"Can I offer you a glass of beer, sir?"

"With pleasure. May I smoke while you eat? You see, I differ from Mr.
Furneaux in both size and habits."

Robinson poured out the beer. He was preternaturally grave. The somewhat
incriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer that
afternoon lay heavy upon him. But he told his story succinctly enough.
Winter nodded to emphasize each point, and congratulated him at the end.

"You arranged that very well," he said. "I gather, though, that Elkin
spoke rather openly."

"Just as I've put it, sir. He tripped a bit over the time on Monday
night. But it's only fair to say that he might have had Tomlin's
license in mind."

"That issue will be settled to-morrow. I'll find out the commercial
traveler's name, and send a telegram from Knoleworth before noon.... Who
is Peggy Smith?"

Robinson set down an empty glass with a stare of surprise.

"Bob Smith's daughter, sir," he answered.

"No doubt. But, proceed."

"Well, sir, she's just a village girl. Her father is a blacksmith. His
forge is along to the right, not far. She'll be twenty, or thereabouts."