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 your nags. Treat Mr. Franklin fairly. The friend of Don Manoel Alcorta must be a true man.” Winter heaved a sigh of relief when the professional revolutionist had vanished. “He’s a funny ’un,” commented one of the farmers. “A bit touched, I reckon,” said another. “Wot’s ’e doin’ now to the other one?” They looked through the window. The two were standing in the middle of the road, and Wally was shaking Peters violently. The argument was not so fierce as it appeared to be. Peters had been commanded to bring both detectives to dinner that evening; when he demurred, trying to hedge on the question of Winter’s identity, Hart grabbed him by the shoulder. “Do as I tell you,” he hissed. “Of course, I know now that the big fellow is the man Grant heard of a week ago. I was an idiot to take him seriously about the Argentine. Bring the pair of ’em, I tell you. We’ll make a night of it.” “I’ll try,” said Peters faintly, “but if you stir up that wine so vigorously I won’t answer for the consequences.” Winter, wishing devoutly that would-be sellers of horseflesh were not so numerous in the district, noted the names and addresses of the local men, and promised to write when he could make an appointment. Then he escaped upstairs, whither Furneaux soon followed. Winter had secured an extra bedroom, overlooking the river, which Tomlin had converted into a sitting-room. Thus, he held a secure observation post both in front and rear of the hotel. “Well, how did she take it?” inquired the Chief Inspector, when he and his colleague were safe behind a closed door. “Sensible girl,” said Furneaux. “By the way, Siddle’s mother is dead. Telegram came this morning. Things should happen now.” “I don’t quite see why.”