There are policemen who in their own eyes are wholly estimable. In Grimleigh dwelt such a one. He was a lean, solemn, taciturn being, with red hair and moustache, a freckled face, and the coldest of blue eyes, shrewdly observant in proportion to their coldness. The man really possessed capabilities, though for want of opportunity they had grown rusty. But that was not his fault. To arrest drunken sailors and seek out rural malefactors of a half-hearted type, and to see to it that public-houses were not open after prescribed hours--of such order were the duties of Jeremiah Slade. And the paltriness of them filled his ambitious soul with disgust. For this village constable was an omnivorous reader of the detective novel, and ardently admired the preternatural acuteness and dexterity brought into play by the fictitious miracle-mongers, who therein are depicted as ever able to solve the most impenetrable of mysteries. He longed for a chance to distinguish himself after the same fashion, and he chafed that opportunity was so long withheld. But now his hour had come, as we are told it comes to all men who know how to wait; and the discovery of Tera's body in the cornfield seemed to promise a criminal thesis intricate enough even for his most ambitious desires. Now, Jeremiah was a married man--married within the last twelve months to a diminutive, albeit not over-shrewd, black-haired tyrant, whose greatest of all desires was to live at Poldew. If only Slade could be transferred to that centre of gaiety--so different from Grimleigh--the little woman would be perfectly happy. At least she thought so. Now, if only Jeremiah could distinguish himself in the performance of his duties sufficiently to attract the intelligent and ever-watchful eye of Inspector Chard, it was not beyond the bounds of probability that the much-desired transference might come to pass. Therefore was Mistress Slade ever goading her good man to accomplish the impossible. She was as anxious as--nay, more so than he, that some tragedy of ample dimensions should take place. She, too, saw nothing but promotion and glory in the mysterious murder of Tera, and, the morning after the body had been transferred to the dead-house, she chose to attack Jeremiah on the subject, while she prepared his breakfast. Slade sat over the kitchen fire reading "The Moonstone." He hoped therefrom to extract inspiration for the task which he was about to undertake. It is truly an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and the Slades looked on the tragic fate of Tera as the foundation of their humble fortunes. "Jerry," said Mrs. Slade, pouring out the tea, "you have your chance now. If you can find out who killed that girl, we'll be sent to Poldew, sure." "I'm goin' to find out, Jemima," growled the policeman. "I'm readin' up for the business now." "Bah! your novels ain't no good, Jerry. This is real life, this is."