But the “little Frenchman” was smiling, too. He had elaborated the scheme already discussed with Winter. It was much to his liking, though unorthodox, rather crack-brained, more than risky, and altogether opposed to the instructions of the Police Manual. Each of these drawbacks was a commendation to Furneaux. In fact, the Steynholme mystery had taken quite a favorable turn during that talk with Ingerman. Chapter XI. P. C. Robinson Takes Another Line About the time Furneaux was whisked past _The Hollies_ in Superintendent Fowler’s dogcart, Grant and Hart were finishing luncheon, and planning a long walk to the sea. Grant would dearly have liked to secure Doris’s company, but good taste forbade that he should even invite her to share the ramble. Thus, the death of a woman with whom he had not exchanged a word during three years had already set up a barrier between Doris and himself. Though impalpable, it was effective. It could neither be climbed nor avoided. Quiet little Steynholme had suddenly become a rigid censor of morals and etiquette. Until this evil thing was annihilated by slow process of law, Doris and he might meet only by chance and never remain long together. When the two were ready to start, Hart elected to dispense with his South American sombrero. “I am sensitive to ridicule,” he professed. “The village urchins will christen me ‘Owd Ben,’ and the old gentleman’s character was such that I would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I’ll join the no hat brigade.” “I wonder if we’ll meet Furneaux,” said Grant, selecting a walking-stick. “It’s odd that we should have seen nothing of him this morning.” “It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions he took not to be observed coming here last night.” “Well, that’s so. I forgot to ask the reason. There was one, I suppose.” “Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He’s wasted on Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an ambassador.” “Quaint alternatives, those.” “Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in coining cute phrases. I’ve met scores of both tribes, and they’re like as peas in a pod.” A bell rang. “That’s the front door,” said Grant. “It’s Furneaux himself, I hope.” But the visitor was P. C. Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted. “Glad I’ve caught you before you went out, sir,” he said. “Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you he had to hurry back to London. I was also to mention that he had got the whiskers.” “What whiskers? Whose whiskers?” “That’s all he said, sir—he’d got the whiskers.” “Why, Owd Ben’s whiskers, of course. How dense you are, Jack!” put in Hart. Now, this was the first Robinson had heard of whiskers in connection with the crime. He remembered Elkin’s make-up as Svengali, of course, and could have kicked himself for not associating earlier a set of sable whiskers with the black wig and the bullet-torn hat. But, Owd Ben! What figure did that redoubtable ghost cut in the mystery?