Harold Grayson came down to breakfast on the Tuesday morning in the little cottage where he had found a lodging in the downland village of Linderton, some four or five miles north of Frattenbury, profoundly oblivious of the fact that the stolid-looking policeman who was digging in his garden directly opposite his lodgings had been, according to orders, watching the house all night and was yawning heavily at the prospect of the snooze he would take when the promised relief came that morning. For although Harold Grayson had escaped detection for the moment by riding round Frattenbury instead of through it on his way to the downs, the net which the superintendent had quietly spread had soon closed in upon him. That stolid village policeman, Constable Drake, to wit, already had a description of the fugitive in his pocket, and when Grayson had alighted from his bicycle the evening before and asked him where he could get a bed, Drake had recognised the quarry at once. But Drake was absolutely imperturbable. By never a sign did he intimate that anything unusual was happening. Instead, he tilted back his helmet, scratched his head thoughtfully—for he was really thinking astutely all the time—and said: “A bed, sir? Well, there’s the ‘Blue Lion,’ but I’m not sure if you’d like it. It ain’t up to much”—that was because the “Blue Lion” was at the extreme end of the village, well away from the constable’s cottage. “Let me see, now. Tell you what, sir. We don’t often have anyone stayin’ here, but there’s a neighbour o’ mine who lets rooms sometimes—clean and comfortable they are. You come along o’ me, sir, and I’ll do what I can for you.” With a view to his own as well as the artist’s comfort, he led him straightway to the cottage opposite his own, and, with bland persuasion, induced the occupant to take in the stranger. Grayson, as he unstrapped his holdall from his bicycle, gratefully gave him a tip, which the policeman as gratefully acknowledged. “Tell you what, sir,” he said, “Mrs. Goring ain’t got much room for your bicycle. There’s my shed handy. You can put it there if you like.” Which Grayson promptly did, and as soon as he had departed Drake promptly removed the valves—with much satisfaction. Then he went indoors, slowly and laboriously wrote a letter, which began, “While on duty at 6.38 p.m. in the main road at Linderton I was accosted,” and dispatched it by his son, who took it into Frattenbury on his bicycle and brought out a reply. That is all that is necessary to say about Police-Constable Drake. When he got his well-earned snooze he had a vision of sergeant’s stripes in the future.