ese and smoking a pipe, got on the road
again.

"Look how he walks!" said the landlord, as the couple watched him up the
road.

"Ah!" said his wife.

"Like a bloodhound," said the landlord impressively; "just watch him. I
knew what he was directly I clapped eyes on him."

The cook continued his journey, unconscious of the admiration excited by
his movements. He began to think that he had been a trifle foolish in
talking so freely. Still, he had not said much, and if people liked to
make mistakes, why, that was their business.

In this frame of mind he entered Holebourne, a small village consisting
of a little street, an inn, and a church. At the end of the street, in
front of a tidy little cottage with a well-kept front garden, a small
knot of people were talking.

"Somethin' on," said the cook to himself as he returned with interest
the stares of the villagers. "Which is Mr. Dunn's house, boy?"

"There it is, sir," said the boy, pointing to the house where the people
were standing. "Are you the detective?"

"No," said the cook sharply.

He walked across to the house and opened the little garden gate, quite a
little hum of excitement following him as he walked up to the door and
knocked upon it with his knuckles.

"Come in," growled a deep voice.

The cook entered and carefully closed the door behind him. He found
himself in a small sitting-room, the only occupant of which was an old
man of forbidding aspect sitting in an easy chair with a newspaper open
in his hand.

"What do you want?" he demanded, looking up.

"I want to see Mr. Dunn," said the cook nervously.

"I'm Mr. Dunn," said the other, waiting.

The cook's heart sank, for, with the exception of a beard, Mr. Dunn no
more resembled the portrait than he did.

"I'm Mr. Dunn," repeated the old man, regarding him ferociously from
beneath his shaggy eyebrows.

The cook smiled, but faintly. He tried to think, but the old man's gaze
sent all the ideas out of his head.

"Oh, are you?" he said at length.

"I heard you were looking for me," said the old man, gradua