“Insulting, he is,” said the landlord. “Ah,” said the cook, “’e won’t insult me!” “You know something about him?” said the landlady. “A little,” said the cook. The landlord reached over to his wife, who bent her ear readily and dutifully towards him, and the cook distinctly caught the whispered word “’tec.” The landlady, after a curious glance at the cook, withdrew to serve a couple of wagoners who had drawn up at the door. Conversation became general, and it was evident that the wagoners shared the sentiments of the landlord and his wife with regard to Mr. Dunn. They regarded the cook with awe, and after proffering him a pint with respectful timidity, offered to give him a lift to Holebourne. “I’d sooner go on my own,” said the cook, with a glance at the wagons; “I want to get in the place quiet like and ’ave a look round before I do anythin’.” He sat there for some time resting, and evading as best he could the skilful questions of the landlady. The wagons moved off first, jolting and creaking their way to Holebourne, and the cook, after making a modest luncheon of bread and cheese and smoking a pipe, got on the road again. “Look how he walks!” said the landlord, as the couple watched him up the road. “Ah!” said his wife. “Like a bloodhound,” said the landlord impressively; “just watch him. I knew what he was directly I clapped eyes on him.” The cook continued his journey, unconscious of the admiration excited by his movements. He began to think that he had been a trifle foolish in talking so freely. Still, he had not said much, and if people liked to make mistakes, why, that was their business. In this frame of mind he entered Holebourne, a small village consisting of a little street, an inn, and a church. At the end of the street, in front of a tidy little cottage with a well-kept front garden, a small knot of people were talking. “Somethin’ on,” said the cook to himself as he returned with interest the stares of the villagers. “Which is Mr. Dunn’s house, boy?” “There it is, sir,” said the boy, pointing to the house where the people were standing. “Are you the detective?” “No,” said the cook sharply. He walked across to the house and opened the little garden gate, quite a little hum of excitement following him as he walked up to the door and knocked upon it with his knuckles. “Come in,” growled a deep voice. The cook entered and carefully closed the door behind him. He found himself in a small sitting-room, the only occupant of which was an old man of forbidding aspect sitting in an easy chair with a newspaper open in his hand. “What do you want?” he demanded, looking up. “I want to see Mr. Dunn,” said the cook nervously. “I’m Mr. Dunn,” said the other, waiting. The cook’s heart sank, for, with the exception of a beard, Mr. Dunn no more resembled the portrait than he did. “I’m Mr. Dunn,” repeated the old man, regarding him ferociously from beneath his shaggy eyebrows.