ON BOTH SIDES OF THE RIVER


The sun, transmuted into Greenwich time, exercised an extraordinary
influence on the seemingly humdrum life of Steynholme that day. A few
minutes after three o'clock--just too late to observe either Winter or
Siddle--P.C. Robinson strolled forth from his cottage. He glanced up the
almost deserted high-street, in which every rounded cobble and white
flagstone radiated heat. A high-class automobile had dashed past twice in
forty minutes, but the pace was on the borderland of doubt, so the
guardian of the public weal had contented himself with recording its
number on the return journey.

But his thoughts were far a-field from joyriders, stray cattle, hawkers
without licenses, and other similar small fry which come into the
constabulary net. It would be a feather in his cap if he could only
strike the trail of the veritable Steynholme murderer. The entrancing
notion possessed him morning, noon, and night. Mrs. Robinson declared
that it even dominated his dreams. Robinson was sharp. He knew quite well
that the brains of the London detectives held some elusive quality which
he personally lacked. They seemed to peer into the heart of a thing so
wisely and thoroughly. He did not share Superintendent Fowler's somewhat
derogatory estimate of Furneaux, with whom he was much better acquainted
than was his superior officer, while Chief Inspector Winter's repute
stood so high that it might not be questioned. Still, to the best of his
belief, the case had beaten both these doughty representatives of
Scotland Yard; there was yet a chance for the humble police-constable; so
Robinson squared his shoulders, seamed his brows, and marched
majestically down the Knoleworth road.