"There's no real difficulty. An orchard--"

"Bet you a new hat I went over the ground before you did."

"Get over it quickly now, and get something out of it, and I'll _give_
you a new hat. Got any tools?"

"I fetched 'em from town Tuesday morning," chortled Furneaux. "So now
who's the brainy one?"

He skipped into the hotel, while Winter went to the station to make sure
of Siddle's departure and destination. Yes, the chemist had taken a
return ticket to Epsom, where a strip of dank meadow-land on the road to
Esher marks the last resting-place of many of London's epileptics. On
returning to the high-street, Winter lighted a cigar, a somewhat common
occurrence in his everyday life, where-upon Furneaux walked swiftly up
the hill. A farmer, living near the center of the village, owned a rather
showy cob. Winter found the man, and persuaded him to trot the animal to
and fro in front of the hotel. There was a good deal of noise and
hoof-clattering, and people came to their doors to see what was going on.
Obviously, if they were watching the antics of a skittish two-year-old in
the high-street, their eyes were blind to proceedings in the back
premises. Even the postmaster and his daughter were interested onlookers,
and a policeman, who might have put a summary end to the display,
vanished as though by magic.

Luckily, Winter was a good judge of a horse. When the cob was stabled,
and the farmer came to the inn to have a drink, he was forced to admit a
tendency to cow hocks, which, it would seem, is held a fatal blemish in