"I am sensitive to ridicule," he professed. "The village urchins will
christen me 'Owd Ben,' and the old gentleman's character was such that I
would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I'll join the no hat brigade."

"I wonder if we'll meet Furneaux," said Grant, selecting a
walking-stick. "It's odd that we should have seen nothing of him
this morning."

"It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions he
took not to be observed coming here last night."

"Well, that's so. I forgot to ask the reason. There was one, I suppose."

"Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He's wasted
on Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an ambassador."

"Quaint alternatives, those."

"Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in
coining cute phrases. I've met scores of both tribes, and they're like as
peas in a pod."

A bell rang.

"That's the front door," said Grant. "It's Furneaux himself, I hope."

But the visitor was P.C. Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted.

"Glad I've caught you before you went out, sir," he said. "Mr. Furneaux