The Postmaster's Daughter Part 25

"By all means."

"Employ a sound lawyer, one who will avoid needless mud-slinging. Good day! Send those letters to the Yard by to-night's post if practicable."

"It shall be done."

When the door closed on Furneaux, Ingerman smiled.

"I've given that little Frenchman furiously to think," he murmured.

But the "little Frenchman" was smiling, too. He had elaborated the scheme already discussed with Winter. It was much to his liking, though unorthodox, rather crack-brained, more than risky, and altogether opposed to the instructions of the Police Manual. Each of these drawbacks was a commendation to Furneaux. In fact, the Steynholme mystery had taken quite a favorable turn during that talk with Ingerman.

CHAPTER XI

P. C. ROBINSON TAKES ANOTHER LINE

About the time Furneaux was whisked past The Hollies in Superintendent Fowler's dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing luncheon, and planning a long walk to the sea. Grant would dearly have liked to secure Doris's company, but good taste forbade that he should even invite her to share the ramble. Thus, the death of a woman with whom he had not exchanged a word during three years had already set up a barrier between Doris and himself. Though impalpable, it was effective. It could neither be climbed nor avoided. Quiet little Steynholme had suddenly become a rigid censor of morals and etiquette. Until this evil thing was annihilated by slow process of law, Doris and he might meet only by chance and never remain long together.

When the two were ready to start, Hart elected to dispense with his South American sombrero.

"I am sensitive to ridicule," he professed. "The village urchins will christen me 'Owd Ben,' and the old gentleman's character was such that I would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I'll join the no hat brigade."

"I wonder if we'll meet Furneaux," said Grant, selecting a walking-stick. "It's odd that we should have seen nothing of him this morning."

"It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions he took not to be observed coming here last night."

"Well, that's so. I forgot to ask the reason. There was one, I suppose."

"Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He's wasted on Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an amba.s.sador."

"Quaint alternatives, those."

"Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in coining cute phrases. I've met scores of both tribes, and they're like as peas in a pod."

A bell rang.

"That's the front door," said Grant. "It's Furneaux himself, I hope."

But the visitor was P.C. Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted.

"Glad I've caught you before you went out, sir," he said. "Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you he had to hurry back to London. I was also to mention that he had got the whiskers."

"What whiskers? Whose whiskers?"

"That's all he said, sir--he'd got the whiskers."

"Why, Owd Ben's whiskers, of course. How dense you are, Jack!" put in Hart.

Now, this was the first Robinson had heard of whiskers in connection with the crime. He remembered Elkin's make-up as Svengali, of course, and could have kicked himself for not a.s.sociating earlier a set of sable whiskers with the black wig and the bullet-torn hat.

But, Owd Ben! What figure did that redoubtable ghost cut in the mystery?

"There are certain _lacunae_ in your otherwise vigorous and thrilling story, constable," went on Hart.

"Very likely, sir," agreed Robinson, much to the surprise of his hearers. He had not the slightest notion what a _lacuna_, or its plural, signified. He was only adopting Furneaux's advice, and trying to be civil.

"Ah, you see that, do you?" said Hart. "Well, fill 'em in. When, where, and how did the midget sleuth obtain the specter's hairy adornments?"

The policeman, whose wits were thoroughly on the alert, realized that he had scored a point, though he knew not how.

"He did not tell me, sir," he answered. "It's a rum business, that's what it is, no matter what way you look at it."

Grant, agreeably aware of the village constable's change of front, accepted the olive branch readily.

"We're just going for a walk," he said. "If you have ten minutes to spare, Mrs. Bates will find you some luncheon, I have no doubt."

"Well, sir, meals are a trifle irregular during a busy time like this,"

admitted Robinson, feeling that his luck was in, because tongues would surely be loosened in the kitchen to an official guest introduced by the master of the establishment. He was right. No member of the Bates family dreamed of reticence, now that the household was restored to favor with "the force." Before Robinson departed, he was full of information and good food.

What more natural, then, an hour later, than that he should contrive to meet Elkin as the horse-dealer was taking home a lively two-year-old pony he had been "lungeing" on a strip of common opposite his house?

Each was eager to question the other, but Elkin opened fire.

"Anything fresh?" he cried. "You have a fair course now, Robinson. That little London 'tec has bunked home."

"Has he?" In the language of the ring, Robinson thought fit to spar for an opening.

"Oh, none of your kiddin'," said Elkin, stroking the nervous colt's neck.

"You know he has. You don't miss much that's going on. Bet you half a thick 'un you'd have put someone in clink before this if the murder at The Hollies had been left in your hands."

"That's as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped you for fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin' badly?"

"Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night."

"You shouldn't be out so late. Why, on'y a week ago you were in bed regular at 10.15."

"That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed at Knoleworth."

"What time did you reach home?"

"Dashed if I know. After twelve before I was in bed. By the way, what's this about things missing from a box owned by the Amateur Dramatic Society? That silly josser of a detective--What's his name?"

"Furneaux," said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear too secretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the very topic he wanted to discuss.

"Ay, Furneaux. I remember now. He worried old Tomlin last night about that box, which is kept in the loft over the club-room. So Tomlin and I, and Hobbs, just to satisfy ourselves, went up there as soon as Furneaux left to-day. And, what do you think? The box was unlocked, though I locked it myself, and have the key; and a hat and wig and whiskers I wore when we played a skit on 'Trilby' were missing. If that isn't a clew, what is?"