The little village swarmed with police and reporters. There hadn’t been a mystery of such possibilities for many moons, and the whole country was stirred. Murder so foul cried out for vengeance. But there was no arrest, “And there never will be,” thought Mr. Baxter as he took his stand in the improvised witness-box in the village school. The Coroner, a corpulent, hirsute and pompous person, soon put to him the question he had anticipated. “I understand that you started to run towards the scene of the tragedy before these screams were heard: is that so?” “Yes,” replied the secretary. “Why was that?” And then Mr. Baxter uncontrollably laughed. “I may be mistaken,” said the Coroner, “but this hardly seems a laughing matter.” “I must beg your pardon,” said Mr. Baxter, “I laughed against my will, I laughed because I suddenly realised how absurd you would consider my explanation to be.” “That is quite possible,” said the Coroner, “but I must ask you to let me hear it.” “I had a premonition, a dream.” “Of what character?” “Well, I dreamed that Miss Grant would be killed.” “Did you warn her?” “I had never heard of her except in this dream. I did not know she was here till I was so informed a moment before these screams were heard.” “A curious story,” replied the representative of Law and Order, who clearly regarded Mr. Baxter as a person of limited intelligence and dubious veracity. “Murder by some person or persons unknown,” was the verdict, and unknown he, she or they remained. * * * * * The nine days ran their course, police and reporters departed, and Mr. Baxter went off to London, where he secured a job at a new course in Surrey. He was to have no successor at Duncaster. Resignations poured in, and it was decided at a final meeting of the committee that the links should be abandoned. On arriving in London it occurred to Mr. Baxter to call upon a friend of his, a Mr. Markes. He very much wanted an expert confidant, and Mr. Markes, besides being very wealthy, was by some trick of temperament fascinated by all types of psychic phenomena, and had amassed the finest library on such matters in the world. “Jim,” asked the Secretary, “is there any mention of Duncaster in your records?” “When I read about your troubles there,” replied Mr. Markes, “I thought they sounded rather in the tradition, and so I looked up the history of Duncaster and was unexpectedly fortunate; for it is mentioned in a work, which, for the most part, is deservedly forgotten. _The Memoirs of Simon Tylor_, a peculiarly dull dog. I have them here,” he continued, walking over to a shelf and taking down a bulky volume. “In the year 1839 Simon took a walking tour through Norfolk and arrived at Duncaster on September 10th. He liked the look of it, and decided to spend a couple of days there at the inn, ‘The Sleeping Sentinel.’” “It is there still,” said Mr. Baxter.