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Updated: May 18, 2025
"We can disregard your confidences, or explanations, to the police," said Ingerman smoothly. "Three years ago, I suppose, my wife spoke of me?" "If you mean Miss Adelaide Melhuish yes." "I do mean her. To be exact, I mean the lady who was murdered outside this house last night." Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of even a novelist's skill in repartee.
"Did you recognize the body!" inquired Mr. Belcher. "I did." "Then you can give the jury her name?" Before Grant could answer, Ingerman sprang up, his sallow face livid with passion. "I protest, sir, against this man being permitted to identify my wife," he said. He was either deeply moved, or proved himself an excellent actor. His flute-like voice vibrated with an intense emotion.
He was at once infuriated and puzzled. Ingerman was playing him as a fisherman humors a well-hooked salmon. The simile actually occurred to him, and he resolved to precipitate matters by coming straightway to the landing-net. "Is your friendship purchasable?" he inquired, making the rush without further preamble. "My wife was, I was led to believe," came the calm retort.
However, when Grant came to the somewhat strenuous passage-at-arms of the previous night between Ingerman and himself, the little man broke in at once. "Isidor G. Ingerman?" he cried. "Is he a tall, lanky, cadaverous, rather crooked person, with black hair turning gray, and an absurdly melodious voice?" "You have described him without an unnecessary word," said Grant.
Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars "stood" by this talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again, examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to say something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent. Then Ingerman made a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs's cryptic allusion had meant.
By the way, one egg at breakfast had seen vicissitudes. It shouldn't be rated too highly." "I'm traveling by your train," cried Ingerman. "So I understood," said Furneaux over his shoulder. There was silence for a moment after he had gone. Ingerman looked thoughtful, even puzzled.
Each of these drawbacks was a commendation to Furneaux. In fact, the Steynholme mystery had taken quite a favorable turn during that talk with Ingerman. About the time Furneaux was whisked past The Hollies in Superintendent Fowler's dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing luncheon, and planning a long walk to the sea.
The record appears in a Sussex Miscellany of those years.... Oh, my goodness, can it be eleven o'clock!" The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the written notes regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table.
Beyond the fanciful notion that I had seen her ghost last night, the first I knew of her presence in the village was when I recognized her dead body this morning." "Strange as it may sound, I am inclined to believe you." Grant said nothing. He wanted to get up and pitch Ingerman into the road.
Ingerman, you had parted from your wife. Your name was never mentioned. Apparently, none in my circle had even heard of you. Miss Melhuish had won repute as a celebrated actress. I met her, in a sense, professionally. We became friends. I fancied I was in love with her. I proposed marriage. Then, and not until then, did the ghost of Mr." Grant bent forward, and consulted the card "Mr.
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