ld vouchsafe no further information, it
would appear. For a girl of nineteen, Doris was uncommonly gifted with
clear, analytical reasoning powers.

The detective returned to the Hare and Hounds, and went upstairs. He met
Peters on the landing.

"The devil!" he cried.

"My _dear_ pal!" retorted the journalist.

"Are you living here?"

"Why not?"

"Why not, indeed? Where the eagles are there is the carcase."

"Your misquotation is offensive."

"It was so intended."

"Come and have a drink."

"No."

"I say 'yes.' You'll thank me on your bended knees afterwards. The South
American gent is having the time of his life. I've just been to my room
for _Whitaker's Almanack_, wherewith a certain Don Walter Hart purposes
flooring him."

Wally Hart had, indeed, succeeded in running to earth the Argentine
magnate, and was giving Winter a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour.

"Ha!" shouted Hart, when Furneaux came in with Peters. "Here's the pocket
marvel who'll answer any question straight off. What is the staple export
of the Argentine!"

"How often have you been there?" demanded the detective dryly.

"Six times."

"And you've lived there?" This to Winter.

"Yes," glowered the big man, fearing the worst.

"Then the answer is 'fools,'" cackled Furneaux.

Wally laughed. He had remembered, just in time, that he had no right to
claim acquaintance with the representative of Scotland Yard, and there
were some farmers present, each of whom had a "likely animal" to offer
the buyer of blood stock.

"Gad, I think you're right," he said.

"You wanted me to say 'sheep,' I suppose?"

"Got it, at once."

"As though one valuable horse wasn't worth a thousand sheep."

"Just what my friend, Don Manoel Alcorta, of Los Andes ranch, Catamarca,
always held," put in Winter, drawing the bow at a venture.

Hart cocked an eye at him.

"Sir," he said, "I would take off my hat, if I wore one in Steynholme, to
any man who claims the friendship of Don Manoel Alcorta, a sincere
patriot. I suggest that we crack a bottle to his immortal memory."

"My doctor forbids me to touch wine," said Winter mournfully.

"But these bucolic breeders of browns and bays employ wiser medicos,
I'll go bail. Landlord, a quart of the best, and six out, as they say
in London."

Six glasses were duly filled with champagne. When it was consumed, Hart
buttonholed Peters.

"A word with you, scribe," he said. "Good-day, gentlemen. I leave you to