"I give it up--at present."

This somewhat rare display of modesty on Furneaux's part was readily
understandable. A series of straight lines and angles conveyed very
little hint of their purport; but Winter smiled behind his friend's back.

"I've been prowling about this wretched inn longer than you," he said.
"Look outside, to the left."

"Don't need to, now," cackled Furneaux. "It's the profile of a wall,
gate, and outhouse along which one could reach the window of the
club-room. Would you mind stopping grinning like a Cheshire cat?"

"Anything else?"

"Yes. This one: 'S.M.? 1820.' That beats you, eh?"

"Dished completely."

"Doris Martin, as usual, supplies the answer. An old volume of the
_Sussex Miscellany_, probably that for 1820, contains the full story of
Owd Ben. I might have mentioned it to you, but focussed on current
events. Siddle has it among his books, which, by the way, are made up
largely of scientific and popular criminal records."

"Is that the lot?"

"I'm afraid so. Have a look."