“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “The Canon has said the police don’t necessarily suspect him. If he is really the Mr. Grayson you know—and he may not be, after all—of course he will be able to explain. You’re quite done up with all this terrible affair, and I’m going to take you to bed. Come along.” “Thank you,” said Winnie gratefully, “you are kind to me. I’m very silly, I know, but I can’t bear to think that he—he is suspected. I know he couldn’t have done it.” “Of course he couldn’t,” said Mrs. Fittleworth soothingly. “Now—I must insist. You come to bed, dear.” When the Canon himself went to bed that night he had to listen to a little lecture. And he took it calmly—from force of habit—much more calmly than if it had come from the Dean, or even the Bishop. Whereat it is evident that even for cathedral dignitaries there is a higher court than the mere ecclesiastical. “Really, Charles,” said his wife, “you ought to have noticed that the poor girl had gone through quite enough for one day.” The Canon tried defensive argument, which was foolish of him—for he ought to have remembered that he never succeeded. “But how was I to know, my dear, that she was acquainted with the young man?” “Oh, do be reasonable, Charles. You ought not to have mentioned the subject of the murder at all at that time of night. Doris and I had been doing our best to get the girl’s mind off it. And then you came in and started it all again!” “Why didn’t you stop me, my dear?” “Stop you!” exclaimed his wife; “stop you when you once begin to hold forth on a subject. How can anyone stop you? _I_ can’t. There. I know you didn’t mean to upset her, but you ought to have thought.” “I suppose I ought,” said the Canon resignedly. “I’m very sorry. Good night, my dear.” CHAPTER IX The Cigar Band The crowd that had assembled at the inquest at Marsh Quay loitered for a while discussing the one important topic. Newspaper men were busy with notebook and camera. The removal of the body of Reginald Templeton from the “Mariner’s Arms” to the mortuary at Frattenbury, pending the funeral the next day, was eagerly watched. Members of the jury, for the most part stolid agricultural labourers or boatmen, were closely questioned by friends or relatives, but, on the whole, recognising the importance of their office, were not communicative. Mr. Proctor refused to say a word to anyone. He came out of the “Mariner’s Arms,” lighting a cigar as he did so, and walked straight over to his house opposite, blandly smiling at an irrepressible reporter who asked him to pose for his camera. The coroner drove away with the Chief Constable in the latter’s car, austere and grave as usual. Anthony Crosby, the superintendent and Colson held a brief consultation in the inn parlour, where it was arranged that the lawyer should call at the police station the next morning for further discussion.