Mr. Tomlin. It was then that he imparted and received the tit-bits of
local gossip garnered earlier, the process involving a good deal of play
with shining beer-handles and attractively labeled bottles.

But this was a special occasion. Never before had there been a
Steynholme murder before the symposium. Hitherto, such a grewsome topic
was supplied, for the most part, by faraway London. To-night the
eeriness and dramatic intensity of a notable crime lay at the very doors
of the village.

So Tomlin was more portentous than usual; Hobbs, the butcher, more
assertive, Elkin, the "sporty" breeder of polo ponies, more inclined to
"lay odds" on any conceivable subject, and Siddle, the chemist, a
reserved man at the best, even less disposed to voice a definite opinion.

Elkin was about twenty-five years of age, Siddle looked younger than his
probable thirty-five years, while the others were on the stout and
prosperous line of fifty.

They were discussing the murder, of course, when Ingerman entered, and
ordered a whiskey and soda. Instantly there was dead silence. Looks and
furtive winks were exchanged. There had been talk of a detective being
employed. Perhaps this was he. Mr. Tomlin knew the stranger's name, as he
had taken a room, but that was the extent of the available information.

"A fine evenin', sir," said Tomlin, drawing a cork noisily. "Looks as
though we were in for a spell o' settled weather."

"Yes," agreed Ingerman, summing up the conclave at a glance. "Somehow,
such a lovely night ill accords with the cause of my visit to