"My doctor forbids me to touch wine," said Winter mournfully.

"But these bucolic breeders of browns and bays employ wiser medicos,
I'll go bail. Landlord, a quart of the best, and six out, as they say
in London."

Six glasses were duly filled with champagne. When it was consumed, Hart
buttonholed Peters.

"A word with you, scribe," he said. "Good-day, gentlemen. I leave you to
your nags. Treat Mr. Franklin fairly. The friend of Don Manoel Alcorta
must be a true man."

Winter heaved a sigh of relief when the professional revolutionist
had vanished.

"He's a funny 'un," commented one of the farmers.

"A bit touched, I reckon," said another. "Wot's 'e doin' now to the
other one?"

They looked through the window. The two were standing in the middle of
the road, and Wally was shaking Peters violently. The argument was not so
fierce as it appeared to be. Peters had been commanded to bring both
detectives to dinner that evening; when he demurred, trying to hedge on
the question of Winter's identity, Hart grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Do as I tell you," he hissed. "Of course, I know now that the big fellow
is the man Grant heard of a week ago. I was an idiot to take him