Arrived at her house, she waved a hand to the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response.

A fine June night in England is never really dark, so the two could not only see each other but, when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply on his heel, was able to make out the sudden straightening of a pucker in the blind of a ground-floor room in P.C.

Robinson's abode.
The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window.
Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door.
"Who's there ?" he demanded.
"As if you didn't know," laughed Furneaux.
Robinson turned a key, and looked out.
"Oh, it's you, sir ?" he cried.
"You'll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme," said the detective.

"May I come in?
No, don't show a light here.

Let's chat in the back kitchen." "I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir," began Robinson apologetically.