What was that motive? Surely, in a place like
Steynholme no man could come and go without being seen, and the murderer
must be a stranger to the district, because it was ridiculous to imagine
that he was one of the residents.
Yet that was exactly what a dunderheaded policeman believed. P.C.
Robinson had revealed himself by many a covert glance and prick-eared
movement. Grant squirmed uneasily at the crass conceit, as there was no
denying that circumstances tended towards a certain doubt, if no more, in
regard to his own association with the crime.
The admission called for a fierce struggle with his pride, but he forced
himself to think the problem out in all its bearings, and the folly of
adopting the legendary policy of the chased ostrich became manifest.
What, then, should he do? He thought, at first, of invoking the aid of a
barrister friend, who could watch the inquest in his behalf.
Nevertheless, he shrank from that step, which, to his super-sensitive
nature, implied the need of legal protection, and he fiercely resented
the mere notion of such a thing. But something must be done. Once the
murderer was laid by the heels his own troubles would vanish, and the
storm raised by the unhappy fate of Adelaide Melhuish would subside into
a sad memory.
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