u'll never know me again. I suppose you'll be staying at the
local inn--there's only one of any repute in the place?"

"That's so. I've got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate when
the time comes?"

"Have I ever failed you?"

"No. We meet as strangers."

Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest "writer
up" in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested both
him and a shrewd news-editor.

The pair arrived at the Hare and Hounds within a few minutes of each
other. The big man registered as "Mr. W. Franklin, Argentina." Peters
ordered a chop, and went off at once to interview the local policeman.
Mr. Franklin took more pains over the prospective meal.

"Have you a nice chicken?" he inquired.

Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder at
that moment.

"And do you think your cook could provide a _tourne-dos_?"

"A what-a, sir?" wheezed Tomlin.

The visitor explained. He liked variety, he said. Half the chicken might
be deviled for breakfast. The two dishes, with plain boiled potatoes and
French beans, would suit him admirably. He was sorry he dared not try
Tomlin's excellent claret, but a dominating doctor had put him on the
water-cart. In effect, Mr. Franklin impressed the landlord as a man of
taste and ample means.

Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, but
they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anent
his carryin's on in Knoleworth the previous night.

Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitues had
the place to themselves.

Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purpose
exactly, so he gave the conversation the right twist.

"I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this
sensational murder?" he said.

Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at
his neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the stranger,
and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely:

"The murder is bad enough, but the fat-headed police are worse. Three
days gone, and nothing done!"

"What murder are you discussing, may I ask?" put in Franklin.

Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly
mobile face.

"Do you mean to say, sir, that you haven't heard of the Steynholme
murder?" he gasped.

"I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I landed
in Engla