peculiar way of enjoying the weed.

"It was most thoughtful of Mr. Hilton Fenley to try and secure us a
long night's uninterrupted sleep," said Winter between puffs.

"But what a vitiated taste in wine he must attribute to Scotland
Yard," said Furneaux bitterly.

"Still, we should be grateful to him for supplying a gill of real
evidence."

"I may forgive him later. At present, I want to dilate his eyes with
atropine, so that he may see weird shapes and be tortured of ghouls."

"Poor devil! He won't need atropine for that."

"Don't believe it, James. In some respects he's cold-blooded as a
fish. Besides, he carries bromide tablets for his own use. He simply
couldn't have arranged beforehand to dope us."

"He's getting scared."

"I should think so, indeed--in the Fenley sense, that is. His plot
against Robert has miscarried in one essential. The rifle has not been
found in the wood. Now, I'm in chastened mood, because the hour for
action approaches; so I'll own up. I've been keeping something up my
sleeve, just for the joy of watching you floundering 'midst deep
waters. Of course, you chose the right channel. I knew you would, but
it's a treat to see your elephantine struggles. For all that, it's a
sheer impossibility that you should guess who put a sprag in the wheel
of Hilton's chariot. Give you three tries, for a new hat."

"You're desperately keen today on touching me for a new hat."

"Well, this time you have an outside chance. The others were
certs--for me."

Winter smoked in silence for a space.

"I'll take you," he said. "The artist?"

"No." The Jerseyman shook his head.

"Police Constable Farrow?" ventured Winter again.

Furneaux's dismay was so comical that his colleague shook with mirth.

"I wanted a new silk topper," wheezed Winter.

"Silk topper be hanged. I meant a straw, and that's what you'll get.
But how the deuce did you manage to hit upon Farrow?"

"He closed the Quarry Wood at the psychological moment."

"You're sucking my brains, that's what you're doing," grumbled
Furneaux. "Anyhow, you're right. Hilton had the scheme perfected to
the last detail, but he didn't count on Farrow. After a proper display
of agitation--not all assumed, either, because he was more shaken than
he expected to be--he 'phoned the Yard and the doctor. We couldn't
arrive for nearly an hour, and the doctor starts on his rounds at nine
o'clock sharp. What so easy, therefore, as to wander out in a welter
of