"You put your story together very well, Mr. Chafy," said Bothwell somewhat indifferently, as if not deeply interested in the mystery which so enthralled the Bodmin mind. "You ought to have been a detective. But if this poor girl was murdered, and her murderer was in the train, how is it that you who are so sharp could not contrive to spot him when you took stock of the passengers? Mr. Wyllard gave you the office, I remember." "Murderers do not carry the brand of Cain, Mr. Grahame," said Edward Heathcote, who had come out of the inn door in time to hear Bothwell's speech. "The assassins of our civilised era are high-handed gentlemen, very cunning of fence, and have no more mark upon them than you or I." "I believe the girl's death was an accident," said Bothwell, with a touch of impatience--"one of those profound mysteries which are as simple as ABC. She may have been standing by the door, admiring the landscape, and the door may have opened as she leant against it. She might recover herself so far as to stand on the foot-board for a few seconds, clinging to the hand-rail, and then she fell and was killed." "Not a very plausible explanation, my dear Grahame. She was leaning against the door, looking out at the landscape, you suggest, and the door opened and let her out. How was it, then, that when Menheniot and the guard saw her, she was standing on the foot-board with her face to the carriage? Did she swing herself round on the footboard, as on a pivot, do you suppose? Rather a difficult achievement, even for an acrobat." "You need not be so deuced clever," retorted Bothwell, who seemed altogether out of sorts this afternoon. "It is not my business to find out how the young woman came by her death." "No," said the Coroner, "but it is mine; and I mean to do it." "It won't be the first queer case you've got to the bottom of, Mr. Heathcote," said the station-master, in a tone of respect that amounted almost to reverence. "You remember poor old uncle Taylor, who was found dead at the bottom of the Merrytree shaft over to Truro? You put a rope round the neck of the scoundrel that killed him, you did. There's not many men clever enough to keep a secret from you." "Good-night, squire; good-night, Chafy," said Bothwell, moving off. Heathcote followed him. "If you are walking home, I'll go part of the way with you," he said. "What, are you on foot?" asked Bothwell, surprised. "What has become of Timour?" "Timour is in a barn, with his shoes off, getting ready for the cub-hunting." "And the rest of your stud?" "O, I have plenty of horses to ride, if that is what you mean; but I rather prefer walking, in such weather as this. How is it you did not drive home in your cousin's dog-cart?" "I hate sitting beside another man to be driven," said Bothwell shortly. "There are times, too, when a fellow likes to be alone."