He did not want to admit that he had been
watching the only recognized road to Grant's house all the evening.
"Quite so!" chortled Furneaux, with admirable misunderstanding. "You're
quick on the trigger, Robinson--almost as quick as that friend of Grant's
who arrived by the 5.30 from London. You perceive at once that no
ordinary head could have worn that hat without having its hair combed by
the same bullet. It was stuck on to a thick wig. Now, tell me the man, or
woman, in Steynholme, who wears a wig and a hat like that, and you and I
will guess who killed Miss Melhuish."
Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg was
being pulled rather violently. Furneaux read his face like a printed
page. Chewing, much against his will, a mouthful of bread and cheese, he
mumbled in solemn, broken tones:
"Think--Robinson. Don't--answer--offhand. Has--anybody--ever worn--such
things--in a play?"
Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were.
"By gum!" he cried again. "Fred Elkin--in a charity performance
last winter."
Furneaux choked with excitement.
"A horsey-looking chap, on to-day's jury," he gurgled.
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