rks, and he's beat to the world."

Tomlin was, indeed, gazing at his smaller guest open-mouthed.

"S'elp me!" he gurgled. "I could ha' sworn--"

"Bad habit," and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. "Even the
wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. I really
fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do you think
it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box of old
clothes at that. Silly, isn't it?"

"Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin' things?"

"Exactly."

Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh.

"Not so sharp for a London 'tec, I must say," he cried. "Why, those props
have been there since before Christmas."

"Yes. I know now," was the downcast reply. "Twelve hours ago I thought
differently. Didn't I, Mr. Tomlin?"

Tomlin tried hard to look knowing.

"Oh, is that wot you wur drivin' at?" he said. "Dang me, mister, I could
soon ha' put you right 'ad you tole me."

"Well, well. Can't be helped. I may do better in London. What do _you_
say, Mr. Ingerman? The City is the real mint of money and crime. Who
knows but that a stroll through Cornhill may have some bearing on the
Steynholme mystery?"

"May be you'd get a bit nearer if you took a stroll along the Knoleworth
Road, and not so very far, either," guffawed Elkin.

"Who knows?" repeated Furneaux sadly. "Good-day, gentlemen. Some of this
merry party will meet again, of course, if not here, at the Assizes.
Don't forget my bill. Mr. Tomlin. By the way, one egg at breakfast had
seen vicissitudes. It shouldn't be rated too highly."

"I'm traveling by your train," cried Ingerman.

"So I understood," said Furneaux over his shoulder.

There was silence for a moment after he had gone. Ingerman looked
thoughtful, even puzzled. He was casting back in his mind to discover
just how and when the detective "understood" that his departure was
imminent, since he himself had only arrived at a decision after leaving
the chemist's.

"That chap is no good," announced Elkin. "I'll back old Robinson against
him any day."

"Sh-s-sh! He may 'ear you," muttered the landlord.

"Don't care if he does. Cornhill! What the blazes has Cornhill to do
with the murder at The Hollies?"

Ingerman appreciated the value of that concluding phrase. Elkin had used
it once before in Siddle's shop, and was quietly reproved by the chemist
for his outspokenness.

Ingerman, however, did not inform the company that his office la