The evidence of Detective Inspector Parkinson wound up the proceedings. Like that of the last witness it was technical, but it was easy enough to understand. He described in careful detail the position of the body, illustrating what he said from photographs. He had found it at a spot in the heather some three yards distant from the road itself, but less than a yard from the nearest point to which a motor car could drive. In fact, tracks showed clearly that a number of vehicles had pulled off the road at this place, one of the few level strips of roadside on the Tussock. It was a favourite spot for picnickers. Indeed, he had found beneath the body the remains of a picnic meal, wrapped in a portion of a Sunday newspaper-last Sunday’s newspaper, he added significantly. There were clear indications that the deceased had been placed in the position where he was found after death, or, at all events, after the injuries had been inflicted. Further enquiries were proceeding on the assumption that this had been done by the driver of the motor vehicle concerned. Traffic over the Tussock was particularly heavy at holiday periods, and there were a great many more investigations to be made. He respectfully asked the coroner for an adjournment sine die.

And on this inconclusive note the proceedings proper ended. To the great delight of the assembled company, however, they were succeeded by what might be fairly called proceedings improper.

A stalwart young man with a round red face arose from the middle of the hall, and said, “Mr. Coroner! Is that there all the evidence we’re going to have?”

The coroner pecked at him sharply.

“That is all the evidence that will be called to-day. You heard what the police officer said; there are further enquiries to be made.”

“Will he be enquiring where Jack was Saturday and Sunday?”

“If you have any information, Mr.-”

“Gorman, the name is. Richard Gorman, Beechanger Farm. They call me Dick.”

“If you have any information, have a talk to the Inspector, and tell him anything you know about this matter. Now, members of the jury-”

“It’s not for me to tell him anything. I don’t know anything. But I know a fiddle when I see one, and that’s what there’s been yere-a fair fiddle!”

He stalked from the room. In the momentary confusion that followed, Mallett noticed Tom Gorman, who had been sitting just behind Louisa, get up and follow him. He waited, himself, until the proceedings had been formally adjourned and then went out with the rest into the soft, damp Exmoor afternoon.

Pushing his way through the crowd, Mallett avoided various acquaintances who showed signs of wishing to speak to him. He wanted rather badly to be alone, to think over what he had seen and heard. But he was to be disappointed. As he turned into the Inn yard where he had left his car, he almost walked into Tom and Dick Gorman, deep in conversation. At the sight of him, Dick turned, and edging him into the wall, fairly forced him to a standstill.

“Ah!” said Dick. “Just the man we want, isn’t he, Tom?”

Tom said nothing, but he stood with his arms akimbo in a position to cut off Mallett’s retreat. He was a large man-not so large as Mallett by a good way, but at least thirty years younger. Dick was smaller, but compact and muscular. Mallett did not want a rough house, in any event. He said mildly,

“What can I do for you?”

“There’s a man who said he saw Jack on the Tussock on Saturday-I hear he’s staying with you,” said Dick truculently. “What’s his name, Tom?”

“Betty something,” said Tom. “Funny name for a man, but that’s what it sounded like.”

“I have some visitors,” said Mallett cautiously. “A Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew.”

“What I want to know is,” Dick persisted, “did he see Jack or not?”

“It’s no use asking me that,” said Mallett firmly. “In any case,” he turned to Tom, “you should know the answer as well as I do. You were with him on Saturday,

I understand. If your brother-”

“Not my brother,” said Tom. “Second cousin, isn’t it, Dick?”

“That’s right. And brother-in-law. I married his sister and he married mine.”

Mallett sighed. He had long since ceased trying to chart the ramifications of the Gorman clan.

“If he really believes it, why doesn’t he talk to the Inspector, as the coroner said?”

“It’s Tom ought to talk to the Inspector, not me,” Dick broke in. “He was there.”

“I didn’t see anything,” said Tom. “There wasn’t anything to see. Mr. Olding will tell you that.”

“But you don’t believe Jack was killed on Monday night, do you?” Dick’s voice had an urgency of appeal in it that astonished Mallett.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Even supposing it did turn out that Jack Gorman died on Saturday instead of Monday, what earthly difference is that going to make to either of you?”

There was no answer to his question, but the silence that succeeded it seemed charged with meaning. Tom looked at Dick and Dick at Tom and the expression on their faces told Mallett that he had stumbled on the meaning of the whole strange little episode.

“It might make a difference and it mightn’t.” Tom’s voice was quiet and reflective. “From what Mr. Bulford says, it seems that it might. That’s just the point.”

“And who may Mr. Bulford be?”

“He’s the lawyer up to Wiveliscombe. Would you like to go to Wiveliscombe to-morrow and have a word with him? I could run you up in my car-it won’t cost you a penny.”

“Why on earth should I want to talk to your lawyer -or he to me?”

“Now look here, Mr. Mallett,” said Dick persuasively. “You heard what I told that fool of a coroner just now. There’s been a fiddle over this business-or looks like there has. And if so, there’s enquiries to be made-that’s what Mr. Bulford says. You can forget about your Betty friend-he don’t count. There’s someone else behind all this and we want to know who. And we reckon you’re the chap to find out. It’s your sort of work, isn’t it? There’s fifty pounds in it for you, all for asking a few questions. Now, what do you say?”

Mallett was tugging at his moustache ends until it felt that the hair must come out at the roots-a sign, in him, of intense emotion. Had he but known it, his sensations at that moment were very much the same as those experienced by Pettigrew a few days before, at the sound of the hunting horn. Only in his case the memories evoked were far more recent, and for that reason more compelling. He could think of a dozen reasons why he should turn a deaf ear to the offer, but…

“I don’t mind going to Wiveliscombe with you tomorrow,” he said. “Mind you, I make no promises- none whatever. Is that understood?”

“That’s understood, all right, Mr. Mallett.”

“One other thing, before we go any further. If I should undertake this enquiry, and if anything should come of it, it will be no use asking me to stop halfway. I shall find out all I can. And if what I find out seems likely to disclose a criminal offence, then I go straight to the police, no matter who the criminal may turn out to be, and it will be too late to ask me to hush it up. Is that also understood?”

For the life of him, Mallett could not have said why he spoke with so much vehemence, especially as he had not even decided to accept the commission which had been offered him in such vague terms. But there was a streak of melodrama in him, and to his own ears, at least, it sounded most impressive. One at least of his hearers was impressed. Dick’s face was solemn as he answered, “Yes, sir, I accept that.”

Tom was not quite so ready with his reply, and there was a gleam of what could have been amusement in his heavy face as he said, “Surely, Mr. Mallett, surely. We’ll call for you to-morrow about ten, then?”