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out, you know, mightn’t
    it?’
    ‘It might, but it isn’t,’ said Harriet, grimly. ‘It’s been coming in since two
    o’clock. Haven’t you noticed?’
    ‘Wel, no, I can’t say I have. I’m shortsighted. And I don’t know much
    about it. I live in London, you see. I’m afraid I can’t quite see what I can do
    about it. There don’t seem to be any police about here, do there?’
    He gazed round about, as though he expected to sight a constable on point-
    duty in the middle-distance.
    ‘Have you passed any cottages lately?’ asked Harriet.
    ‘Cottages? Oh, yes – yes, I believe I did see some cottages a little way
    back. Oh, yes, I’m sure I did. You’l find somebody there.’
    ‘I’l try there, then. And if you meet anybody would you mind teling them
    about it. A man on the beach – with his throat cut.’
    ‘His throat?’
    ‘Yes. Near some rocks they cal the Grinders.’
    ‘Who cut his throat?’
    ‘How should I know? I should think he probably did it himself.’
    ‘Yes – oh, naturaly. Yes. Otherwise it would be murder, wouldn’t it?’
    ‘Wel, it may be murder, of course.’
    The hiker clutched his staff nervously.
    ‘Oh! I shouldn’t think so, should you?’
    ‘You never know,’ said Harriet, exasperated. ‘If I were you, I’d be getting
    along quickly. The murderer may be somewhere about, you know.’
    ‘Good heavens!’ said the young man from London. ‘But that would be
    awfuly dangerous.’
    ‘Wouldn’t it? Wel, I’l be pushing on. Don’t forget, wil you? A man with his
    throat cut near the Grinders.’
    ‘The Grinders. Oh, yes. I’l remember. But, I say?’
    ‘Yes?’

    ‘Don’t you think I’d better come along with you? To protect you, you know,
    and that sort of thing?’
    Harriet laughed. She felt convinced that the young man was not keen on
    passing the Grinders.
    ‘As you like,’ she said indifferently, walking on.
    ‘I could show you the cottages,’ suggested the young man.
    ‘Very wel,’ said Harriet. ‘Come along. We’l have to be as quick as we
    can.’
    A quarter of an hour’s walk brought them to the cottages – two low thatched
    buildings standing on the right-hand side of the road. In front of them a high
    hedge had been planted, screening them from the sea-gales and, incidentaly,
    helping to cut off al view of the shore. Opposite them, on the other side of the
    road, a narrow waled lane twisted down to the sea’s edge. From Harriet’s
    point of view the cottages were a disappointment. They were inhabited by an
    aged crone, two youngish women and some smal children, but the men were al
    out fishing. They were late back today but were expected on the evening tide.
    Harriet’s story was listened to with flattering interest and enthusiasm, and the
    wives promised to tel their husbands about it when they came in. They also
    offered refreshment which, this time, Harriet accepted. She felt pretty sure that
    the body would by now be covered by the tide and that half an hour could
    make no real difference. Excitement had made her weary. She drank the tea
    and was thankful.
    The companions then resumed their walk, the gentleman from London,
    whose name was Perkins, complaining of a blistered heel. Harriet ignored him.
    Surely something would soon come along.
    The only thing that came was a fast saloon car, which overtook them about
    half a mile further on. The proud chauffeur, seeing two dusty trampers signaling,
    as it appeared to him, for a lift, put his stern foot down on the accelerator and
    drove on.
    ‘The beastly road-hog!’ said Mr Perkins, pausing to caress his blistered heel.
    ‘Saloons with chauffeurs are never any good,’ said Harriet. ‘What we want
    is a lorry, or a seven-year-old Ford. Oh, look! What’s that?’
    ‘That’ was a pair of gates across the road and a little cottage standing beside

    it.
    ‘A level-crossing, by al that’s lucky!’ Harriet’s sinking courage revived.
    ‘There must be somebody here.’
    There