The Postmaster's Daughter Part 43

"Why 'after Wednesday'?"

"Because I shall know then the full extent of the annoyance which Ingerman can inflict."

"Did you give Siddle that reason?"

"Yes."

Winter frowned.

"You literary gentlemen are all alike," he said vexedly. "You become such adepts in a.n.a.lyzing human duplicity in your books that you never dream of trying to be wise as a serpent in your own affairs. The author who will split legal hairs by way of brightening his work will sign a contract with a publisher that draws tears from his lawyer when a dispute arises. Why be so candid with a rank outsider, like Siddle?"

"I distrust the man. Doris distrusts him, too."

"So you take him into your confidence."

"No. I merely give him chapter and verse to prove that his interference is useless."

"Have you engaged a lawyer for Wednesday"

"No. Why should I? My hands are clean."

"But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to this man in the morning, and mention my name--Winter, of course, not Franklin."

"Codlin's your friend, not Short," said Hart. "Sorry. It's a time-worn j.a.pe, but it fitted in admirably."

The detective scribbled a name and address on a card.

"I don't think you need worry about Ingerman," he went on, "though it's well to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop irrelevant statements, especially if ready for them. But there must be no more of this heart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He, too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the only stumbling-block."

"Siddle! That stick!" gasped Grant.

"Ridiculous, indeed monstrous," agreed Winter, rather heatedly, "but nevertheless a candidate for the lady's hand."

Then he laughed. Peters's keen eyes were watching him, and Wally Hart was giving more heed to the conversation than was revealed by a fixed stare at the negro's head in meerschaum.

"You've bothered me," he went on. "I thought you had more sense. Don't you understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through the filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?"

"The man's visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I just blurted out the facts."

"Well, you've rendered the services of a solicitor absolutely indispensable now."

Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followed the scent of Winter's red herring like the youngest hound in a pack; but Wally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to the right line.

"May I--" they both broke in simultaneously.

"Place to the fourth estate," bowed Hart solemnly.

"Thanks," said the journalist. "May I put a question, Winter?"

"A score, if you like."

"Totting up the average of the murder cases in which Furneaux and you have been engaged, in how many days do you count on spotting your man?"

"Sometimes we never get him."

"Oh, come a bit closer than that."

"Generally, given a clear run, with an established motive, we know who he is within eight days."

"Wednesday, in effect?"

"Can't say, this time?"

"Suppose, as a hypothesis, you are convinced of a man's guilt, but can obtain little or no evidence?"

"He goes through life a free and independent citizen of this or any other country. Arrests on suspicion are not my long suit."

"How does one get evidence?" purred Hart. "It isn't scattered broadcast by a clever criminal. And you fellows seem to object to my method, which has been the only effectual one so far in this affair."

"If you had shot that specter the other night there would have been the deuce to pay."

"But you would now be sure of the murderer?"

"Why do you a.s.sume that?"

"Like Eugene Aram, he can't keep away from the scene of his crime."

Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape.

"Detective work is nearly all guessing," he said sententiously, "yet one must beware of what I may term obvious guessing. If cause and effect were so closely allied in certain cla.s.ses of crime my department would cease to exist, and the protection of life and property might be left safely to the ordinary police. By the way, P. C. Robinson has been rather inactive during two whole days. That makes me suspicious. What's he up to? Can you throw a light on him, Peters?"

The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease prying.

He kicked Hart under the table.

"Hi!" yelled Wally. "What's the matter? Strike your matches on your own s.h.i.+n, not mine."

"Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed," said Winter firmly.

"Very well. He needn't emphasize the warning by a hob-nailed boot. When my injured feelings have recovered I'll discourse to you of strange folk and stranger doings on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, and your stock as an Argentine plutocrat will rise one hundred per cent, next time you're badgered by a man who knows the country."

"Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail," laughed Peters.

"His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of the picture-buying."

"Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known," said Winter. "He gave every publicity to it."

"Did he secure a bargain, I wonder?" said Grant.

"Oh, I expect so. He doesn't waste his hard-earned money, even for official purposes."