way. "Not that it begins to look as if there was anything here deep
enough to ask for your cleverness."

Inspector Halfyard stood six feet high and had curiously broad,
square shoulders; but his imposing torso was ill supported. His legs
were very thin and long, and they turned out a trifle. With his
prominent nose, small head, and bright little slate-grey eyes, he
looked rather like a stork. He was rheumatic, too, and walked
stiffly.

"This here hole is no place for my legs," he confessed. "But from
the facts, so far as we've got 'em, Foggintor quarry don't come into
the story, though it looks as if it ought to. But the murder was
done here--inside this bungalow--and the chap that's done it hadn't
any use for such a likely sort of hiding-place."

"Have you searched the quarries'?"

"Not yet. 'Tis no good turning fifty men into this jakes of a hole
till we know whether it will be needful; but all points to somewhere
else. A terrible strange job--so strange, in fact, that we shall
probably find a criminal lunatic at the bottom of it. Everything
looks pretty clear, but it don't look sane."

"You haven't found the body?"

"No; but you can often prove murder mighty well without it--as now.
Come out to the bungalow and I'll tell you what there is to tell.
There's been a murder all right, but we're more likely to find the
murderer than his victim."