As the car moved off, the Chief Constable glanced along the street and then, with deliberate restraint, he lounged over to the door of the local ironmonger. All traces of hurry had disappeared. He seemed merely a casual purchaser. “Good evening,” he said pleasantly to the man behind the counter. “You seem to stock a fairly wide selection of things, to judge by your window. I’m looking for a small drill, if you have one on the premises. Could you let me see one or two?” The ironmonger, it seemed, kept such things in stock. Sir Clinton examined them. “This seems to be what I want,” he said at last. “Have you a brace to fit it?” He fitted the drill to the brace, took out a penny and tried the drill. Then, with the hole half-bored, he seemed to lose interest in the matter. “You don’t stock air-gun slugs, do you?” “As a matter of fact, we do, sir. Mr. Hawkhurst of Whistlefield uses a lot of them, and he persuaded me to keep a stock of them. Nobody else has any need for them; but he buys quite a lot from time to time.” “Perhaps you keep darts, too?” “Yes, I’ve got some in stock.” Sir Clinton considered for a moment. “Let’s see. I’ll take a hundred slugs and a couple of dozen darts. You might put the whole lot in one parcel—I’ll take the brace and drill as well.” While the man was packing up the articles, Sir Clinton made inquiries as to the position of the druggist’s shop in the village; and on leaving the ironmonger’s he made his way to it. “Let’s see,” he reflected aloud, after he had had a few words with the druggist on local gossip. “I’ll have a pennyworth of Condy’s Fluid crystals. They’re a good antiseptic, aren’t they? And about threepence worth of some carbolic solution, too. Have you any litmus, by any chance—the solid stuff is what I want.” It happened that the druggist had all these in stock. “That will be all to-night, sir?” he inquired, as Sir Clinton took the packets and paid for his purchases. “That will be all for the present,” said the Chief Constable absent-mindedly; and he left the shop after saying good-evening. He made his way to the police station, where the sergeant-in-charge, recognising him, came forward at once. “Have you a room here that I can have to myself for ten minutes or so, sergeant?” “Yes, Sir Clinton. This way.” “This will do all right,” the Chief Constable said, after a glance at the place. “By the way, sergeant, send a man out at once to get me a small table vice—you know these portable things—at the ironmonger’s. I saw one in the window as I passed. And wait a moment—can you smoke Navy Cut? Good. Then get a couple of small tins as well.” Considerably mystified, the sergeant executed his orders; and when the various articles had been procured, Sir Clinton closed the door behind him and set to work. His task took him rather longer than he expected, but at last it was done to his satisfaction. He called his subordinate in again. “A glass of water, sergeant, if you please.”