ho troubled
to jump the low stone wall which ran by the road and push a way through
the damp shrubbery to see all that was happening in the room.

Weald Lodge stands between Eastbourne and Wilmington, and in the winter
months the curious, represented by youthful holiday makers, are few and
far between. Constable Wiseman, of the Eastbourne constabulary,
certainly was not curious. He paced his slow, moist way and merely
noted, in passing, the fact that the flood of light reflected on the
little patch of lawn at the side of the house.

The hour was nine o'clock on a June evening, and officially it was only
the hour of sunset, though lowering rain clouds had so darkened the
world that night had closed down upon the weald, had blotted out its
pleasant villages and had hidden the green downs.

He continued to the end of his beat and met his impatient superior.

"Everything's all right, sergeant," he reported; "only old Minute's
lights are blazing away and his windows are open."

"Better go and warn him," said the sergeant, pulling his bicycle into
position for mounting.

He had his foot on the treadle, but hesitated.

"I'd warn him myself, but I don't think he'd be glad to see me."

He grinned to himself, then remarked: "Something queer about
Minute--eh?"

"There is, indeed," agreed Constable Wiseman heartily. His beat was a
lonely one, and he was a very bored man. If by agreement with his
officer he could induce that loquacious gentleman to talk for a quarter
of an hour, so much dull time might be passed. The fact that Sergeant
Smith was loquacious indicated, too, that he had been drinking and was
ready to quarrel with anybody.

"Come under the shelter of that wall," said the sergeant, and pushed his
machine to the protection afforded by the side wall of a house.

It is possible that the sergeant was anxious to impress upon his
subordinate's mind a point of view which might be useful to himself one
day.

"Minute is a dangerous old man," he said.

"Don't I know it?" said Constable Wiseman, with the recollection of
sundry "reportings" and inquiries.

"You've got to remember that, Wiseman," the sergeant went on; "and by
'dangerous' I mean that he's the sort of old fellow that would ask a
constable to come in to have a drink and then report him."

"Good Lord!" said the shocked Mr. Wiseman at this revelation of the
blackest treachery.

Sergeant Smith nodded.

"That's the sort of man he is," he said. "I knew