ask
Bates for a sack and a cord?"

He went to the kitchen. Hart was "tickled to death," he vowed.

"We are about to witness the reconstruction of the crime, a procedure
which the French delight in, and the intellect of France is a hundred
years ahead of our effete civilization," he chortled.

Grant was not so pleased. The memory of a distressing vision was
beginning to blur, and this ponderous policeman must come and revive it.
Yet, even he grew interested when Robinson illustrated a nebulous idea by
knotting a clothesline around a sack stuffed with straw, having brought
Bates to bear him out in the matter of accuracy.

"There you are, gentlemen!" he said, puffing after the slight exertion.
"That's the way of it. How does it strike you?"

"It's what a sailor calls two half hitches," commented Hart instantly.
"A very serviceable knot, which will resist to the full strength of
the rope."

"We have no sailors in Steynholme, sir," said the policeman.

"Oh, it's used regularly by tradesmen," put in Grant. "A draper, or
grocer--any man accustomed to tying parcels securely, in fact--will
fashion that knot nine times out of ten."

"How about a--a farmer, sir?" That was as near as Robinson dared to go to
"horse-dealer."

"I think a farmer would be more likely to adopt a timber hitch, which is
made in several ways. Here are samples." And Grant busied himself with
rope and sack.

Robinson watched closely.

"Yes," he nodded. "I've seen those knots in a farmyard.... Well, it's
something--not much--but a trifle better than nothing.... All right,
Bates. You can take 'em away."

"Have you shown that knot to Mr. Furneaux?" inquired Grant.

"No, sir. I've kept that up me sleeve, as the sayin' is."

"But why?"

Robinson shuffled uneasily on his feet.

"These Scotland Yard men will hardly listen to a uniformed constable,
sir," he said. "I'll tell 'em all about it at the inquest on Wednesday."

"In effect, John P. Robinson he sez they didn't know everythin' down in
Judee," quoted Hart.

"You've got my name pat," grinned the policeman, whose Christian names
were "John Price."

"My name is Walter, not Patrick," retorted Hart. Robinson continued to
smile, though he failed to grasp the joke until late that evening.

"Did you make up that verse straight off, sir," he asked.

"No. It's a borrowed plume, plucked from an American quill pen."

Hart gave "plume" a French sound, and Robinson was puzzled to know why
Grant