"Must 'ave been six or seven times by now. The game began soon after
Boomery and I came 'ere."

"Then, quite roughly, quite a shot, from what I know of the deals we--my
friends, I mean--did with them, and reasoning from that, there might be a
matter of seven or eight thousand pounds."

The Sergeant whistled softly, rose, and led the way to the door. The
gentlemanly stranger paused at the bar to pay for the brandy, and after
bidding the landlord a civil good-evening, with the compliments of the
season, followed the Sergeant into the village street.

Fifteen minutes' brisk walk brought them to Hinton Avenue. At the end of
it they passed Doctor Mary's house; the drawing-room curtains were not
drawn; on the blind they saw reflected the shadows of a man and a girl,
standing side by side. "Mistletoe, eh?" remarked the stranger. The
Sergeant spat on the road; they resumed their way, pursuing the road
across the heath.

It was fine, but overclouded and decidedly dark. Every now and then
Bennett, to call the stranger by what was almost confessedly a
_nom-de-guerre,_ flashed a powerful electric torch on the roadway.
"Don't want to walk into a gorse-bush," he explained with a laugh.

"Put it away, you darned fool! We're nearly there."

The stranger obeyed. In another seven or eight minutes there loomed up,
on the left hand, the dim outline of Mr. Saffron's abode--the square
cottage with the odd round tower annexed.