Robinson watched closely.

"Yes," he nodded. "I've seen those knots in a farmyard.... Well, it's
something--not much--but a trifle better than nothing.... All right,
Bates. You can take 'em away."

"Have you shown that knot to Mr. Furneaux?" inquired Grant.

"No, sir. I've kept that up me sleeve, as the sayin' is."

"But why?"

Robinson shuffled uneasily on his feet.

"These Scotland Yard men will hardly listen to a uniformed constable,
sir," he said. "I'll tell 'em all about it at the inquest on Wednesday."

"In effect, John P. Robinson he sez they didn't know everythin' down in
Judee," quoted Hart.

"You've got my name pat," grinned the policeman, whose Christian names
were "John Price."

"My name is Walter, not Patrick," retorted Hart. Robinson continued to
smile, though he failed to grasp the joke until late that evening.

"Did you make up that verse straight off, sir," he asked.

"No. It's a borrowed plume, plucked from an American quill pen."