p ploughed up," said
Grant instantly.

"Well, we know that nothing of the kind happened. Why?"

"It was perched on top of a wig," drawled Hart.

Furneaux was slightly disappointed--there was no denying it. Being a vain
little person, he liked to show off in a minor matter such as this.

"Yes," he admitted, "and what's the corollary?"

"That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, a
daring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristics
of Owd Ben. Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of that
hairy goblin."

"Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?" said the detective testily.

"Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description."

"Her husband can tell us the story," put in Grant. "I'll fetch him."

He had not moved ere the front door bell rang a second time.

"Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect," said Hart.

"If it's that Robinson--" growled Furneaux vexedly, hastening to
forestall Minnie.

But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered the
room, her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a very
natural embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a stranger
fixed on her.

"I don't quite know why I'm here," she said, with a nervous laugh,
addressing Grant directly. "You will think I am always gazing in the
direction of The Hollies, but my room commands this house so fully that I
cannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes ago I heard
what I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw your window
thrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle was showing in
the smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire what had happened.
You'll pardon me, I'm sure."

"Say you don't, Jack, I implore you, and let me apologize for you,"
pleaded Hart.

"Doris, this is my good friend, Wally Hart," smiled Grant. "Won't you sit
down? We have an exciting story for you."

"Father will be horribly anxious if he knows I have gone out."

Nevertheless, there was sufficient spice of Mother Eve in Doris that she
should take the proffered chair.

"Sorry to interrupt," broke in Furneaux. "Did you meet P.C. Robinson!"

"No."

"You came by way of the bridge?"

"There is no other way, unless one makes a detour by Bush Walk."

The detective whirled round on Grant.

"What room is over this one?"

"Minnie's."

"She's in the kitchen, with her mother. See that she doesn't come
upstairs while I'm abs