That is all. Grant is
telling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to break
bread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I'll change my mind, and
take a snack of your bread and cheese."
The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied
tribute. What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his
somewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective's
little finger.
"Right you are, sir," he cried cheerily. "But, if Mr. Grant didn't kill
Miss Melhuish, who did!"
"In all probability, the man who wore that hat," chirped Furneaux, taking
a nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the table.
Robinson started. This June night was full of weird surprises. He
set down a jug of beer with a bang--his intent being to fill two
glasses already in position, from which circumstance even the least
observant visitor might deduce a Mrs. Robinson, _en neglige_,
hastily flown upstairs.
He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb.
"By gum!" he muttered. "Are these bullet-holes?"
"They are."
"An' is this what someone fired at?"
"Yes."
"But how in thunder--"
He checked himself in time.
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