ith his feet; then he winked, grinned,
and finally laughed.

"I shouldn't be surprised if things was to 'appen in this funny little
'ole," he remarked, as he passed on his way up the road.

Mr. Gandy left the bar-parlour, spoke to Mrs. Gandy, and disappeared
through the glass door into the private parlour. Two hours later Mr.
Gandy reappeared. He had made up his mind.

Bindle's mind was working busily. He was obviously in possession of a
secret that other people thought worth paying for. As he walked down
the village street he pondered deeply. He paused and slapped his green
baize apron-covered leg. He walked over to where Mrs. Grinder was
standing at the door of her little general shop. A remark of Mr.
Gandy's had set him thinking.

"Mornin', mother," he called out in salutation.

"Good-morning," responded Mrs. Grinder with a smile.

"'Oo's the biggest bug 'ere?"

"The what?"

"The swells; them as grind you an' me down an' make us un'appy," Bindle
explained.

"There's Sir Charles Custance at The Towers, up on the left where the
poplars are, and Mr. Greenhales at the Home Farm, and----"

"That's enough. I'm stayin' in this neighbour'ood, and if I wasn't to
call on the nobs they might be 'urt in their private feelin's. Glad to
see yer lookin' so merry an' bright. Mornin'." And cap in hand,
Bindle made an elaborate bow and passed on his way, leaving the buxom
Mrs. Grinder wreathed in smiles.

Half an hour later he walked down the drive of The Towers, the
residence of Sir Charles Custance, J.P., a sovereign richer than when
he entered.

At the gates of The Towers he paused. Coming towards him was a
dog-cart, driven by a small, fierce-looking little man. It was Mr.
Roger Greenhales, who farmed as a hobby, at a considerable yearly loss,
to prove that the outcry against the unprofitableness of English
land-culture was ridiculous.

Bindle spoke to Mr. Greenhales, and in ten minutes received five
shillings. He then proceeded to Holmleigh, where he found his foreman,
and also that he had extended his dinner hour into two.

II

"It's a national affair, I tell you, Wrannock!"

Sir Charles Custance, J.P., leaned back in his library chair, and
surveyed the impassive features of Sergeant Wrannock, as if searching
for some contradiction; but Sergeant Wrannock of the Suffolk County
Constabulary merely shuffled his feet and said:

"Yes, sir!"

"I'll call at the house this afternoon, and see if th