"I can sympathize with you," said the journalist. "A brutal murder seems
horribly out of place in this environment. It is a mysterious business
altogether. I wonder if Scotland Yard will take it up."

Grant surprised him by clapping him on the back.

"By Jove, my friend, the very thing! Of course, such an investigation
requires bigger brains than our local police are endowed with. Scotland
Yard _must_ take it up. I'll wire there at once. If necessary, I'll pay
all expenses."

The newspaper man had his doubts. The "Yard," he said, acted in the
provinces only if appealed to by the authorities directly concerned. But
Grant was not to be stayed by a trifle like that. He hurried to the post
office, hoping that Doris Martin might walk back with him.

The girl and her father were busy behind the counter when he entered. He
noticed that Doris was rather pale. She was about to attend to him, but
Mr. Martin intervened. It struck Grant that the postmaster was purposely
preventing his daughter from speaking to him.

For some inexplicable reason, he felt miserably tongue-tied, and was
content to write a message to the Chief Commissioner of Police, London,
asking that a skilled detective should be sent forthwith to Steynholme.

Mr. Martin read it gravely, stated the cost, and procured the requisite
stamps. In the event, Grant quitted the place without exchanging a word
with Doris, while her father, usually a chatty man, said not a syllable
beyond what was barely needed.