“At Elkin’s.”
“Indeed. What an unexpected place!”
“That’s the only way a poor man can get hold of a decent thing nowadays. The dealers grab everything, and sell them as collections.”
“Art is not in my line, though anyone can see that these are excellent.”
“Yes. But you’re looking at ‘The Start.’ Have a peep at this one, ‘The Finish.’ The artist would have his joke. You see that the dark horse wins.”
“How did you persuade Elkin to part with them?”
“By paying him a tempting price, of course. I’m a weak-minded ass in such matters.”
The chemist busied himself to oblige the detective, wrapping and tying the packages neatly. Furneaux insisted on paying sixpence for the paper, string, and labor. There was quite a friendly argument, but he carried his point.
The dog-cart then brought him to the station, where he tipped and dismissed the man; a little later, he caught a London-bound train.
At half past seven precisely, Winter turned in through the Knoleworth-side gate of The Hollies (there were two, the approach to the house being semi-circular) and pushed the door open, as it was standing ajar.