“There are certain _lacunae_ in your otherwise vigorous and thrilling story, constable,” went on Hart. “Very likely, sir,” agreed Robinson, much to the surprise of his hearers. He had not the slightest notion what a _lacuna_, or its plural, signified. He was only adopting Furneaux’s advice, and trying to be civil. “Ah, you see that, do you?” said Hart. “Well, fill ’em in. When, where, and how did the midget sleuth obtain the specter’s hairy adornments?” The policeman, whose wits were thoroughly on the alert, realized that he had scored a point, though he knew not how. “He did not tell me, sir,” he answered. “It’s a rum business, that’s what it is, no matter what way you look at it.” Grant, agreeably aware of the village constable’s change of front, accepted the olive branch readily. “We’re just going for a walk,” he said. “If you have ten minutes to spare, Mrs. Bates will find you some luncheon, I have no doubt.” “Well, sir, meals are a trifle irregular during a busy time like this,” admitted Robinson, feeling that his luck was in, because tongues would surely be loosened in the kitchen to an official guest introduced by the master of the establishment. He was right. No member of the Bates family dreamed of reticence, now that the household was restored to favor with “the force.” Before Robinson departed, he was full of information and good food. What more natural, then, an hour later, than that he should contrive to meet Elkin as the horse-dealer was taking home a lively two-year-old pony he had been “lungeing” on a strip of common opposite his house? Each was eager to question the other, but Elkin opened fire. “Anything fresh?” he cried. “You have a fair course now, Robinson. That little London ’tec has bunked home.” “Has he?” In the language of the ring, Robinson thought fit to spar for an opening. “Oh, none of your kiddin’,” said Elkin, stroking the nervous colt’s neck. “You know he has. You don’t miss much that’s going on. Bet you half a thick ’un you’d have put someone in clink before this if the murder at _The Hollies_ had been left in your hands.” “That’s as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped you for fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin’ badly?” “Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night.” “You shouldn’t be out so late. Why, on’y a week ago you were in bed regular at 10.15.” “That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed at Knoleworth.” “What time did you reach home?” “Dashed if I know. After twelve before I was in bed. By the way, what’s this about things missing from a box owned by the Amateur Dramatic Society? That silly josser of a detective—What’s his name?” “Furneaux,” said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear too secretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the very topic he wanted to discuss.