him years ago--at
least, I've seen him. I was in Matabeleland with him, and I tell you
there's nothing too mean for 'Ready-Money Minute'--curse him!"

"I'll bet you have had a terrible life, sergeant," encouraged Constable
Wiseman.

The other laughed bitterly.

"I have," he said.

Sergeant Smith's acquaintance with Eastbourne was a short one. He had
only been four years in the town, and had, so rumor ran, owed his
promotion to influence. What that influence was none could say. It had
been suggested that John Minute himself had secured him his sergeant's
stripes, but that was a theory which was pooh-poohed by people who knew
that the sergeant had little that was good to say of his supposed
patron.

Constable Wiseman, a profound thinker and a secret reader of sensational
detective stories, had at one time made a report against John Minute for
some technical offense, and had made it in fear and trembling,
expecting his sergeant promptly to squash this attempt to persecute his
patron; but, to his surprise and delight, Sergeant Smith had furthered
his efforts and had helped to secure the conviction which involved a
fine.

"You go on and finish your beat, Constable," said the sergeant suddenly,
"and I'll ride up to the old devil's house and see what's doing."

He mounted his bicycle and trundled up the hill, dismounting before
Weald Lodge, and propped his bicycle against the wall. He looked for a
long time toward the open French windows, and then, jumping the wall,
made his way slowly across the lawn, avoiding the gravel path which
would betray his presence. He got to a point opposite the window which
commanded a full view of the room.

Though the window was open, there was a fire in the grate. To the
sergeant's satisfaction, John Minute was alone. He sat in a deep
armchair in his favorite attitude, his hands pushed into his pockets,
his head upon his chest. He heard the sergeant's foot upon the gravel
and stood up as the rain-drenched figure appeared at the open window.

"Oh, it is you, is it?" growled John Minute. "What do you want?"

"Alone?" said the sergeant, and he spoke as one to his equal.

"Come in!"

Mr. Minute's library had been furnished by the Artistic Furniture
Company, of Eastbourne, which had branches at Hastings, Bexhill,
Brighton, and--it was claimed--at London. The furniture was of dark oak,
busily carved. There was a large bookcase which half covered one wall.
This was the "library," and it