Bates had disappeared before Grant remembered that the press photographer had mentioned the Big ’Un and the Little ’Un of the Yard. “Now, I wonder,” he said. His wonder could hardly have equaled Winter’s had he heard the gardener’s words. The guess was a distinct score for blunt Sussex, though it was founded solely on the assumption that all comers now, unless Bates was personally acquainted with them, were limbs of the law. Chapter XII. Wherein Winter Gets to Work Winter had identified Bates at the first glance. The letters in the man’s hand, too, showed his errand, so, while the gardener was climbing the hill, the detective slipped into Robinson’s cottage. He found the policeman awaiting him in the dark, because a voice said: “Beg pardon, sir, but the other gentleman from the ‘Yard’ asked me to take him into the kitchen. A light in the front room might attract attention, he thought.” “Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him,” said Winter, quite alive to the canny discretion behind those words, “the other gentleman.” Robinson led the way. Supper was laid on the table. Poor Mrs. Robinson had again beaten a hasty retreat. “Now, Robinson,” said the Chief Inspector affably, “before we come to business I’ll prove my bona fides. Here is my official card, and I’ll run quickly through events until 1.30 p.m. to-day. I met Mr. Furneaux at Victoria, and he posted me fully up to that hour.” So the policeman listened to a clear summary of the Steynholme case as it was known to the authorities. “I did not warn either Mr. Fowler or you of my visit because a telegram could hardly be explicit enough,” concluded Winter. “At the inn I am Mr. Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line. At this moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who is aware of my official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged to secrecy. To-morrow or any other day until further notice, you and I meet as strangers in public. By the way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you that he found the wig and the false beard in the river early this morning. The wearer had apparently flung them off while crossing the foot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that they would not sink readily. Perhaps he didn’t care. At any rate, Mr. Hart’s bullet seems to have laid Owd Ben’s ghost. Now, what of this fellow, Elkin? He worries me.” “Can I offer you a glass of beer, sir?” “With pleasure. May I smoke while you eat? You see, I differ from Mr. Furneaux in both size and habits.” Robinson poured out the beer. He was preternaturally grave. The somewhat incriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer that afternoon lay heavy upon him. But he told his story succinctly enough. Winter nodded to emphasize each point, and congratulated him at the end. “You arranged that very well,” he said. “I gather, though, that Elkin spoke rather openly.”