"At the inn I am Mr.
Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line. At
this moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who is
aware of my official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged to
secrecy. To-morrow or any other day until further notice, you and I meet
as strangers in public. By the way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you
that he found the wig and the false beard in the river early this
morning. The wearer had apparently flung them off while crossing the
foot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that they would not
sink readily. Perhaps he didn't care. At any rate, Mr. Hart's bullet
seems to have laid Owd Ben's ghost. Now, what of this fellow, Elkin? He
worries me."
"Can I offer you a glass of beer, sir?"
"With pleasure. May I smoke while you eat? You see, I differ from Mr.
Furneaux in both size and habits."
Robinson poured out the beer. He was preternaturally grave. The somewhat
incriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer that
afternoon lay heavy upon him. But he told his story succinctly enough.
Winter nodded to emphasize each point, and congratulated him at the end.
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