C. Robinson's abode.
The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window.
Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"As if you didn't know," laughed Furneaux.
Robinson turned a key, and looked out.
"Oh, it's you, sir?" he cried.
"You'll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme," said the
detective. "May I come in? No, don't show a light here. Let's chat in the
back kitchen."
"I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir," began Robinson
apologetically. "It's laid in the kitchen. On'y bread and cheese an' a
glass of beer. Will you join me?"
"With pleasure, if I hadn't stuffed myself at Grant's place. Nice fellow,
Grant. Pity you and he don't seem to get on together. Of course, we
policemen cannot allow friendship to interfere with duty, but, between
you and me, Robinson--strictly in confidence--Grant had no more to do
with the actual murder of Miss Melhuish than either of us two."
Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in his
own easy-chair.
"The 'actual murder,' you said, sir?" he repeated.
"Yes. It was his presence at The Hollies which brought an infatuated
woman there, and thus directly led to her death.
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