Winter produced a note-book, so he was evidently taking the matter seriously. The policeman, however, was flustered. His thoughts ran on Elkin, whereas this masterful person from London insisted on discussing Doris Martin. “My difficulty is, sir, that she has never kep’ company with any of ’em,” he said. “Never mind. Give me the name of every man who, no matter what his position or prospects, might be irritated, if no more, if he knew that Miss Martin and Mr. Grant were presumably spooning in a garden at a rather late hour.” It was a totally new line of inquiry for Robinson, but he bent his wits to it, and evolved a list which, if published, would certainly be regarded with incredulous envy by every other girl in the village than the postmaster’s daughter; as for Doris herself, she would be mightily surprised when she saw it, but whether annoyed or secretly gratified none but a pretty girl of nineteen can tell. Winter departed soon afterwards. Before going to the inn he had a look at the forge. A young woman, standing at the open door of the adjoining cottage, favored him with a frank stare. There was no light in the dwelling. When he returned, after walking a little way down the road, the door was closed. Next morning, Bates heard of Peters as the detective and of Mr. Franklin as a “millionaire” from South America. Moreover, he scrutinized both in the flesh, and saw Robinson salute Peters but pass the financial potentate with indifference. Alas, that a reputation, once built, should be destroyed! “I was mistook, sir,” he reported to Grant later. “There’s another ’tec about, but ’e ain’t the chap I met last night. They say this other bloke is rollin’ in money, an’ buyin’ hosses right an’ left.” “Then he’ll soon be rolling in the mud, and have no money,” put in Hart. “Who is he?” inquired Grant carelessly. “A Mr. Franklin, from South America, sir.” Grant and Hart exchanged glances. Curiously enough, Hart remained silent till Bates had gone. “I must look this joker up, Jack,” he said then. “To me the mere mention of South America is like Mother Gary’s chickens to a sailor, a harbinger of storm.” But Hart consumed Tomlin’s best brew to no purpose—in so far as seeing Mr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying a famous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher in troubled waters was not inclined to return without a bag of some sort. He walked straight into the post office. Doris and her father were there, the telegraphist being out. “Good day, everybody,” he cried cheerfully. “Grant wants to know, Mr. Martin, if you and Miss Doris will come and dine with him, us, this evening at 7.30?” The postmaster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Doris laughed, and blushed a little. “This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant’s, dad,” she explained. “I’m afraid we cannot accept the invitation. We are so busy.” “The worst of excuses,” said Hart.