Free Comes a Stranger by E.R. Punshon

police station, stood the tall, still form of the young American who at lunch that day, at the Wynton Arms, had tried to get into conversation with Bobby about his work. To Bobby, now, it seemed there was something intent and wrought-up in his attitude as he stood there, leaning a little forward, like the gambler who, having placed his stake, watches and waits for the fall of the roulette ball. Bobby looked at his watch. He saw that it was nineteen minutes past ten. He said to the American:
    â€œWhat is your name?”
    â€œVirtue,” the other answered. “Bertram A. Virtue.”
    The gas light above his head shone with a yellow radiance on his features, made indeed a kind of aureole about his head. Natural perhaps that a man who had hastened there with such a tale of violence, of death, of murder apparently, should have that tense, excited air. He was tall, well made, athletic in bearing, distinctly good looking, with his fair hair, blue eyes, fresh complexion, well-formed, regular features, though the nose, with its wide nostrils, inclined perhaps a trifle too much towards that variety known as the ‘snub’. Bobby noticed, too, that his ears were smaller than usual, with pointed tops, and were set closely to the head so that the lobes seemed almost to sink into the cheek. It is always well to pay special attention to the ears, for they are distinctive, difficult to disguise, always useful for purposes of identification. In spite of the tense restraint in which he held himself, his long, pliant fingers were restless, twisting themselves with and round each other. All this Bobby took in, as he had been trained to do, with one quick, intent look, and then he said:
    â€œYou state you saw a dead man in the Kayne library?”
    â€œThat’s so,” Virtue answered.
    â€œWe had better get along there immediately,” Bobby said. “Please come, too.” He turned to Mills. “You’ve got a bike? Good. Anyone else here? Only your wife? Ask her to ring up your inspector at once and tell him what’s happened. Don’t stop her to do it yourself, let her. Get your bike out and get along to the Lodge as quick as you can. Mr. Virtue and I will follow—we’ll foot it, quicker than waiting to get hold of a car. Can you run, Mr. Virtue?” Virtue nodded. “Come along then, sooner we’re there, the better.”
    They started to run. Hampered both by the darkness and by their own lack of familiarity with the road, they could not, however, use their best speed. Side by side they ran, their feet loud in the darkness of the night. Bobby had a fleeting thought that the sound of their running would alarm the whole village. He noticed, too, that Virtue ran easily and lightly, like a man in good condition. Half-way to the Lodge, Mills passed them, riding furiously. Three-quarters of the way to the Lodge, they found him crawling out of the ditch into which he and his cycle had gone together in the dark, head first.
    â€œThe bike’s smashed up,” he said as they arrived. “I’ve hurt my ankle or something,” he said, trying to limp along.
    â€œNever mind the bike,” Bobby said. “Come on as quick as you can—crawl if you can’t walk. Come on, Mr. Virtue.”
    They raced on together. Before them showed the lights of the Lodge, hitherto screened by the trees that lined the road. Questions were forming themselves in Bobby’s mind as they ran together, side by side. He wished he could stop and ask some of them. He wished he could watch his companion’s face. But the darkness hid it, and one cannot run and race through the night and ask questions at the same time.
    He remembered that Mr. Broast had complained of having seen someone prowling about in the Hall grounds near the library after dark had fallen. Virtue’s breathing was quiet and regular, as though this physical exertion had in some way relieved his excitement. His story