1916 Also by this author: Number Seventeen, The Wheel of Fortune, The Terms of Surrender, The Wings of the Morning, &c....

John Menzies Grant, having breakfasted, filled his pipe, lit it, and strolled out bare-headed into the garden. The month was June, that glorious rose-month which gladdened England before war-clouds darkened the summer sky. As the hour was nine o’clock, it is highly probable that many thousands of men were then strolling out into many thousands of gardens in precisely similar conditions; but, given youth, good health, leisure, and a fair amount of money, it is even more probable that few among th

“It will help me a lot, sir,” he said, “if you tell me now what you know about this matter. If, as seems more than likely, murder has been done, I don’t want to lose a minute in starting my inquiries. In a case of this sort I find it best to take a line, and stick to it.” His tone was respectful but firm. Evidently, P. C. Robinson was not one to be trifled with. Moreover, for a sleuth whose maximum achievement hitherto had been the successful prosecution of a poultry thief, it was significant th

Thus, it befell that Grant was not worried by officialdom until long after his housekeeper and her daughter had recovered from the shock of learning that they were, in a sense, connected at first hand with a ghastly and sensational crime. Like Bates and their employer, neither Mrs. Bates nor Minnie had heard or seen anything overnight which suggested that a woman was being foully done to death in the grounds attached to the house. As it happened, Minnie’s bedroom, as well as that occupied by her

Grant stared again at the card. A tiny silver bell seemed to tinkle a sort of warning in a recess of his brain. The name was not engraved in copper-plate, but printed in heavy type. Somehow, it looked ominous. His first impression was to bid Minnie send the man away. He distrusted any first impression. It was the excuse of mediocrity, a sign of weakness. Moreover, why shouldn’t he meet Isidor G. Ingerman? “Show him in,” he said, almost gruffly, thus silencing shy intuition, as it were. He threw

Ingerman was a shrewder judge of human nature than the village chemist. As well try to stem the flowing tide as stop tongues from wagging when such a theme offered. Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After this professional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact. “I’m sure you local residents will be interested, at least, in hearing something of my wife’s career,” he said. “There never was a more lovable and gracious woman, and no couple could be more united than

It was a singular greeting, to say the least, and the person who uttered it was quite as remarkable as his queer method of expressing himself seemed to indicate. Grant, though in a fume of hot anger, had the good sense to choke back the first impetuous reprimand trembling on his lips. In fact, wrath quickly subsided into blank incredulity. He saw before him, not the conventional detective who might be described as a superior Robinson—not even the sinewy, sharp-eyed, and well-spoken type of man w

The inquest was surprisingly tame after the stirring events which had led up to it. Indeed, save for two incidents, the proceedings were almost dull. The coroner, a Knoleworth solicitor named Belcher, prided himself on conducting this cause célèbre with as little ostentation as he would have displayed over an ordinary inquiry. Messrs. Siddle, Elkin, Tomlin and Hobbs, with eight other local tradesmen and farmers, formed the jurors, and the chemist was promptly elected foreman; no witnesses were o

“Have a cigarette,” said Grant to Furneaux, when the blinds were drawn, a lamp lighted, and the sherry dispensed. “Thank you.” The self-invited guest took one. He sniffed it, broke the paper wrapping, and crumbled some of the tobacco between finger and thumb. “Ah, those Greeks!” he said sadly. “They simply can’t go straight. This brand of Turk used to be made of a tobacco grown on a slope above Salonica. A strip of sun-baked soil built up a reputation which is now being bartered for filthy lucre

Several minutes had elapsed between the two unexpected visits. During those minutes a somewhat acrimonious discussion broke out in the dining-room. Bates went to reassure his wife, and Hart sauntered back from the kitchen. He was received by Furneaux and Grant more in sorrow than in anger, a pose on their part which he blandly disregarded. He helped himself to the remains of the decanter of port. “The next point of vital interest in the narrative is to establish, by such evidence as is available

Next morning, after a long conference with Superintendent Fowler, from which, to his great chagrin, P. C. Robinson was excluded, Furneaux went to the post office, dispatched an apparently meaningless telegram to a code address, and exchanged a few orthodox remarks with Doris and her father about the continued fine weather. While he was yet at the counter, Ingerman crossed the road and entered the chemist’s shop. “Let me see,” said the detective musingly, “by committing a slight trespass on your

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 climb

Winter had identified Bates at the first glance. The letters in the man’s hand, too, showed his errand, so, while the gardener was climbing the hill, the detective slipped into Robinson’s cottage. He found the policeman awaiting him in the dark, because a voice said: “Beg pardon, sir, but the other gentleman from the ‘Yard’ asked me to take him into the kitchen. A light in the front room might attract attention, he thought.” “Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him,” said Wint

Winter, being a cheerful cynic, had not erred when he appealed to that love of mystery which, especially if it is spiced with a hint of harmless intrigue, is innate in every feminine heart. Indeed, he was so assured of the success of his somewhat dramatic move that as he walked to a rendezvous arranged with Superintendent Fowler on the Knoleworth road he reviewed carefully certain arguments meant to secure Doris’s assistance. Passing The Hollies , he smiled at the notion that Furneaux would undo

The sun, transmuted into Greenwich time, exercised an extraordinary influence on the seemingly humdrum life of Steynholme that day. A few minutes after three o’clock—just too late to observe either Winter or Siddle—P. C. Robinson strolled forth from his cottage. He glanced up the almost deserted high-street, in which every rounded cobble and white flagstone radiated heat. A high-class automobile had dashed past twice in forty minutes, but the pace was on the borderland of doubt, so the guardian

Shortly before noon on Monday occurred two events destined to assume a paramount importance in the affair which was wringing the withers of Steynholme. As in the histories of both men and nations, these first steps in great developments began quietly enough. For one thing, Furneaux returned to the village. For another, the London telegraphist, who expected the day to prove practically a blank, was reading a newspaper when the telegraph instrument clicked the local call. Doris was checking and di

The lawn front of The Hollies was not visible from the upper story of the Hare and Hounds owing to a clump of pines which had found foothold on the cliff, but, through the gap formed by the end of the post office garden, the entrance to the house from the Knoleworth road was discernible. Furneaux’s dramatic announcement brought the other two to the window. By this time Peters, gifted with a nose for news like a well-trained setter’s for partridges, had begun to associate the quiet-mannered, gent

No word bearing on the main topic in these men’s minds was said during dinner. Grant was attentive to his guests, but markedly silent, almost distrait. Two such talkers as Hart and Peters, however, covered any gaps in this respect. Cigars and pipes were in evidence, and, horrible though it may sound in the ears of a gourmet , the port was circulating, when Winter turned and gazed at the small window. “Is that where the ghost appears!” he inquired. “Yes,” said Grant. “You know the whole story, of

Not often did Furneaux qualify an opinion by that dubious phrase, “I think,” which, in its colloquial sense, implies that the thought contains a reservation as to possible error. Winter looked anxious. Both he and his colleague knew well when to drop the good-natured banter they delighted in. They were face to face now with issues of life and death, dark and sinister conditions which had already destroyed one life, threatened another, and might envisage further horrors. Small wonder, then, if th