But his thoughts were far a-field from joyriders, stray cattle, hawkers
without licenses, and other similar small fry which come into the
constabulary net. It would be a feather in his cap if he could only
strike the trail of the veritable Steynholme murderer. The entrancing
notion possessed him morning, noon, and night. Mrs. Robinson declared
that it even dominated his dreams. Robinson was sharp. He knew quite well
that the brains of the London detectives held some elusive quality which
he personally lacked. They seemed to peer into the heart of a thing so
wisely and thoroughly. He did not share Superintendent Fowler's somewhat
derogatory estimate of Furneaux, with whom he was much better acquainted
than was his superior officer, while Chief Inspector Winter's repute
stood so high that it might not be questioned. Still, to the best of his
belief, the case had beaten both these doughty representatives of
Scotland Yard; there was yet a chance for the humble police-constable; so
Robinson squared his shoulders, seamed his brows, and marched
majestically down the Knoleworth road.
He had an eye for The Hollies, of course, though neither he nor anybody
else could discern more than the bare edge of the lawn from bridge or
road, owing to the dense screen of evergreen trees and shrubs planted by
the tenant who remodeled the property.
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