“I say ‘yes.’ You’ll thank me on your bended knees afterwards. The South American gent is having the time of his life. I’ve just been to my room for Whitaker’s Almanack, wherewith a certain Don Walter Hart purposes flooring him.”
Wally Hart had, indeed, succeeded in running to earth the Argentine magnate, and was giving Winter a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour.
“Ha!” shouted Hart, when Furneaux came in with Peters. “Here’s the pocket marvel who’ll answer any question straight off. What is the staple export of the Argentine!”
“How often have you been there?” demanded the detective dryly.
“Six times.”
“And you’ve lived there?” This to Winter.
“Yes,” glowered the big man, fearing the worst.
“Then the answer is ‘fools,’” cackled Furneaux.
Wally laughed. He had remembered, just in time, that he had no right to claim acquaintance with the representative of Scotland Yard, and there were some farmers present, each of whom had a “likely animal” to offer the buyer of blood stock.
“Gad, I think you’re right,” he said.