subsequently. But don't let Mr. Grant think you suspect him. There is no
occasion for that--yet."

Mr. Fowler could be either blunt or cryptic in speech at will. In one
mood he was the straightforward, outspoken official; in another the
potential lawyer. P.C. Robinson, though unable to describe his chief's
erratic qualities, was unpleasantly aware of them. He was not quite
sure, for instance, whether the superintendent was encouraging or
warning him, but, being a dogged person, resolved to "take his own
line," and stick to it.

Grant passed a distressful day. Work was not to be thought of, and
reading was frankly impossible. His mind dwelt constantly on the tragedy
which had come so swiftly and completely into his ordered life. He could
not wholly discard the nebulous theory suggested by Superintendent
Fowler, but the more he surveyed it the less reasonable it seemed. The
one outstanding fact in a chaos of doubt was that someone had
deliberately done Adelaide Melhuish to death. The murderer had been
actuated by a motive. What was that motive? Surely, in a place like
Steynholme no man could come and go without being seen, and the murderer
must be a stranger to the district, because it was ridiculous to imagine
that he was one of the residents.

Yet that was exactly what a dunderheaded policeman believed. P.C.
Robinson had revealed himself by many a covert glance and prick-eared
movement. Grant squirmed uneasily at the crass conceit, as there was no
denying that circumstances tended towards a certain doubt, if no more, in
regard to his own association with the crime.

The admission called for a fierce struggle with his pride, but he forced