Grant repressed a smile. He recalled well enough the first “line” the policeman took, and the mischief it had caused. Being an even-minded person, however, he admitted that his own behavior had not been above suspicion on the day the crime was discovered. In allotting blame, as between Robinson and himself, the proportion was six of one and half a dozen of the other. “Propound, justiciary,” said Hart. “You’ve started well, anyhow. The connection between a line and a rope should be obvious even to a judge.... As a pipe-opener, have a drink!” Robinson had removed his helmet, and was flourishing a red handkerchief, not without cause, the day being really very hot. “Not for a few minutes, thank you, sir,” said the policeman. “May I ask Bates for a sack and a cord?” He went to the kitchen. Hart was “tickled to death,” he vowed. “We are about to witness the reconstruction of the crime, a procedure which the French delight in, and the intellect of France is a hundred years ahead of our effete civilization,” he chortled. Grant was not so pleased. The memory of a distressing vision was beginning to blur, and this ponderous policeman must come and revive it. Yet, even he grew interested when Robinson illustrated a nebulous idea by knotting a clothesline around a sack stuffed with straw, having brought Bates to bear him out in the matter of accuracy. “There you are, gentlemen!” he said, puffing after the slight exertion. “That’s the way of it. How does it strike you?” “It’s what a sailor calls two half hitches,” commented Hart instantly. “A very serviceable knot, which will resist to the full strength of the rope.” “We have no sailors in Steynholme, sir,” said the policeman. “Oh, it’s used regularly by tradesmen,” put in Grant. “A draper, or grocer—any man accustomed to tying parcels securely, in fact—will fashion that knot nine times out of ten.” “How about a—a farmer, sir?” That was as near as Robinson dared to go to “horse-dealer.” “I think a farmer would be more likely to adopt a timber hitch, which is made in several ways. Here are samples.” And Grant busied himself with rope and sack. Robinson watched closely. “Yes,” he nodded. “I’ve seen those knots in a farmyard.... Well, it’s something—not much—but a trifle better than nothing.... All right, Bates. You can take ’em away.” “Have you shown that knot to Mr. Furneaux?” inquired Grant. “No, sir. I’ve kept that up me sleeve, as the sayin’ is.” “But why?” Robinson shuffled uneasily on his feet. “These Scotland Yard men will hardly listen to a uniformed constable, sir,” he said. “I’ll tell ’em all about it at the inquest on Wednesday.” “In effect, John P. Robinson he sez they didn’t know everythin’ down in Judee,” quoted Hart. “You’ve got my name pat,” grinned the policeman, whose Christian names were “John Price.” “My name is Walter, not Patrick,” retorted Hart. Robinson continued to smile, though he failed to grasp the joke until late that evening.