fficial card, and I'll run
quickly through events until 1.30 p.m. to-day. I met Mr. Furneaux at
Victoria, and he posted me fully up to that hour."

So the policeman listened to a clear summary of the Steynholme case as
it was known to the authorities.

"I did not warn either Mr. Fowler or you of my visit because a telegram
could hardly be explicit enough," concluded Winter. "At the inn I am Mr.
Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line. At
this moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who is
aware of my official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged to
secrecy. To-morrow or any other day until further notice, you and I meet
as strangers in public. By the way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you
that he found the wig and the false beard in the river early this
morning. The wearer had apparently flung them off while crossing the
foot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that they would not
sink readily. Perhaps he didn't care. At any rate, Mr. Hart's bullet
seems to have laid Owd Ben's ghost. Now, what of this fellow, Elkin? He
worries me."

"Can I offer you a glass of beer, sir?"

"With pleasure. May I smoke while you eat? You see, I differ from Mr.
Furneaux in both size and habits."

Robinson poured out the beer. He was preternaturally grave. The somewhat
incriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer that
afternoon lay heavy upon him. But he told his story succinctly enough.
Winter nodded to emphasize each point, and congratulated him at the end.

"You arranged that very well," he said. "I gather, though, that Elkin
spoke rather openly."

"Just as I've put it, sir. He tripped a bit over the time on Monday
night. But it's only fair to say that he might have had Tomlin's
license in mind."

"That issue will be settled to-morrow. I'll find out the commercial
traveler's name, and send a telegram from Knoleworth before noon.... Who
is Peggy Smith?"

Robinson set down an empty glass with a stare of surprise.

"Bob Smith's daughter, sir," he answered.

"No doubt. But, proceed."

"Well, sir, she's just a village girl. Her father is a blacksmith. His
forge is along to the right, not far. She'll be twenty, or thereabouts."

"Frivolous?"

"Not more than the rest of 'em, sir."

"Have you seen her flirting with Elkin?"

Robinson took thought.

"Now that I come to think of it, she might be given a bit that way. Her
father shoes Elkin's nags, so