Meanwhile, Furneaux, seeing that no dead body was stretched on the strip of grass beneath the window, dashed into the shrubbery to the right, and was clutched in a mighty embrace by an older but much more powerful man in Bates, who had hurried from the front of the house on hearing the pistol-shot. Most fortunately, the gardener, deeming his vigil a needless one, had not armed himself with a stick, or the consequences might have been grave. As it was, no one except Hart had been vouchsafed sight or sound of the latest specter, which, however, had left a very convincing souvenir of its visit in the shape of a soft felt hat with two bullet holes through the crown. Furneaux, quivering with silent wrath, soon abandoned the search when this _pièce de conviction_ was found at the root of the Dorothy Perkins rose-tree. Seeing the lamp relighted, he peremptorily bade Grant and Bates come in with him. He closed the window, adjusted the blind again, and poured generous measures of port wine into two glasses. Handing one to Bates, he took the other himself. “Friend,” he said, “some men have fame thrust upon them, but you have achieved it. To-night you pierced the heel of Achilles. Here’s to you!” “I dunno wot ’ee’s saying mister, but ‘good health’,” said Bates, swigging the wine with gusto. “Now, for your master’s sake, not a word to a soul about this hubbub.” “Right you are, sir! But that there pryin’ Robinson wur on t’ bridge five minutes since. And, by gum, here he is!” A determined knock and ring came at the front door. Minnie, helped by Hart, had just escorted Mrs. Bates to the kitchen. “Let _me_ go!” said Furneaux, darting out into the hall. He opened the door, and thrust his face into the police-constable’s, startling the latter considerably. Before Robinson could utter a syllable, the detective hissed a question. “Did anyone cross the bridge after that shot was fired?” “Nun—No, sir,” stuttered the other. “You saw no one running along the road?” “Saw nothing, sir.” “Very well. Glad to find you’re on the job. Don’t let on you met me here. Good-night!” Mighty is Scotland Yard with the provincial police. Robinson was back on his self-imposed beat before he well realized that he knew neither why nor by whom nor by what sort of weapon the commotion had been created. But he was quite sure the noise came from the garden front of Mr. Grant’s house. “That little hop-o’-me-thumb thinks he’s smart, dam smart,” he communed angrily, “but I’ve taken a line of me own, an’ I’ll stick to it, though the Yard sends down twenty men!”