"Just a minute. I want to think."

Winter turned and gazed through the open window. Seldom had a more
gracious June decked England with garlands. The hour was then high noon,
and a pastoral landscape was drowned in sunshine. The Chief Inspector cut
the end off a cigar dreamily but with care.

"Broadmoor--perhaps," he muttered. "But we can't hang him yet, Charles. A
couple of knots and a theory won't do for the Assizes. We haven't a
solitary witness. Hardly a night but he goes home at 9.30. If only he had
killed Grant! But--Adelaide Melhuish!"

In sheer despair he struck a match.

"Well, let's overhaul these duds," said Furneaux savagely. "I'll chance
the dinner hour for the return visit. Steynholme folk eat at half past
twelve to the tick, and you can hardly get up another horse show."

There was a knock at the door.

"Let me in, quick!" came Peters's voice, and the handle was tried
forcibly.

"Go away! I'm busy!" cried Winter.

"This is urgent, devilish urgent," said Peters.

Furneaux snatched up the note-book, and Winter tore off his coat,
throwing it over the package which reposed in an armchair. Then the Chief
Inspector unlocked the door, blocking the way aggressively.