ld you mind showing me what sort of
knot was used?"

Robinson was nearly struck dumb, and his fingers fumbled badly, but he
managed to exhibit two hitches.

"Ah, thanks," said Winter, and was off in a jiffy.

From the window of a darkened room Robinson watched the erect, burly
figure of the detective until it was merged in the mists of night.

"Well, I'm--," he exclaimed bitterly.

"John, what are you swearing about?" demanded his wife from the kitchen.

"Something I heard to-day," answered her husband. "There was a chap of my
name, John P. Robinson, an' he said that down in Judee they didn't know
everything. And, by gum, he was right. They knew mighty little about
London 'tecs, I'm thinking. But, hold on. Surely--"

He bustled into his coat, and hastened to The Hollies. No, neither Mr.
Grant nor Mr. Hart had spoken to a soul about the knot. Nor had Bates. Of
course, Robinson did not venture to describe Winter. Finally, he put the
incident aside as a clear case of thought-reading.

CHAPTER XV

A MATTER OF HEREDITY

Shortly before noon on Monday occurred two events destined to assume a
paramount importance in the affair which was wringing the withers of
Steynholme. As in the histories of both men and nations, these first
steps in great developments began quietly enough. For one thing, Furneaux
returned to the village. For another, the London telegraphist, who
expected the day to prove practically a blank, was reading a newspaper
when the telegraph instrument clicked the local call.

Doris was checking and distributing the stock of stamps which had arrived
that morning; her father was counting mail-bags in a small annex to the
main room, the Knoleworth office having acquired a habit of making up
shortages by docking the country branches. No member of the public
happened to be present. The girl could have heard what the Morse code was
tapping forth had she chosen, but she had trained herself to disregard
the telegraph when occupied on other work.

Suddenly, however, the telegraphist's pencil paused.

"Hello!" he said. "Theodore Siddle! That's the chemist opposite,
isn't it!"

"Yes," said Doris, suspending her calculations at mention of the name.

"Well, his mother's dead."

"Dead?" she echoed vacantly. Somehow, it had never hitherto dawned on her
that the chemist might possess relatives in some part of the country.

"That's what it says," went on the other. "'Regret inform you your mother
died