As we stepped out, I noticed a well-dressed man hurrying up the platform from the rear and eagerly scanning the faces of the few passengers who had alighted.  Soon he espied us, and, approaching quickly, asked, as he looked from one of us to the other: 

“Dr. Thorndyke?”

“Yes,” replied my colleague, adding:  “And you, I presume, are Mr. Edward Stopford?”

The solicitor bowed.  “This is a dreadful affair,” he said, in an agitated manner.  “I see you have the paper.  A most shocking affair.  I am immensely relieved to find you here.  Nearly missed the train, and feared I should miss you.”

“There appears to have been an arrest,” Thorndyke began.

“Yes—­my brother.  Terrible business.  Let us walk up the platform; our train won’t start for a quarter of an hour yet.”

We deposited our joint Gladstone and Thorndyke’s travelling-case in an empty first-class compartment, and then, with the solicitor between us, strolled up to the unfrequented end of the platform.

“My brother’s position,” said Mr. Stopford, “fills me with dismay—­but let me give you the facts in order, and you shall judge for yourself.  This poor creature who has been murdered so brutally was a Miss Edith Grant.  She was formerly an artist’s model, and as such was a good deal employed by my brother, who is a painter—­Harold Stopford, you know, A.R.A. now—­”

“I know his work very well, and charming work it is.”

“I think so, too.  Well, in those days he was quite a youngster—­about twenty—­and he became very intimate with Miss Grant, in quite an innocent way, though not very discreet; but she was a nice respectable girl, as most English models are, and no one thought any harm.  However, a good many letters passed between them, and some little presents, amongst which was a beaded chain carrying a locket, and in this he was fool enough to put his portrait and the inscription, ’Edith, from Harold.’

“Later on Miss Grant, who had a rather good voice, went on the stage, in the comic opera line, and, in consequence, her habits and associates changed somewhat; and, as Harold had meanwhile become engaged, he was naturally anxious to get his letters back, and especially to exchange the locket for some less compromising gift.  The letters she eventually sent him, but refused absolutely to part with the locket.

“Now, for the last month Harold has been staying at Halbury, making sketching excursions into the surrounding country, and yesterday morning he took the train to Shinglehurst, the third station from here, and the one before Woldhurst.