ew that
Miss Martin and Mr. Grant were presumably spooning in a garden at a
rather late hour."

It was a totally new line of inquiry for Robinson, but he bent his wits
to it, and evolved a list which, if published, would certainly be
regarded with incredulous envy by every other girl in the village than
the postmaster's daughter; as for Doris herself, she would be mightily
surprised when she saw it, but whether annoyed or secretly gratified none
but a pretty girl of nineteen can tell.

Winter departed soon afterwards. Before going to the inn he had a look at
the forge. A young woman, standing at the open door of the adjoining
cottage, favored him with a frank stare. There was no light in the
dwelling. When he returned, after walking a little way down the road, the
door was closed.

Next morning, Bates heard of Peters as the detective and of Mr. Franklin
as a "millionaire" from South America. Moreover, he scrutinized both in
the flesh, and saw Robinson salute Peters but pass the financial
potentate with indifference.

Alas, that a reputation, once built, should be destroyed!

"I was mistook, sir," he reported to Grant later. "There's another 'tec
about, but 'e ain't the chap I met last night. They say this other bloke
is rollin' in money, an' buyin' hosses right an' left."

"Then he'll soon be rolling in the mud, and have no money," put in Hart.

"Who is he?" inquired Grant carelessly.

"A Mr. Franklin, from South America, sir."

Grant and Hart exchanged glances. Curiously enough, Hart remained silent
till Bates had gone.

"I must look this joker up, Jack," he said then. "To me the mere mention
of South America is like Mother Gary's chickens to a sailor, a harbinger
of storm."

But Hart consumed Tomlin's best brew to no purpose--in so far as seeing
Mr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying a
famous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher in
troubled waters was not inclined to return without a bag of some sort.

He walked straight into the post office. Doris and her father were there,
the telegraphist being out.

"Good day, everybody," he cried cheerfully. "Grant wants to know, Mr.
Martin, if you and Miss Doris will come and dine with him, us, this
evening at 7.30?"

The postmaster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Doris
laughed, and blushed a little.

"This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant's, dad," she explained. "I'm
afraid we cannot accep