"Did anyone cross the bridge after that shot was fired?"
"Nun--No, sir," stuttered the other.
"You saw no one running along the road?"
"Saw nothing, sir."
"Very well. Glad to find you're on the job. Don't let on you met me here.
Good-night!"
Mighty is Scotland Yard with the provincial police. Robinson was back on
his self-imposed beat before he well realized that he knew neither why
nor by whom nor by what sort of weapon the commotion had been created.
But he was quite sure the noise came from the garden front of Mr.
Grant's house.
"That little hop-o'-me-thumb thinks he's smart, dam smart," he communed
angrily, "but I've taken a line of me own, an' I'll stick to it, though
the Yard sends down twenty men!"
He heard footsteps coming down a paved footpath which ran like a white
riband through the cobble-beaded width of the high-street, and withdrew
swiftly to the shelter of a disused tannery adjoining the village end of
the bridge. A cloaked female figure sped past. Though the night was
rather dark for June, he had no difficulty in recognizing Doris Martin's
graceful movements. No other girl in Steynholme walked like her. She was
slim enough to dispense with tight corsets, and tall enough to wear
low-heeled shoes, nor did she need to pinch her toes in order to gain the
semblance of small feet.
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