being no one about, he made some notes of the chat with Elkin. The man's
candor and his misstatements were equally puzzling. None knew better than
the policeman that the vital discrepancy of fully an hour and a half on
the Monday night would be difficult to clear up. Tomlin, of course, would
have no recollection of events after ten o'clock, but the commercial
traveler, who could be traced, might be induced to tell the truth if
assured that the police needed the information solely for purposes in
connection with their inquiry into the murder. That man must be found.
His testimony should have an immense significance.

That evening, shortly before seven o'clock, a stalwart,
prosperous-looking gentleman in tweeds "descended" from the London
express at Knoleworth. The local train for Steynholme stood in a bay on
the opposite platform, and this passenger in particular was making for it
when he nearly collided with another man, younger, thinner, bespectacled,
who hailed him with delight.

"You, too? Good egg!" was the cry.

The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality.

"Where the deuce are you off to?" he demanded.

"To Steynholme--same as you, of course."

"Look here, Peters, a word in your ear. If you know me during the next
few days, you'll never know me again. I suppose you'll be staying at the
local inn--there's only one of any repute in the place?"

"That's so. I've got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate when