"Well, this time you have an outside chance. The others were certs--for me." Winter smoked in silence for a space. "I'll take you," he said. "The artist?" "No." The Jerseyman shook his head. "Police Constable Farrow?" ventured Winter again. Furneaux's dismay was so comical that his colleague shook with mirth. "I wanted a new silk topper," wheezed Winter. "Silk topper be hanged. I meant a straw, and that's what you'll get. But how the deuce did you manage to hit upon Farrow?" "He closed the Quarry Wood at the psychological moment." "You're sucking my brains, that's what you're doing," grumbled Furneaux. "Anyhow, you're right. Hilton had the scheme perfected to the last detail, but he didn't count on Farrow. After a proper display of agitation--not all assumed, either, because he was more shaken than he expected to be--he 'phoned the Yard and the doctor. We couldn't arrive for nearly an hour, and the doctor starts on his rounds at nine o'clock sharp. What so easy, therefore, as to wander out in a welter of grief and anger, and search the wood for the murderer on his own account? One solitary minute would enable him to put the rifle in a hiding-place where it would surely be discovered. "But Farrow stopped him. I wormed the whole thing out of our sentry this afternoon. Fenley tried hard to send Farrow and Bates off on a wild-goose chase, but Farrow, quite mistakenly, saw the chance of his life and clung on to it. Had Farrow budged we could never have hanged Hilton. Don't you see how the scheme works? He had some reason for believing that Robert will refuse to give a full account of his whereabouts this morning. Therefore, he must contrive that the rifle shall be found. Put the two damning facts together, and Robert is tied in a knot. Of course, he would be forced to prove an alibi, but by that time all England would be yelping, 'Thou art the man.' In any event, Hilton's trail would be hopelessly lost." "The true bowket of our port and bromide begins to tickle my nostrils." A good-looking maid brought coffee, and Furneaux grinned at her. "How do you think he'd look in a nice straw hat?" he asked, jerking his head toward Winter. The girl smiled. The little man's reputation had reached the kitchen. She glanced demurely at the Superintendent's bullet head. "Not an ordinary straw. You mean a Panama," she said. "Certainly," laughed Winter. "Nothing of the sort," howled Furneaux. "Just run your eye over him. He isn't an isthmus--he's a continent." "A common straw wouldn't suit him," persisted the girl. "He's too big a gentleman." "How little you know him!" said Furneaux. The girl blushed and giggled. "Go on!" she said, and bounced out. "This inquiry will cost you a bit, my boy, if you're not careful," sniggered Winter. "I'll compound on a straw; but take my advice, and curb your sporting propensities. Now, if this coffee isn't doctored, let's drink it, and interview Robert before the bromide begins to act."