"I do not."

The reply was so emphatic that it created further merriment.

"Well, tell me quickly what this new secret is," exclaimed Mrs. Eastham,
"because in five minutes I must have a long talk with my cook. She has to
prepare pies and pastry sufficient to feed nearly a hundred school
children next Monday, and it is a matter of much calculation."

Brett took his leave.

"I knew that good old soul would be tactful," he said to himself. "Now I
wonder how Winter made such a colossal mistake as to imagine that Hume
murdered his cousin. He was sure of the affections of a delightful girl;
he could not succeed to the property; he has declined to take up the
title. What reason could he have for committing such a crime?"

Then a man walked up the road--a man dressed like a farmer or grazier,
rotund, strongly-built, cheerful-looking. He halted opposite Mrs.
Eastham's house, where the barrister still stood drawing on his gloves on
the doorstep.

"Yes," said Brett aloud, "you _are_ an egregious ass, Winter."

"Why, Mr. Brett?" asked the unabashed detective. "Isn't the make-up good?"

"It is the make-up that always leads you astray. You never theorise above
the level of the _Police Gazette_."

Mr. Winter yielded to not unnatural annoyance. With habitual caution, he