So, I'll change my mind, and take a snack of your bread and cheese." The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied tribute.

What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his somewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective's little finger.
"Right you are, sir," he cried cheerily.

"But, if Mr.Grant didn't kill Miss Melhuish, who did!" "In all probability, the man who wore that hat," chirped Furneaux, taking a nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the table.
Robinson started.

This June night was full of weird surprises.

He set down a jug of beer with a bang--his intent being to fill two glasses already in position, from which circumstance even the least observant visitor might deduce a Mrs.Robinson, _en neglige_, hastily flown upstairs.
He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb.
"By gum!" he muttered.