"Oh, none of your kiddin'," said Elkin, stroking the nervous colt's neck.
"You know he has. You don't miss much that's going on. Bet you half a
thick 'un you'd have put someone in clink before this if the murder at
The Hollies had been left in your hands."

"That's as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped you
for fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin' badly?"

"Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night."

"You shouldn't be out so late. Why, on'y a week ago you were in bed
regular at 10.15."

"That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed at
Knoleworth."

"What time did you reach home?"

"Dashed if I know. After twelve before I was in bed. By the way, what's
this about things missing from a box owned by the Amateur Dramatic
Society? That silly josser of a detective--What's his name?"

"Furneaux," said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear too
secretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the very
topic he wanted to discuss.

"Ay, Furneaux. I remember now. He worried old Tomlin last night about
that box, which is kept in the loft over the club-room. So Tomlin and I,
and Hobbs, just to satisfy ourselves, went up there as soon as Furneaux
left to-day. And, what do you think? The box was unlocked, though I