“Drive me to the chemist’s” he said to the groom; within five minutes, he was explaining his purchase to Siddle, and requesting, as a favor, that the latter should wrap the set of prints in brown paper, making two parcels, and tying each securely, so that they might be dispatched by train. Siddle examined one, the first of the series, which depicted the Aylesbury Steeplechase. “Rather good,” he said. “Where did you pick them up?” “At Elkin’s.” “Indeed. What an unexpected place!” “That’s the only way a poor man can get hold of a decent thing nowadays. The dealers grab everything, and sell them as collections.” “Art is not in my line, though anyone can see that these are excellent.” “Yes. But you’re looking at ‘The Start.’ Have a peep at this one, ‘The Finish.’ The artist _would_ have his joke. You see that the dark horse wins.” “How did you persuade Elkin to part with them?” “By paying him a tempting price, of course. I’m a weak-minded ass in such matters.” The chemist busied himself to oblige the detective, wrapping and tying the packages neatly. Furneaux insisted on paying sixpence for the paper, string, and labor. There was quite a friendly argument, but he carried his point. The dog-cart then brought him to the station, where he tipped and dismissed the man; a little later, he caught a London-bound train. At half past seven precisely, Winter turned in through the Knoleworth-side gate of _The Hollies_ (there were two, the approach to the house being semi-circular) and pushed the door open, as it was standing ajar. Grant was waiting in the hall, and greeted him pleasantly. “Here’s a telegram which is meant for you, I fancy,” he said. Winter read: _“Sorry to spoil your party. Compelled to travel to London. Returning early to-morrow. F.”_ “That’s pretty Fanny’s way,” smiled the Chief Inspector. “But there’s something in the wind, or he would never have hurried off in this fashion. He tells me that the only pleasant evening he spent in Steynholme was under your roof, Mr. Grant.” “Come along in, Don Jaime!” drawled Hart’s voice from the “den,” which had been cleared of its litter, the lawn being deemed somewhat unsuitable for the purposes of a drawing-room on that occasion. It was overlooked from too many quarters. “Ah, we meet now under less uneven conditions, Mr. Hart,” said Winter. “Do you know that Enrico Suarez is in London?” Hart, startled for once in his life, gazed at the detective fixedly. “Since when?” he cried. “He crossed from Lisbon last week.” Hart took a revolver from his hip pocket, and opened it, apparently making sure that it was properly loaded. “What’s the law in England?” he inquired. “Can I shoot first, or must I wait till the other fellow has had a pop?” Winter laughed. “It’s all right,” he said. “Suarez is in Holloway, awaiting extradition. But I owed you one for the rise you took out of me to-day.” A bell sounded, and Peters came in. He glanced around. “Where’s Furneaux?” he demanded.