cold-blooded to run away and encounter unforeseen dangers. No; he waited
among the trees to ascertain what would happen when his victim was
discovered, and frame his plans accordingly. It was then that he saw Helen
Layton and David Hume. As soon as the news of the murder spread abroad the
dance broke up. Amidst the wondering crowd, slowly dispersing in their
carriages, he could easily slip away unseen, for the police, of course,
were sure that David Hume killed his cousin. Don't you see, Winter?"

The inspector did not see.

"You are making up a fine tale, Mr. Brett," he said doggedly, "but I'm
blessed if I can follow your reasoning."

"No, of course not. Eighteen months of settled conviction are not to be
dispelled in an instant. But accept my theory. This man, the guilty man,
must have resided in Stowmarket for some hours, if not days. Many people
saw him. He could not live in Sleagill, where even the village dogs would
suspect him. But the addle-headed police, ready to handcuff David Hume,
never thought of inquiring about strangers who came and went at Stowmarket
in those days. Stowmarket is a metropolis, a wilderness of changeful
beings, to a country policeman. It has a market-day, an occasional drunken
man--life is a whirl in Stowmarket. Fortunately, people have memories. At
that time you did not wear a beard, Hume."

"No," was the reply, "though I never told you that."

"Of course you told me, many times. Did not your acquaintances fail to
recognise you? Had not Mrs. Capella to look twice at you before she knew
you? Now, Winter, start out. Ascertain, in each hotel in the town, if they
had any strange guests about the period of the murder. There is a remote