“Mr Who?” demanded the Sergeant.

“Vereker. The gentleman from London, as bought Riverside Cottage. You know, Sergeant: comes down week-ends.”

“Oh!” said the Sergeant, rather vaguely. “Not a local man.”

“Not properly speaking,” agreed the Constable. “But what beats me is how he came to be sitting in them stocks at this hour of night. He's in evening-dress, what's more.”

“Well, you get back, and keep your eye on things till the Inspector comes along,” said the Sergeant, and hung up the receiver.

Constable Dickenson heard the click of it, and was rather sorry, because now that he had had time to recover from his first amazement he could see several queer things about the murder, and would have liked to have talked them over with the Sergeant. But there was nothing for it but to do as he was told, so he put his receiver back on the hook, and tiptoed out of the house again to where he had left his bicycle propped against the iron railings.

When he got back to the stocks the dead man was lying in the same position. There was no sign that anyone had been there since the Constable left, and after looking over the ground for a bit with the aid of his torch, in the hope of discovering some clue, or footprint, the Constable leaned his back against the tree, and tried, while waiting for the Inspector to arrive, to puzzle out the problem for himself.

It was not very long before he heard the sound of a car in the distance, and in a few minutes it drew up beside the green, and Inspector Jerrold hopped out nimbly, and turned to give a hand to a stout man in whom the Constable recognised Dr Hawke, the Police-Surgeon.

“Well,” said the Inspector briskly. “Where is this body, Dickenson? Oh! -ah!” He stepped up to the bench, and ran his torch over the still figure. “Hm! Not much for you here, Doctor, from the looks of it. Turn those headlights this way, Hill. That's better. Like this when you found him, was he?”