“You, too? Good egg!” was the cry. The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality. “Where the deuce are you off to?” he demanded. “To Steynholme—same as you, of course.” “Look here, Peters, a word in your ear. If you know me during the next few days, you’ll never know me again. I suppose you’ll be staying at the local inn—there’s only one of any repute in the place?” “That’s so. I’ve got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate when the time comes?” “Have I ever failed you?” “No. We meet as strangers.” Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest “writer up” in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested both him and a shrewd news-editor. The pair arrived at the Hare and Hounds within a few minutes of each other. The big man registered as “Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina.” Peters ordered a chop, and went off at once to interview the local policeman. Mr. Franklin took more pains over the prospective meal. “Have you a nice chicken?” he inquired. Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder at that moment. “And do you think your cook could provide a _tourne-dos_?” “A what-a, sir?” wheezed Tomlin. The visitor explained. He liked variety, he said. Half the chicken might be deviled for breakfast. The two dishes, with plain boiled potatoes and French beans, would suit him admirably. He was sorry he dared not try Tomlin’s excellent claret, but a dominating doctor had put him on the water-cart. In effect, Mr. Franklin impressed the landlord as a man of taste and ample means. Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, but they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anent his carryin’s on in Knoleworth the previous night. Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitués had the place to themselves. Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purpose exactly, so he gave the conversation the right twist. “I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this sensational murder?” he said. Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at his neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the stranger, and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely: “The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Three days gone, and nothing done!” “What murder are you discussing, may I ask?” put in Franklin. Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly mobile face. “Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven’t heard of the Steynholme murder?” he gasped. “I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I landed in England only a week ago from France, my ignorance, though abyssmal, is pardonable. Moreover, I can say truly that I am far more interested in pedigree horses than in vulgar criminals.”