“I might,” he said. “Mr. Buckland, the chemist, has got a pretty fair memory of all kinds of people. He’s lived here all his life. We often go to him when we want to find out the past of anyone. I’ll try him to-morrow.” She jumped up from her seat. “I’m going to get supper now, Bob. We’ve done enough for to-night. Yes, we’ll have it early because you’re going to be a nice old dear and take me to the pictures, and forget there was ever a murder at Marsh Quay and a detective who did his best, and then—even though he was a brainy, oh, ever so clever a man, and wanted to be an inspector one day—had to take his little wife’s advice, and pay for it in kisses—oh—that’s enough, Bob—it wasn’t worth _all_ those.” “The overplus were for yourself,” said Colson, “and I still owe a heavy bill.” Next day Colson, in a far more cheery mood, after seeing Constable Gadsden for a moment and consulting the latter’s ponderous and well-thumbed notebook, cycled once more on the now familiar road to Marsh Quay, where he inquired at a cottage for one George Simmonds, and was told by his wife that he was helping to load the _Lucy_, which had returned once more for a cargo of gravel. He very soon found the man and said to him: “Have you got a good memory, Simmonds?” “I remember the last man as stood me a pint o’ beer, guv’nor,” was the response. “Well, perhaps you’ll have the same cause to remember me when we’ve finished. Anyhow, on the morning when the murder was discovered here you told the police-constable you’d met Mr. Templeton the previous afternoon—going into Frattenbury.” “That’s right, guv’nor. ’Twarn’t he as give me that pint, though.” “Quite so. Now, let’s see if you can tell me how he was dressed.” The man described him pretty accurately. “Good,” said the detective; “had he got anything in his hand?” The man thought a moment. “Yes—a stick. I didn’t take no notice on it, though—I can’t say what ’twas like.” “Never mind that. Was he carrying it or walking with it?” Simmonds grinned sheepishly and shook his head. “Look here,” said Colson, picking up a bit of stick that was lying on the ground, “this is what I mean. Did he hold it by the handle and stick it in the ground like _this_—or carry it, by the middle, _so_?” “Oh, I can easily tell ’ee that. He had it by the middle, same as you have now.” “You’re sure?” “Sartain, guv’nor—I see him a-doin’ on it.” “All right. Here you are then.” The man spat on the coin, pocketed it, and grinned. “Thankee, guv’nor—that’s good for a quart, that is. I shan’t forget _you_—if anyone wants to pay me for rememberin’.” “_One_ to the wife,” said Colson as he sped back to Frattenbury. “Now for Mr. Buckland.” He found the chemist standing behind his counter, a grave-looking man with wrinkled forehead and a big walrus moustache. “I want a bit of information, if you can give it to me, Mr. Buckland.” “Certainly. Come inside, won’t you?”