Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, but
they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anent
his carryin's on in Knoleworth the previous night.

Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitués had
the place to themselves.

Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purpose
exactly, so he gave the conversation the right twist.

"I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this
sensational murder?" he said.

Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at
his neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the stranger,
and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely:

"The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Three
days gone, and nothing done!"

"What murder are you discussing, may I ask?" put in Franklin.

Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly
mobile face.

"Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven't heard of the Steynholme
murder?" he gasped.

"I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I landed