Things were not going well. He had always hoped that some day his chance would come—a really important case, big with prospects of promotion. And now had come the biggest chance of all. Murders were rare in these days—never more than four or five in the year—and this one had been taken up by the London Press. But he had failed to make any progress, and Sir Jefferson Cobb had decided to call in Scotland Yard. The Yard, of course, could do no more than had been done already, but local opinion must be satisfied.
For the first few days Inspector Protheroe had enjoyed the publicity and prestige of his position. The eyes of the town were upon him. He was a man whose goings and comings fluttered the district. But his reputation was falling. He read it in the eyes and whispers of the people he pa
