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A short man with a comfortable presence, a white apron and a red face came forward to greet them.

“Good-evening, Mr. Scanlon,” said he, cordially. “I’m pleased to see you, sir. I’d been told you’d given us up and gone off to the city.”

“Just for a breather, that’s all,” Scanlon informed him, as he and the crime specialist sat at a table near to the blazing hearth. It was still autumn, but there had been a dampness and a chill in the night air which made the snugness of the inn very comfortable.

The red-faced landlord smiled genially.

“I might have known that, even if the shooting is none too good, the bracing air would bring you back.”

Ashton-Kirk glanced about the public room. A small, cramped-looking man sat at a table with a draught board before him, studying a complex move of the pieces through a pair of thick-lensed glasses. A polished crutch stood at one side of his chair, and a heavy walking stick at the other. Deeply absorbed in the problem and its working out was another man, younger, but drawn-looking, who coughed and applied a handkerchief to his lips with great frequency.