He sat there for some time resting, and evading as best he could the skilful questions of the landlady. The wagons moved off first, jolting and creaking their way to Holebourne, and the cook, after making a modest luncheon of bread and cheese 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.