“Good day,” he said, finding Elkin drinking tea, and eating a boiled egg. “You’re feeling better, I’m glad to see.” Now, no matter how ungracious a man may be, a courteous solicitude as to his health demands a certain note of civility in return. “Yes,” he said. “Sit down. Will you join me?” “I’ll have a cup of tea, with pleasure,” said Furneaux. “Right-o! Just touch that bell, will you?” The other obeyed, and took a closer look at one of the prints. Yes, the date was right, 1841, and the stippling admirable. “Nice lot of pictures, those,” he said cheerfully, when the frightened maid, much to her relief, had been told to bring another cup and a fresh supply of toast. “Are they?” Elkin had taken them and some kitchen furniture for a bad debt. “Yes. Will you sell them?” “Well, I haven’t thought about it. What’ll you give?” Furneaux hesitated. “I can’t resist anything in the art line that takes my fancy,” he said, after a pause of indecision. “What do you say to ten bob each?” Elkin valued the lot at that figure, but Furneaux was a fool, and should be treated as such. “Oh, come now!” he cried roguishly. “They’re worth more than that.” Furneaux reflected again. “Three pounds is a good deal for six prints,” he murmured, “but, to get it off my mind, I’ll spring to guineas.” “Make it three-ten and they’re yours.” “Three guineas is my absolute limit,” said Furneaux. “Done!” cried Elkin. The original debt was under two pounds, so he had cleared more than fifty per cent. on the transaction, and was plus a number of chairs and a table. Furneaux counted out the money, wrote a receipt on a leaf torn from his pocket-book, and stamped it. “Sign that,” he said, “pocket the cash, send the set to the Hare and Hounds for me in a dog-cart now, and the deal is through.” Leaving the table, he went and lifted down each picture carefully. Somewhat wonderingly, Elkin rang the bell once more, gave the necessary instructions, and the room was cleared of its art. He was quite sure now that Furneaux was, as he put it, “dotty.” The latter, however, sat and enjoyed his tea as though well pleased with his bargain. “And how are things going in the murder at _The Hollies_?” inquired the horse-dealer, by way of a polite leading up to the visitor’s unexplained business. “Fairly well,” said the detective. “My chief difficulty was to convince certain important people that you didn’t kill Miss Melhuish. Once I—” “Me!” roared Elkin, his pale blue eyes assuming a fiery tint. “_Me!_”