made up his mind that the course suggested by truth and honor was the
only one to follow, and that, in itself, was something gained.

By the time Bates returned, accompanied by the village policeman, and two
other men carrying a stretcher, Grant was calmer, more self-contained,
than he had been since that hapless body was dragged from the depths. He
was not irresponsive, therefore, to the aura of official importance which
enveloped the policeman; he sensed a certain uneasiness in Bates; he even
noted that the stretcher was part of the stock in trade of Hobbs, the
local butcher, and ordinarily bore the carcase of a well-fed pig.

These details were helpful. Naturally, Bates had explained his errand,
and the law, in the person of the policeman, was prepared for all
eventualities.

"This is a bad business, Mr. Grant," began the policeman, producing a
note-book, and moistening the tip of a lead pencil with his tongue. Being
a Sussex man, he used the same phrase as Bates. In fact, Grant was
greeted by it a score of times that day.

"Yes," agreed Grant. "I had better tell you that I have recognized the
poor lady. Her name is Adelaide Melhuish. Her residence is in the
Regent's Park district of London."

Robinson, the policeman, permitted himself to look surprised. He was, in
fact, rather annoyed. Bates's story had prepared him for a first-rate
detective mystery. It was irritating to have one of its leading features
cleared up so promptly.

"Oh," he said, drawing a line under the last entry in the note-book,