the door
open. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, of
Scotland Yard."

"You don't say so, sir!" stammered Robinson.

"But I do say it, and will prove it to you, of course. I'll be with you
in a minute or two. There's someone coming. You and I must not be seen
together."

Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He met
Bates, going to the post with letters.

Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he kept
a sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even walked
quickly to the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished.

Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates thrust
his head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some weight
on his mind.

"Beg pardon," he said, "but I thought you'd like to know. The place is
just swarmin' with 'em."

"Bees?" inquired Hart.

Bates stared fixedly at the speaker for a second or two.

"No, sir, 'tecs," he said. "There's a big 'un now--just the opposite to
the little 'un, Hawkshaw. I 'ope I 'aven't to tackle this customer,
though. He'd gimme a doin', by the looks of 'im."

Bates had disappeared before Grant remembered that the press photographer
had mentioned the Big 'Un and the Little 'Un of the Yard.

"Now, I wonder," he said.

His wonder could hardly have equaled Winter's had he heard the gardener's
words. The guess was a distinct score for blunt Sussex, though it was
founded solely on the assumption that all comers now, unless Bates was
personally acquainted with them, were limbs of the law.

CHAPTER XII

WHEREIN WINTER GETS TO WORK

Winter had identified Bates at the first glance. The letters in the man's
hand, too, showed his errand, so, while the gardener was climbing the
hill, the detective slipped into Robinson's cottage.

He found the policeman awaiting him in the dark, because a voice said:

"Beg pardon, sir, but the other gentleman from the 'Yard' asked me to
take him into the kitchen. A light in the front room might attract
attention, he thought."

"Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him," said
Winter, quite alive to the canny discretion behind those words, "the
other gentleman."

Robinson led the way. Supper was laid on the table. Poor Mrs. Robinson
had again beaten a hasty retreat.

"Now, Robinson," said the Chief Inspector affably, "before we come to
business I'll prove my bona fides. Here is my o