This man, the guilty man, must have resided in Stowmarket for some hours, if not days.

Many people saw him.

He could not live in Sleagill, where even the village dogs would suspect him.

But the addle-headed police, ready to handcuff David Hume, never thought of inquiring about strangers who came and went at Stowmarket in those days.

Stowmarket is a metropolis, a wilderness of changeful beings, to a country policeman.