A small but select company had gathered in the bar parlor. The two hours
between eight and ten were the most important of the day to the landlord,
Mr. Tomlin. It was then that he imparted and received the tit-bits of
local gossip garnered earlier, the process involving a good deal of play
with shining beer-handles and attractively labeled bottles.
But this was a special occasion. Never before had there been a
Steynholme murder before the symposium. Hitherto, such a grewsome topic
was supplied, for the most part, by faraway London. To-night the
eeriness and dramatic intensity of a notable crime lay at the very doors
of the village.
So Tomlin was more portentous than usual; Hobbs, the butcher, more
assertive, Elkin, the "sporty" breeder of polo ponies, more inclined to
"lay odds" on any conceivable subject, and Siddle, the chemist, a
reserved man at the best, even less disposed to voice a definite opinion.
Elkin was about twenty-five years of age, Siddle looked younger than his
probable thirty-five years, while the others were on the stout and
prosperous line of fifty.
They were discussing the murder, of course, when Ingerman entered, and
ordered a whiskey and soda.
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