"Bed! Me! Not likely. I'm going to kick up a row. What are the police
doing? A set of blooming old women, that's what they are. But I'll stir
'em up, if I have to write to the Home Secretary."

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Franklin, smiling genially, "I cannot help taking a
certain interest in this affair. May I, then, as a complete stranger to
all concerned, tell you how this minor episode strikes me. Mr. Grant, I
understand, denies having seen or spoken to Miss Melhuish during the past
three years. None of the others now in his house had met her at all.
Really, if a man may not give a dinnerparty in these conditions,
dining-out would become a lost art."

Elkin was obviously seeking for some retort which, though forcible, would
not offend a possible patron. But Siddle answered far more deftly than
might be looked for from the horse-dealer.

"Your contention, sir, is just what the man of the world would hold," he
said, "but, in this village, where we live on neighborly terms, such an
incident would be impossible in almost any other house than The Hollies."

Mr. Franklin nodded. He was convinced. Tomlin, Hobbs, and a local draper
bore out the chemist's reasonable theory. Next morning Steynholme was
again united in condemning Grant, while the postmaster and his daughter
were not wholly exempted from criticism.

The dinner itself was an altogether harmless and cheery meal. By common
consent not one word was said about the murder. Hart was amusing on the
question of bees--almost flippant, Mr. Martin deemed him. Peters had a
wide store of strange experiences to draw on, while Grant, if rather
silent in deference to two such brilliant talkers, found much