Here are a
piece of string and a newspaper. Would you mind showing me what sort of
knot was used?"
Robinson was nearly struck dumb, and his fingers fumbled badly, but he
managed to exhibit two hitches.
"Ah, thanks," said Winter, and was off in a jiffy.
From the window of a darkened room Robinson watched the erect, burly
figure of the detective until it was merged in the mists of night.
"Well, I'm--," he exclaimed bitterly.
"John, what are you swearing about?" demanded his wife from the kitchen.
"Something I heard to-day," answered her husband. "There was a chap of my
name, John P. Robinson, an' he said that down in Judee they didn't know
everything. And, by gum, he was right. They knew mighty little about
London 'tecs, I'm thinking. But, hold on. Surely--"
He bustled into his coat, and hastened to The Hollies. No, neither Mr.
Grant nor Mr. Hart had spoken to a soul about the knot. Nor had Bates. Of
course, Robinson did not venture to describe Winter. Finally, he put the
incident aside as a clear case of thought-reading.
CHAPTER XV
A MATTER OF HEREDITY
Shortly before noon on Monday occurred two events destined to assume a
paramount importance in the affair which was wringing the withers of
Steynholme.
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