It is true that Agatha had been properly impressed by his story on Saturday night. His friends at the golf club, on the other hand, had not. In the golf club Mr. Foster’s great story had, it is to be feared, fallen distinctly flat. His friends had not gone so far as to accuse him of pulling their legs, but they had very plainly hinted at it. Now Mr. Foster was bubbling over with a scheme for a most crushing revenge; he would learn all this girl had to tell him, act upon it with his usual thoroughness and, without calling in the official police at all, solve the whole mystery and possibly lay by the heels the sinister Man with the Broken Nose himself. In other words, Mr. Foster felt that if he had been pitch-forked into the middle of a veritable penny-dreadful then it was up to him to see that he usurped the rôle of hero. But Agatha would almost certainly spoil all that. Agatha would be terrified at the idea that he might be called upon to face actual physical danger. Model wife though she was as a rule (and by “model” Mr. Foster meant “subservient”), she would almost certainly try to put her spoke into his wheel and cause the whole thing to collapse. It was a pity, because Mr. Foster saw some promising possibilities in the situation (“Of course, my dear, it’s no good trying to disguise the fact from you that I’m in deadly danger. I am. These fellows will shoot at sight, and when I penetrate their lair I do so with my life in my hands. I don’t want to exaggerate: I’m simply stating plain facts. No, don’t cry, Agatha. I’m determined to go through with the thing. You wouldn’t have me a coward, would you?”), but there the thing was; Agatha must not know. Mr. Foster tracked his wife to the kitchen and, listening stealthily, heard her discussing sausages with the cook. From that they would go on to to-night’s dinner, and thence to any number of possibilities. Agatha was safely tethered for the next half-hour. He strolled out into the road and swept a wary eye up and down it. Except for a medium-sized boy, with a bias towards stoutness, it was empty. Not without relief, Mr. Foster turned towards his own front garden. It was then that the medium-sized boy, who had been regarding him with stolid intentness, spoke to him. “I say,” said the boy, “are you Mr. Foster?” Mr. Foster turned back again. “Yes? Do you want me, my boy?” “I read about you in _The Courier_,” said the boy. Mr. Foster brightened. He was all in favour of people who had read about him in _The Courier_; he was still more in favour of those of them who came to gaze upon him as if he were a local curiosity. “You did, did you?” said Mr. Foster genially. “Well, and what did you think about it all?” “Jolly fine. Ripping murder, wasn’t it?” The newcomer spoke a trifle absently; his eyes were fixed on Mr. Foster’s nose. Drawing nearer, he scrutinised that organ with careful attention. “I say,” he continued, “have you ever broken your nose?”