“Bad habit,” and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. “Even the wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. I really fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do you think it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box of old clothes at that. Silly, isn’t it?” “Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin’ things?” “Exactly.” Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh. “Not so sharp for a London ’tec, I must say,” he cried. “Why, those props have been there since before Christmas.” “Yes. I know now,” was the downcast reply. “Twelve hours ago I thought differently. Didn’t I, Mr. Tomlin?” Tomlin tried hard to look knowing. “Oh, is that wot you wur drivin’ at?” he said. “Dang me, mister, I could soon ha’ put you right ’ad you tole me.” “Well, well. Can’t be helped. I may do better in London. What do _you_ say, Mr. Ingerman? The City is the real mint of money and crime. Who knows but that a stroll through Cornhill may have some bearing on the Steynholme mystery?” “May be you’d get a bit nearer if you took a stroll along the Knoleworth Road, and not so very far, either,” guffawed Elkin. “Who knows?” repeated Furneaux sadly. “Good-day, gentlemen. Some of this merry party will meet again, of course, if not here, at the Assizes. Don’t forget my bill. Mr. Tomlin. By the way, one egg at breakfast had seen vicissitudes. It shouldn’t be rated too highly.” “I’m traveling by your train,” cried Ingerman. “So I understood,” said Furneaux over his shoulder. There was silence for a moment after he had gone. Ingerman looked thoughtful, even puzzled. He was casting back in his mind to discover just how and when the detective “understood” that his departure was imminent, since he himself had only arrived at a decision after leaving the chemist’s. “That chap is no good,” announced Elkin. “I’ll back old Robinson against him any day.” “Sh-s-sh! He may ’ear you,” muttered the landlord. “Don’t care if he does. Cornhill! What the blazes has Cornhill to do with the murder at _The Hollies_?” Ingerman appreciated the value of that concluding phrase. Elkin had used it once before in Siddle’s shop, and was quietly reproved by the chemist for his outspokenness. Ingerman, however, did not inform the company that his office lay in an alley off Cornhill. He elected to rub in Elkin’s words. “Mr. Siddle seemed to object to _The Hollies_ being mentioned as the scene of the crime,” he said. “I wonder why?” “Because he’s an old molly-coddle,” snapped the horse-dealer. “Thinks everyone is like himself, a regular slow-coach.” Tomlin closed the door into the passage, closed it for the first time in living memory, whereat Furneaux, on the landing above, grinned sardonically, and ran downstairs. “Wot’s this about them amatoor clo’es?” he inquired portentously. “Oo ’as the key of that box?”