Yard by to-night's post if practicable."

"It shall be done."

When the door closed on Furneaux, Ingerman smiled.

"I've given that little Frenchman furiously to think," he murmured.

But the "little Frenchman" was smiling, too. He had elaborated the scheme
already discussed with Winter. It was much to his liking, though
unorthodox, rather crack-brained, more than risky, and altogether opposed
to the instructions of the Police Manual. Each of these drawbacks was a
commendation to Furneaux. In fact, the Steynholme mystery had taken quite
a favorable turn during that talk with Ingerman.

CHAPTER XI

P. C. ROBINSON TAKES ANOTHER LINE

About the time Furneaux was whisked past The Hollies in Superintendent
Fowler's dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing luncheon, and planning a
long walk to the sea. Grant would dearly have liked to secure Doris's
company, but good taste forbade that he should even invite her to share
the ramble. Thus, the death of a woman with whom he had not exchanged a
word during three years had already set up a barrier between Doris and
himself. Though impalpable, it was effective. It could neither be climbed
nor avoided. Quiet little Steynholme had suddenly become a rigid censor
of morals and etiquette. Until this evil thing was annihilated by slow
process of law, Doris and he might meet only by chance and never remain
long together.

When the two were ready to start, Hart elected to dispense with his South
American sombrero.

"I am sensitive to ridicule," he professed. "The village urchins will
christen me 'Owd Ben,' and the old gentleman's character was such that I
would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I'll join the no hat brigade."

"I wonder if we'll meet Furneaux," said Grant, selecting a
walking-stick. "It's odd that we should have seen nothing of him
this morning."

"It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions he
took not to be observed coming here last night."

"Well, that's so. I forgot to ask the reason. There was one, I suppose."

"Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He's wasted
on Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an ambassador."

"Quaint alternatives, those."

"Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in
coining cute phrases. I've met scores of both tribes, and they're like as
peas in a pod."

A bell rang.

"That's the front door," said Grant. "It's Furneaux himself, I hope."

But the