“Thank you for the compliment,” returned Anthony smiling. “I appreciate it, I assure you. I shall be very pleased to hear what you wish to tell me. Fire away!” The giant glanced round, then lowered his voice appreciably. “My name’s Michael O’Connor and I’m the father of Patrick O’Connor—him as they call boot-boy up at the Lodge—Mr. Stewart’s place. Patrick was eighteen on the 17th of March and has worked for poor Mr. Stewart for three or four months now. He does lots of odd jobs about the place and gives the gardener a hand—I’m tellin’ you this just to give you a rough idea of who he is—so to speak. Now Patrick’s a good lad—though he’s mine and say it I shouldn’t—honest and willin’. He gets sent out a good deal, so Mr. Stewart provided him with a bicycle to run his errands on. He don’t sleep up at the Lodge and he’s supposed to leave the bicycle there when he gets away of an evening—which is usually about seven. The machine goes into old Maidment’s potting-shed. Maidment’s the gardener. That’s where Patrick put it the night before last.” He stroked his beard and pushed his face nearer to Bathurst. “When he went to the Lodge yesterday mornin’ and heard all about the murder there wasn’t much work for him, as you may well guess—so he thought he’d give his bicycle a bit of a clean-up. What does he find when he looks at it?” He paused dramatically and drew himself to his full height. “That it had been used by somebody since my Patrick left it in the shed.” He spat again. “And how do you think he knew?” he chuckled—then without giving Bathurst time to venture an opinion, continued, “Look down there, sir,” he said, pointing down the road that wound into Assynton village. “See the steam-roller?” Bathurst both saw and heard it—puffing and grinding after the manner of steam-rollers and flaunting the White Horse of Kent. “The road into Assynton is bein’ done up,” continued O’Connor—“with tarred macadam. The sun for two or three days now has been melting the new stuff that’s been put down—it sticks to your boots if you walk in it. And my Patrick tells me that _the tires of his bicycle were all_ marked with it.” He concluded on a note of triumph. Then looked at Bathurst with an invitation for approval. “Good lad,” contributed Anthony. “He’s told nobody besides you?” O’Connor shook his leonine head. “He was a bit frightened-like, I think, sir, so he brought his troubles to his father—I teach my young’uns to do that! But it proves this, sir, _somebody used the bicycle the night of the murder_.” Anthony nodded in corroboration. “I suppose he’s sure he didn’t pick the stuff up himself on some errand?” “Absolutely, sir. He says he came into the village twice the day before yesterday, and took great care to miss the part of the road that’s been tarred. But a person riding in the dark, sir, wouldn’t notice it—’specially if he had somethin’ on his mind.” He sniffed—and the sniff carried a wealth of meaning.