"No. Why should I? My hands are clean."

"But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to this
man in the morning, and mention my name--Winter, of course, not
Franklin."

"Codlin's your friend, not Short," said Hart. "Sorry. It's a time-worn
jape, but it fitted in admirably."

The detective scribbled a name and address on a card.

"I don't think you need worry about Ingerman," he went on, "though it's
well to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop irrelevant statements,
especially if ready for them. But there must be no more of this
heart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He,
too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the only
stumbling-block."

"Siddle! That stick!" gasped Grant.

"Ridiculous, indeed monstrous," agreed Winter, rather heatedly, "but
nevertheless a candidate for the lady's hand."

Then he laughed. Peters's keen eyes were watching him, and Wally Hart was
giving more heed to the conversation than was revealed by a fixed stare
at the negro's head in meerschaum.

"You've bothered me," he went on. "I thought you had more sense. Don't
you understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through the
filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?"