“The Knoxbury road?  Why, man, you’re a good three miles out of your bloomin’ way.  The Knoxbury road isn’t this way—­it’s over there,” and Matlock Styles pointed with his whip.

“Is that so?  Then I’m twisted.  Too bad!  I’m so dog tired I can’t walk much further either.”

“Been taking a constitutional?”

“That and I walked over to look at the place where that double murder took place.  Awful crime that, eh?  Made me shiver just to look at the house.  I suppose you’ve heard about it?”

“Yes, everybody knows about it around here.”

“They say the man’s daughter did it.”

“If she did, they ought to string her up for it,” growled Matlock Styles.  “Such a blasted, cold-blooded crime as that was.  Was you to the inquest?”

“No.”

“Our coroner got her to rights.  He’s a sharp one.”

While the two were talking they were walking towards the house, which was a pretentious affair but closed up on one side.  They halted near a side porch.

“If I am three or four miles from the Knoxbury road I’d like to get something to eat and rest a bit before I start out again,” said the detective.  “Could you supply me with a bite?  I’m willing to pay whatever’s fair.”

“I fancy so,” answered the Englishman, after a slight hesitation, during which he eyed Adam Adams keenly.  “Polly!” he called, and an old woman, with a wrinkled face and a tangle of gray hair appeared, holding a cup in one hand and a towel in the other.

“What are ye wantin’ now, Mat?” she croaked.

“Here’s a gentleman has lost his way.  He wants a bite to eat before he starts again.  Fix him up some sandwiches and some milk, and whatever else you have handy that’s good.  Where is Paul?”

“Gone to town.”

“And Fred?”

“Gone to see the Garrison girl.”

The woman disappeared from view, and a moment later Matlock Styles and Adam Adams entered the dining room of the abode.

CHAPTER XX

A QUEER TURN OF AFFAIRS

The detective felt that he was on delicate as well as dangerous ground.  Nothing had been said to arouse his suspicions but he could feel by instinct that the Englishman was growing distrustful of him.

“Take off your coat, it’s bloomin’ warm in here,” said Matlock Styles, as he proceeded to shed his outer garment.

“Thanks, but I’d just as soon keep my coat on,” was the answer.  “I am used to it.  Fine farm you have here.”

“Pretty fair.”

“Raise much grain?”

“Only for the stock.  I deal mostly in horses and in fancy dogs.”

“I used to own a fancy dog myself,” said Adam Adams smoothly and mentioned the fine points.  The Englishman seemed to warm up to this subject and spoke of the many dogs he had, and of the prices some had brought him.  In the midst of the conversation a lunch was brought in and the detective sat down to eat.  Then with great care Adam Adams brought the talk around once more to the Langmore tragedy.  But Matlock Styles at once grew cold.