wandered off to the left, and there was a gate a little way up on
the right-hand side of it. Antony walked to the gate, filling
his pipe as he went. Then he lit his pipe, sat on the gate, and
took his head in his hands.

"Now then," he said to himself, "let's begin at the beginning."

It was nearly eight o'clock when William Beverley, the famous
sleuth-hound, arrived, tired and dusty, at 'the George,' to find
Antony, cool and clean, standing bare-headed at the door, waiting
for him.

"Is dinner ready?" were Bill's first words.

"Yes."

"Then I'll just have a wash. Lord, I'm tired."

"I never ought to have asked you," said Antony penitently.

"That's all right. I shan't be a moment." Half-way up the
stairs he turned round and asked, "Am I in your room?"

"Yes. Do you know the way?"

"Yes. Start carving, will you? And order lots of beer." He
disappeared round the top of the staircase. Antony went slowly
in.

When the first edge of his appetite had worn off, and he was able