The Postmasters Daughter | Page 8

go on or return. Ultimately, it would
seem, Robinson went with the stretcher-bearers, because Grant and the
girl saw no more of him for the time.
Grant had received several shocks since rising from the breakfast-table,
but it was left for Doris Martin, the postmaster's daughter, to administer

not the least surprising one.
Though almost breathless, and wide-eyed with horror, her opening
words were very much to the point.
"How awful!" she cried. "Why should any-one in Steynholme want to
kill a great actress like Adelaide Melhuish?"
Now, the name of the dead woman was literally the last thing Grant
expected to hear from this girl's lips, and the astounding fact
momentarily banished all other worries.
"You knew her?" he gasped.
"No, not exactly. But I couldn't avoid recognizing her when she asked
for her letters, and sent a telegram."
"But--"
"Oh, Robinson told me she was dead. I see now what is puzzling you."
"It is not quite that. I mean, why didn't you tell me she was in
Steynholme? Has she been staying here any length of time?"
The girl's pretty face crimsoned, and then grew pale.
"I--had no idea--she was--a friend of yours, Mr. Grant," she stammered.
"She used to be a friend, but I have not set eyes on her during the past
three years--until last night."
"Last night!"
"After you had gone home. I was doing some work, and, having
occasion to consult a book, lighted a candle, and put it in the small
window near the bookcase. Then I fancied I saw a woman's face, her
face, peering in, and was so obsessed by the notion that I went outside,
but everything was so still that I persuaded myself I was mistaken."

"Oh, is that what it was?"
Grant threw out his hands in a gesture that was eloquent of some
feeling distinctly akin to despair.
"You don't usually speak in enigmas, Doris," he said. "What in the
world do you mean by saying:--'Oh, is that what it was?'"
The girl--she was only nineteen, and never before had aught of tragic
mystery entered her sheltered life--seemed to recover her
self-possession with a quickness and decision that were admirable.
"There is no enigma," she said calmly. "My room overlooks your lawn.
Before retiring for the night I went to the window, just to have another
peep at Sirius and its changing lights, so I could not help seeing you
fling open the French windows, stand a little while on the step, and go
in again."
"Ah, you saw that? Then I have one witness who will help to dispel that
stupid policeman's notion that I killed Miss Melhuish, and hid her body
in the river at the foot of the lawn, hid it with such care that the first
passerby must find it."
Every human being has three distinct personalities. Firstly, there is the
man or woman as he or she really is; secondly, there is the much
superior individual as assessed personally; thirdly, and perhaps the
most important in the general scheme of things, there is the same
individuality as viewed by others. For an instant, the somewhat
idealized figure which John Menzies Grant offered to a pretty and
intelligent but inexperienced girl was in danger of losing its
impressiveness. But, since Grant was not only a good fellow but a
gentleman, his next thought restored him to the pedestal from which,
all unknowing, he had nearly been dethroned.
"That is a nice thing to say," he cried, with a short laugh of sheer
vexation. "Here am I regarding you as a first-rate witness in my behalf,
whereas my chief worry is to keep you out of this ugly business
altogether. Forgive me, Doris! Never before have I been so bothered.

Honestly, I imagined I hadn't an enemy in the world, yet someone has
tried deliberately to saddle me with suspicion in this affair. Not that I
would give real heed to that consideration if it were not for the unhappy
probability that, strive as I may, your name will crop up in connection
with it. What sort of fellow is this police constable? Do you think he
would keep his mouth shut if I paid him well?"
Grant was certainly far from being in his normal state of mind, or he
would have caught the tender gleam which lighted the girl's eyes when
she understood that his concern was for her, not for himself. As it was,
several things had escaped him during that brief talk on the sunlit road.
On her part, Doris Martin was now in full control of her emotions, and
she undoubtedly took a saner view of a difficult situation.
"Robinson is a vain man," she said thoughtfully. "He will not let go the
chance of notoriety given him by the murder