He picked it up, glanced at the superscription, and laid it down again. One of the others had been looking at my boots, and a word in German called the speaker’s attention to them.

“You’ve a fine taste in boots,” he said. “These were never made by a country shoemaker.”

“They were not,” I said readily. “They were made in London. I got them frae the gentleman that was here last year for the shootin’. What was his name now?” And I scratched a forgetful head. Again the sleek one spoke in German. “Let us get on,” he said. “This fellow is all right.”

They asked one last question.

“Did you see anyone pass early this morning? He might be on a bicycle or he might be on foot.”

I very nearly fell into the trap and told a story of a bicyclist hurrying past in the grey dawn. But I had the sense to see my danger. I pretended to consider very deeply.