Bourne."

"Mine's 'Arris," said the bicycle owner, angrily.

"A very nice name, too;" said Grim, soothingly. "You'd better see what's
the damage to the machine for we must be trotting back to St. Amory's."

Mr. Harris spun the pedals and tried the wheels.

"It's shook up considerable, that's wot it is."

"All right," said Grim, hastily. "Here's a shilling. Give it a drink of
beer."

This was a wretched joke really, but it brightened the face of Mr. Harris
considerably when he heard it, and the loafers departed from their
dispassionate attitude, and became quite friendly. The landlord went in
to draw beer.

A minute afterwards the quartette was heading back for St. Amory's as
hard as it could go, and whenever a halt was called for breath, three of
the cronies collapsed on the earth, and howled at Rogers, who could not
see the joke.

Over a quiet little tea, after call-over, at Hooper's Rogers explained
fully his views.

"No, I'm not going to do any more detective work. We missed Acton and
Bourne beautifully; they don't go to Westcote, and Grimmy's idea about
poachin' 's rotten. He may be Acton's messenger-boy or the rider of a