“I felt like a pint of Sussex ale after a hot journey in the train, so hied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me your real name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a hobby of enlightening strangers as to your right place in society.” “I must interview Elkin.” “Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I might be doing you more harm than good, or I would have given him a thick ear this afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?” “Seven o’clock.” “A little fellow named Furneaux is coming here to dinner at seven-thirty. Said he would drop in by the back door, and mutter ‘Hush! I’m Hawkshaw, the detective.’ He resembles a cock-sparrow, so I asked him why he didn’t fly in through an attic window. He took my point at once, and remarked that he wanted none of my lip, or he would ask me officially what became of Don Ramon de Santander’s big pink pearl. It’s a queer yarn. There was a bust-up in Guatemala—” “Look here, Wally,” broke in Grant anxiously. “Are you serious? Did Furneaux really say he was coming here?” “He did, and more—he expressed a partiality for a chicken roasted on a spit. You have a spit in your kitchen, he says, and a pair of chickens in your larder.” “How did you contrive to meet him?” “You’re a poor guesser, Jack. _He_ met _me_. ‘That you, Mr. Hart?’ he said. ‘Mr. Grant’s house is the first on the right across the bridge. Tell him’—and the rest of it.” “Have you warned Mrs. Bates?” “Mrs. Bates being?” “My housekeeper.” “No, sir. If she’s anything like your housemaid, I’m glad I didn’t, or I should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a job to reach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in the village lockup.” Grant hurried away, and placated Mrs. Bates after a stormy interlude. Precisely at 7.30 p. m. Minnie came and said that “Mr. Hawkshaw” had arrived. “Bring him out here,” said Grant. “Fetch some sherry and glasses, and give us five minutes’ notice before dinner is served.” “Please, sir,” tittered Minnie, “the gentleman prefers to stay indoors. He said his complexion won’t stand the glare.” “Very well,” smiled Grant, rising. “Put the sherry and bitters on the sideboard.” “Say,” murmured Hart, “is this chap really a detective?” “Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard.” “Never more than five feet four, I’ll swear. But I wouldn’t have missed this for a pension. I have a revolver in my hip pocket, of course. One would feel lonely without it, even in England. But I hope you can stage a few knives and daggers, and a red light. I can cut masks out of a strip of black velvet. That girl will have a piece stowed away somewhere.” The two entered the dining-room study, where the table was now laid for dinner. Furneaux was seated on the edge of a chair in the darkest corner. His eyes gleamed at them strangely. “Can you trust Bates?” he said to Grant. It was a wholly unexpected question, and Grant answered sharply: