“No. You’re still muddled after floundering in the mud of South America. What possessed you to let that cheerful idiot, Wally Hart, put you in the cart?” “How could I help it? I was extracting some really helpful facts about Siddle and Elkin from Tomlin and the others when a shock-headed whirlwind blew in, and nearly embraced me because I claimed acquaintance with the El Dorado bar in Buenos Ayres. From that instant I was lost. Like St. Augustine on the gridiron, no sooner was I nicely toasted on one side than I was turned on to the other. That grinning penny-a-liner, Peters, too, helped as assistant torturer. Wait till he asks me for a ‘pointer’ in this or any other case. He sold me a pup to-day, but I’ll land him with a full-sized mastiff.” “No, you won’t. He’s done you a lot of good. You were simply reeking with conceit when I met you this morning. It was ‘Siddle this’ and ‘Siddle that’ until you fairly sickened me. One would have thought I hadn’t cleared the ground for you, left you with all lines open and yourself unknown to the enemy. Sometimes, you make me tired.” “Sorry, Charles,” said Winter patronizingly. “I had a bit of luck on Sunday, I admit. The chance turn taken by the conversation with Doris, with the result that I was able to occupy a strategic position on the cliff, and hear every word Siddle uttered, was really fortunate. But, isn’t that just what men mean when they prate of success? Opportunity knocks once at every man’s door, says the old saw. The clever man grabs hold instantly. The indolent one, often a mere gabbler, opens his eyes and his mouth weeks afterwards, and cries, ‘Dear me! Was that the much-looked-for opportunity?’ Of course, Robinson’s by-play with the sack and rope was merely thrown in by the prodigal hand of Fate.” “Stop!” yelped Furneaux. “Another platitude, and I’ll assault you with the tongs!” It was the invariable habit of the Big ’Un and Little ’Un to quarrel like cat and dog when the toils were closing in around a suspect. Woe, then, to the malefactor! His was a parlous state. “Let’s cool down, Charles!” said Winter, opening a leather case, and selecting, with great care, one out of half a dozen precisely similar cigars. “We’re pretty sure of our man, but we haven’t a scrap of evidence against him. How, or where, to begin ringing him in I haven’t the faintest notion. If only he’d kill Grant we’d get him at once.” “But he won’t. He trusts to Ingerman playing that part of the game. He’s as artful as a pet fox. I bought soap, and a pound of sal volatile, but he did up each parcel with sealing-wax.” “Sal volatile!” smiled Winter. “I, too, went in for soap, but my imagination would not soar beyond a packet of cotton-wool. It was the lumpiest thing I could think of.” “And perfectly useless!” sneered Furneaux. “I must say you do fling the taxpayers’ money about. Now, _my_ little lot will keep the electric bells in my flat in order for two years.”