Knoleworth! Haven't I kept close as an oyster? And would any
consideration on earth move me to publish an accurate and entertaining
account of the roasting of Chief Inspector Winter by Wally Hart? Think
what I'm sacrificing--a column of the best."

Winter bent a weighing look on the speaker. There was treason in the
thought, as King James remarked to the barber who tried to prove his
loyalty by pointing out how easily he might cut his majesty's throat any
morning. But Peters maintained the expression of a sphinx, and the big
man relaxed.

"The conditions are that not a word about this business appears in
print, either now or in the future until we have a criminal in the
dock," he said.

"Accepted," said Peters.

Furneaux laughed shrilly, even derisively, but him his colleague treated
with majestic disdain. Then, the chemist having reentered the village,
the group broke up, Peters to search his brains for "copy" which should
be readable yet contain no hint of the new trail, Winter to take train to
Knoleworth, and Furneaux to tackle Fred Elkin, who, he had ascertained
earlier, would drive home from a neighboring hamlet about five o'clock.

Elkin had returned when the detective reached the house, a somewhat
pretentious place, half farm, half villa, and altogether horsey. The
entrance hall bristled with fox masks and brushes. A useful collection of
burnished bits and snaffles hung on a side wall. A couple of stuffed
badgers held two wicker stands for sticks and umbrellas, and whips and
hunting-crops were ranged on hooks beneath a 12-bore and a rook rifle.