“He goes through life a free and independent citizen of this or any other country. Arrests on suspicion are not my long suit.” “How does one get evidence?” purred Hart. “It isn’t scattered broadcast by a clever criminal. And you fellows seem to object to my method, which has been the only effectual one so far in this affair.” “If you had shot that specter the other night there would have been the deuce to pay.” “But you would now be sure of the murderer?” “Why do you assume that?” “Like Eugene Aram, he can’t keep away from the scene of his crime.” Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape. “Detective work is nearly all guessing,” he said sententiously, “yet one must beware of what I may term obvious guessing. If cause and effect were so closely allied in certain classes of crime my department would cease to exist, and the protection of life and property might be left safely to the ordinary police. By the way, P. C. Robinson has been rather inactive during two whole days. That makes me suspicious. What’s he up to? Can you throw a light on him, Peters?” The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease prying. He kicked Hart under the table. “Hi!” yelled Wally. “What’s the matter? Strike your matches on your own shin, not mine.” “Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed,” said Winter firmly. “Very well. He needn’t emphasize the warning by a hob-nailed boot. When my injured feelings have recovered I’ll discourse to you of strange folk and stranger doings on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, and your stock as an Argentine plutocrat will rise one hundred per cent, next time you’re badgered by a man who knows the country.” “Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail,” laughed Peters. “His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of the picture-buying.” “Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known,” said Winter. “He gave every publicity to it.” “Did he secure a bargain, I wonder?” said Grant. “Oh, I expect so. He doesn’t waste his hard-earned money, even for official purposes.” But Winter was well aware of, and kept to himself one phase of the art deal, at any rate. Furneaux had persuaded Siddle to fasten two bulky packages with string! He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever in attire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at full length on Winter’s bed. “Been up all night,” he explained. “Chemical analysis is fascinating but slow work—like watching a moth evolve from a grub. Had a fearful job, too, to get an analyst to chuck a theater and attend to business. The blighter talked of office hours. _Cré nom_! Ten till four, and an hour and a half for lunch! Why can’t we run _our_ show on those lines, James!” Winter finished carefully the left side of his broad expanse of face. “You came down by the mail, I suppose?” he said casually.