"Yes, sir; not so bad."
"I hear you are a master hand at cake making."
"Well, not exactly," deprecated "Crumbs." "I can hardly say that." He placed his tray of bread on the table.
"Sergeant Ewins tells me he's very fond of cake," went on John.
"Crumbs's" eyes moved quickly. The momentary, fleeting glance he cast at John was unobserved.
"The sergeant has a sweet tooth, sir."
"So have I," answered John, with a smile. "Perhaps you will make a note of that, Sims."
Sims smiled. John noticed that his complexion was sallow, that he was a loosely built, shambling man of forty. There was nothing in the least suspicious about him. No trace, so far as John could gather, of a foreign accent. He went out of the bakehouse in a dissatisfied frame of mind.
The mystery of the guns was still a mystery.
* * * * *