‘People don’t print words, though - they write them,’ said Daisy. But Fatty took no notice. He carefully traced a few of the words, one of them being ‘PETERSWOOD.’ He put the slip into his wallet. Then he snapped the bit of elastic round the package and stood up.

‘How are you going to get the letters back without being seen?’ asked Larry.

‘Don’t know yet,’ said Fatty, with a grin. ‘Just chance my luck, I think. Wait about for Gladys, will you, and tell her I didn’t approve of her taking the letters like that in case Mr. Goon was angry with her - and tell her I’m returning him the letters, and hope he won’t know she took them at all.’

‘Right,’ said Larry. Fatty was about to go when he turned and came back. ‘I’ve an idea I’d better pop on my telegraph-boy’s uniform,’ he said. ‘Just in case old Goon spots me. I don’t want him to know I’m returning his letters!’

It wasn’t long before Fatty was wearing his disguise, complete with freckles, red eyebrows and hair. He set his telegraph-boy’s cap on his head.

‘So long!’ he said, and disappeared. He padded off to Mr. Goon’s, and soon saw, by the darkness of his parlour, that he was not yet back. So he waited about, until he remembered that there was a darts match at the local inn, and guessed Mr. Goon would be there, throwing a dart or two.

His guess was right. Mr. Goon walked out of the inn in about ten minutes’ time, feeling delighted with himself because he had come out second in the match. Fatty padded behind him for a little way, then ran across the road, got in front of Mr. Goon, came across again at a corner, walked towards the policeman and bumped violently into him.

‘Hey!’ said the policeman, all his breath knocked out of him. ‘Hey! Look where you’re going now.’ He flashed his torch and saw the red-headed telegraph-boy.

‘Sorry, sir, I do beg your pardon,’ said Fatty earnestly. ‘Have I hurt you? Always seem to be damaging you, don’t I, sir? Sorry, sir.’

Mr. Goon set his helmet straight. Fatty’s apologies soothed him. ‘All right, my boy, all right,’ he said.

‘Good-night, sir, thank you, sir,’ said Fatty and disappeared. But he hadn’t gone more than three steps before he came running back again, holding out a package.

‘Oh, Mr. Goon, sir, did you drop these, sir? Or has somebody else dropped them?’

Mr. Goon stared at the package and his eyes bulged. ‘Them letters!’ he said. ‘I didn’t take them out with me, that I do know!’

‘I expect they belong to somebody else then,’ said Fatty. ‘I’ll inquire.’

‘Hey, no you don’t!’ said Mr. Goon, making a grab at the package. ‘They’re my property. I must have brought them out unbeknowing-like. Dropped them when you bumped into me, shouldn’t wonder. Good thing you found them, young man. They’re valuable evidence, they are. Property of the Law.’

‘I hope you won’t drop them again, then, sir,’ said Fatty earnestly. ‘Good-night, sir.’

He vanished. Mr. Goon went home in a thoughtful frame of mind, pondering how he could possibly have taken out the package of letters and dropped them. He felt sure he hadn’t taken them out - but if not, how could he have dropped them?

‘Me memory’s going,’ he said mournfully. ‘It’s a mercy one of them kids didn’t pick them letters up. I won’t let that there Frederick Trotteville set eyes on them. Not if I know it!’

There was nothing more to be done until Monday morning. The children felt impatient, but they couldn’t hurry the coming of Monday, or of the bus either.

Fatty had entered a few notes under his heading of Clues. He had put down all about the anonymous letters, and the post-marks, and had also pinned to the page the tracings he had made of the printed capital letters.

‘I will now write up the case as far as we’ve gone with it,’ he said. ‘That’s what the police do - and all good detectives too, as far as I can see. Sort of clears your mind, you see. Sometimes you get awfully good ideas when you read what you’ve written.’

Every one read what Fatty wrote, and they thought it was excellent. But unfortunately nobody had any good ideas after reading it. Still, the bus passengers to Sheepsale might provide further clues.

The five children couldn’t help feeling rather excited on Monday morning. Larry and Daisy got rather a shock when their mother said she wanted them to go shopping for her - but when she heard that they were going to Sheepsale market she said they could buy the things for her there. So that was all right.

They met at the bus stopping-place ten minutes before the bus went, in case Fatty had any last-minute instructions for them. He had!

‘Look and see where the passengers are sitting when the bus comes up,’ he said. ‘And each of you sit beside one if you can, and begin to talk to him or her. You can find out a lot that way.’

Bets looked alarmed. ‘But I shan’t know what to say!’ she said.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Pip. ‘You can always open the conversation by saying, “Isn’t that a remarkably clever-looking boy over there?” and point to Fatty. That’s enough to get any one talking.’

They all laughed. ‘It’s all right, Bets,’ said Fatty. ‘You can always say something simple, like “Can you tell me the time, please?” Or, “What is this village we’re passing now?” It’s easy to make people talk if you ask them to tell you something.’

‘Any other instructions, Sherlock Holmes?’ said Pip.

‘Yes - and this is most important,’ said Fatty. ‘We must watch carefully whether anybody posts a letter in Sheepsale - because if only one of the passengers does, that’s a pretty good pointer, isn’t it? The post-office is by the bus-stop there, so we can easily spot if any one catches the 11.45 post. We can hang around and see if any of the bus passengers posts a letter before that time, supposing they don’t go to the letter-box immediately. That’s a most important point.’

‘Here comes the bus,’ said Bets in excitement. ‘And look - there are quite a lot of people in it!’

‘Five!’ said Larry. ‘One for each of us. Oh gosh! One of them is old Clear-Orf!’

‘Blow!’ said Fatty. ‘So it is. Now whatever is he doing on the bus this morning? Has he got the same idea as we have, I wonder? If so, he’s brainier than I thought. Daisy, you sit by him. He’ll have a blue fit if I do and I know Buster will try to nibble his ankles all the time.’

Daisy was not at all anxious to sit by Mr. Goon, but there was no time to argue. The bus stopped. The five children and Buster got in. Buster gave a yelp of joy when he smelt the policeman. Mr. Goon looked round in astonishment and annoyance.

‘Gah!’ he said, in tones of deep disgust. ‘You again! Now, what you doing on this bus today? Everywhere I go there’s you children traipsing along!’

‘We’re going to Sheepsale market, Mr. Goon,’ said Daisy politely, sitting beside him. ‘I hope you don’t mind. Are you going there too?’

‘That’s my business,’ said Mr. Goon, keeping a watchful eye on Buster, who was trying to reach his ankles, straining at his lead. ‘What the Law does is no concern of yours.’

Daisy wondered for a wild moment if Mr. Goon could possibly be the anonymous letter-writer. After all, he knew the histories of everyone in the village. It was his business to. Then she knew it was a mad idea. But what a nuisance if Mr. Goon was on the same track as they were - sizing up the people in the bus, and going to watch for the one who posted the letter to catch the 11.45 post.

Daisy glanced round at the other people in the bus. A Find-Outer was by each. Daisy knew two of the people there. One was Miss Trimble who was companion to Lady Candling, Pip’s next-door neighbour. Larry was sitting by her. Daisy felt certain Miss Trimble - or Tremble as the children called her, could have nothing to do with the case. She was far too timid and nervous.