private, because it’s being talked about at Marsh Quay. There was a young man lodging at the inn there—the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ An artist, apparently, though no one seems to know anything about him.” “Go on, father,” said Doris; “this sounds most exciting.” “Well, the strange thing is that he left quite suddenly yesterday morning—just before the unhappy affair was discovered. The landlady says he came downstairs very early and announced his intention of leaving at once.” The three women were listening intently. The Canon went on: “He was, it seems, cycling into Frattenbury. But he never went there. The police have been making inquiries, and only found out this evening that he stayed last night at Selham—three miles from Marsh Quay down the estuary, you know. He left there this morning, so they say, and must have been close to Marsh Quay, because he was seen riding in the direction of Frattenbury. Then all trace of him was lost again.” “Oh, daddy, how exciting! Do they think he committed the murder?” “Well, Renshaw didn’t say that—but, of course, it’s suspicious going off like that, and the police are making every effort to find him. They have his description, and it shouldn’t be difficult.” “Do they know his name?” asked Mrs. Fittleworth. “They know the name under which he stayed at the inn,” replied the Canon, “but, of course, it may be a fictitious one.” “What is it, daddy?” “Grayson—Harold Grayson.” “Oh!” They all turned towards Winnie Cotterill, from whom the exclamation proceeded. The girl was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her hands clutching at its arms, her face deadly pale. “What is it?” asked Mrs. Fittleworth, crossing over to her. “Oh—it can’t be,” said Winnie in a low voice, half choking. “He couldn’t have done it—I know he couldn’t have done it.” “What—do you know him?” asked the Canon anxiously. The girl nodded. “If it’s the same—Mr. Grayson. Yes. He was at the Art School with me. And I’ve seen him since. I—I know him quite well. It’s impossible. Oh, oughtn’t I to tell the police? It’s dreadful to think of.” Mrs. Fittleworth, who noticed the deep blush to which the girl’s ashy cheeks had given place, with a motherly instinct put her arm over her shoulder.