nce
the dinner hour for the return visit. Steynholme folk eat at half past
twelve to the tick, and you can hardly get up another horse show."

There was a knock at the door.

"Let me in, quick!" came Peters's voice, and the handle was tried
forcibly.

"Go away! I'm busy!" cried Winter.

"This is urgent, devilish urgent," said Peters.

Furneaux snatched up the note-book, and Winter tore off his coat,
throwing it over the package which reposed in an armchair. Then the Chief
Inspector unlocked the door, blocking the way aggressively.

"Now, I must say--" he began.

But Peters clutched his shoulder with a nervous hand.

"Siddle has just hurried up the street and entered his shop," he hissed.

The journalist had not only kept his eyes open, but excelled in the art
of putting two and two together, an arithmetical calculation which, as
applied to the affairs of life, is not so readily arrived at as many
people imagine.

"Buncoed! He's missed his keys!" shrilled Furneaux.

"Confound the man! He might at least have attended his mother's funeral!"
stormed Winter, retrieving his coat.

Thus it happened that Furneaux was the first down the stairs, though the
three emerged from the door of the inn on each other's heels. A stout
man, in all likelihood a farmer with horses for sale, was mounting the
two steps which led to the entrance. His head was down, and his weight
forward, so he successfully resisted Furneaux's impact, but Peters and
Winter were irresistible, and he tumbled over with a muffled yell.

At that instant Siddle quitted his shop, and headed straight for the post
office. In his right hand he carried an automatic pistol. The street was
wide. Furneaux, absolutely fearless in the performance of his duty, ran
in a curve so as to bar the chemist's path, and it was then that Siddle
saw him. The man's face was terrible to behold. His eyes were rolling,
his teeth gnashing; he had bitten his tongue and cheeks, and his
stertorous breathing ejected from his mouth foam tinged with blood.

"Ha!" he screamed in a falsetto of fury, "not yet, little man, not yet!"

With that he raised the pistol, and fired point-blank at the detective.
Furneaux ducked, and seized a small stone, being otherwise quite unarmed.
He threw it with unerring aim, and, as was determined subsequently,
struck the hand holding the weapon. Possibly, almost by a miracle, the
blow caused a faulty pressure, because the action jammed, though the
pisto