"Good evening, Robinson," said the pleasant, clear-toned voice. "I've
been expecting you to turn up. Kindly go back home, and leave the door
open. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, of
Scotland Yard."

"You don't say so, sir!" stammered Robinson.

"But I do say it, and will prove it to you, of course. I'll be with you
in a minute or two. There's someone coming. You and I must not be seen
together."

Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He met
Bates, going to the post with letters.

Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he kept
a sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even walked
quickly to the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished.

Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates thrust
his head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some weight
on his mind.

"Beg pardon," he said, "but I thought you'd like to know. The place is
just swarmin' with 'em."

"Bees?" inquired Hart.

Bates stared fixedly at the speaker for a second or two.