attention, he thought."

"Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him," said
Winter, quite alive to the canny discretion behind those words, "the
other gentleman."

Robinson led the way. Supper was laid on the table. Poor Mrs. Robinson
had again beaten a hasty retreat.

"Now, Robinson," said the Chief Inspector affably, "before we come to
business I'll prove my bona fides. Here is my official card, and I'll run
quickly through events until 1.30 p.m. to-day. I met Mr. Furneaux at
Victoria, and he posted me fully up to that hour."

So the policeman listened to a clear summary of the Steynholme case as
it was known to the authorities.

"I did not warn either Mr. Fowler or you of my visit because a telegram
could hardly be explicit enough," concluded Winter. "At the inn I am Mr.
Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line. At
this moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who is
aware of my official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged to
secrecy. To-morrow or any other day until further notice, you and I meet
as strangers in public. By the way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you
that he found the wig and the false beard in the river early this
morning. The wearer had apparently flung them off while crossing the
foot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that they would not
sink readily. Perhaps he didn't care. At any rate, Mr. Hart's bullet
seems to have laid Owd Ben's ghost. Now, what of this fellow, Elkin? He
worries me."