"One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from a
good-natured ass!" he communed. "Here am I, Furneaux, plagued beyond
endurance by a first-class murder case, and I must go and busy myself
with the love affair of a postmaster's daughter and a feather-headed
novelist!"
When Tomlin admitted him to the Hare and Hounds, he buttonholed the
landlord, who, at that hour, was usually somewhat obfuscated.
"Sir," said the detective gravely, "I am told that you Steynholme folk
indulge occasionally in such frivolities as amateur theatricals?"
"Once in a way, sir. Once in a way. Afore I lock up the bar, will you--"
"Not to-night. I've mixed port and beer already, and I'm only a little
fellow. Now you, Mr. Tomlin, can mix anything, I fancy?"
"I've tried a few combinations in me time, sir."
"But, about these theatrical performances--is there any scenery,
costumes, 'props' as actors call them?"
"Yes, sir. They're stored in the loft over the club-room--the room where
the inquest wur held."
"What, _here_?"
Furneaux's shrill cry scared Mr. Tomlin.
"Y-yes, sir," he stuttered.
"Is that my candle?" said the detective tragically.
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