Starmidge wanted to take a look at the house in which Joseph Chestermarke spent his bachelor existence. Since his own arrival in the town, he had been learning all he could about the two Chestermarkes, and he was puzzled about them. For a man who was still young, Starmidge had seen a good deal of the queer side of life, and had known a good many strange people, but so far he had never come across two such apparently curious characters as the uncle and nephew who ran the old-fashioned bank. Their evident indifference to public opinion puzzled him. He could not understand their ice-cold defiance of what he himself called law. He never remembered being treated as they had treated him. For Starmidge, when on duty, considered himself as much the representative of Justice as any ermined and coifed judge could be, and he had been accustomed—so far—to attentive and respectful consideration. But neither Gabriel nor Joseph Chestermarke appeared to have any proper appreciation of the dignity of a detective-sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department, and their eyes had regarded him as if he were something very inferior indeed. Starmidge, though by no means a vain man, felt nettled by such treatment, and he accordingly formed something very like a prejudice against the two partners. That prejudice was quickly followed by suspicion—especially in the case of Joseph Chestermarke. According to Starmidge's ideas, the bankers, if they really believed Horbury to have absconded, if certain securities of theirs really were missing, if they really thought that Horbury had carried them off, and the Countess of Ellersdeane's jewels with him, ought to have placed every information in their power at the disposal of the police: it was suspicious, and strange, and not at all proper, that they didn't. And it was suspicious, too, that the housekeeper, Mrs. Carswell, should take herself off after a brief exchange of words with Joseph. It looked very much as if the junior partner had either warned her to go, or had told her to go. Why had she gone then?—when she might have gone before. And why in such haste? Clearly, considering everything, there were grounds for believing that there was some secret between Mrs. Carswell and Joseph Chestermarke.

Anyway, rightly or wrongly, Starmidge was suspicious of the junior partner in Chestermarke's Bank, and he wanted to know everything that he could find out about him. He had already learnt that Joseph, like his uncle, was a confirmed bachelor, and lived in an old house at the corner of Cornmarket, somewhat—so far as the town-folk could judge—after the fashion of a hermit. Starmidge would have given a good deal for a really good excuse to call on Joseph Chestermarke at that house, so that he might see the inside of it: indeed, if he had only met with a better reception at the bank, he would have invented such an excuse. But if Gabriel was icily stand-offish, Joseph was openly sneering and contemptuous, and the detective knew that no excuse would give him admittance. Still, there was the outside: he would take a look at that. Starmidge was a young man of ideas as well as of ability, and without exactly shaping his thought in so many words, he felt—vaguely perhaps, but none the less strongly—that just as you can size up some men by the clothes they wear, so you can get an idea of others by the outer look of the houses which shelter them.

Cornmarket in Scarnham lay at the further end of the street called Finkleway. It was a queer, open space which sloped downhill from the centre of the ridge on which the middle of the town was built to the valley through which the little river meandered. Save where the streets, and the road leading out to the open country and Ellersdeane cut into it, it was completely enclosed by old houses of the sort which Starmidge had already admired in the Market-Place: many of them half-timbered, all of them very ancient. One or two of them were inns; some were evidently workmen's cottages; others were better-class dwelling-houses. From the description already furnished to him by Polke, Starmidge at once recognized Joseph Chestermarke's abode. It was a corner house, abutting on the road which ran out at the lower angle of this irregular space and led down to the river and Scarnham Bridge. It was by far the biggest house thereabouts—a tall, slender, stone-built house of many stories, towering high above any of the surrounding gables. And save for a very faint, dull glow which shone through the transom window of the front door, there was not a vestige of light in a single window of the seven stories. Cornmarket was a gloomy commonplace, thought Starmidge, but the little oil lamps in the cottages were riotously cheery in comparison with the darkness of the tall, gaunt Chestermarke mansion. It looked like the abode of dead men.

Starmidge longed to knock at that door—if only to get a peep inside the hall. But he curbed his desires and went quietly round the corner of the house. There was a high black wall there which led down to the grassy bank of the river. From its corner another wall ran along the river-side, separated from the stream by a path. There was a door set in this wall, and Starmidge, after carefully looking round in the gloom, quietly tried it and found it securely locked.

An intense desire to see the inside of Joseph Chestermarke's garden seized the detective. Near the door, partly overhanging the garden wall, partly overshadowing the path and the river-bank, was a tree: Starmidge, after listening carefully and deciding that no one was coming along the path, made shift to climb that tree, just then bursting into full leaf. In another minute he was amongst its middle branches, and peering inquisitively into the garden which lay between him and the gaunt outline of the gloom-stricken house.

The moon was just then rising above the roofs and gables of the town, and by its rapidly increasing light Starmidge saw that the garden was of considerable size, raining back quite sixty yards from the rear of the house, and having a corresponding breadth. Like all the gardens which stretched from the backs of the Market-Place houses to the river-bank, it was rich in trees—high elms and beeches rose from its lawns, and made deep shadows across them. But Starmidge was not so much interested in those trees, fine as they were, as in a building; obviously modern, which was set in their midst, completely isolated. That it was a comparatively new building he could see; the moonbeams falling full on it showed that the stone of which it was built was fresh and unstained by time or smoke. But what was it? Of what nature, for what purpose? It was neither stable, nor coach-house, nor summer-house, nor a grouping of domestic offices. No drive or path led to it: it was built in the middle of a grass-plot: round it ran a stone-lined trench. Its architecture was plain but handsome; it possessed two distinctive features which the detective was quick to notice. One, was that—at any rate on the two sides which he could see—its windows were set at a height of quite twelve feet from the ground: the other, that from its flat parapeted roof rose a conical structure something like the rounded stacks of glass foundries and potteries. This was obviously a chimney, and from its mouth at that moment was emerging a slight column of smoke which threw back curiously coloured reflections, blue, and yellow, and red, to the moonlight which fell on its thickening spirals.

Starmidge felt just as much desire to get inside this queer structure as into the house behind it, and if he could have seen any prospect of taking a peep through its windows he would have risked detection and dropped from his perch into the garden. But he judged that if the windows were twelve feet from the ground on the two sides of the building which he could see, they would be the same height on the sides which he couldn't see; moreover, he observed that they were obscured by either dull red glass or red curtains. Clearly no outsider was intended to get a peep into this temple of mystery. What was it? What went on within it? He was about to climb down from the tree when he got some sort of an answer to these questions. From within the building, muffled by the evidently thick walls, came the faintest sound of metal beating on metal—a mere rippling, tinkling sound, light and musical, such as might have been made by fairy blacksmiths beating on a fairy anvil. But far away as it sounded, it was clear and unmistakable.

Starmidge regained the path between the wall and the river and went slowly forward. The place, he decided, was evidently some sort of a workshop, in which was a forge: probably Joseph Chestermarke amused himself with a little amateur work in metals. He thought no more of the matter just then; he wanted to explore the river-bank along which he now walked. For according to the story of the landlady of the Station Hotel, it was on that river-bank that the mysterious stranger was to meet whoever it was that he spoke to over the telephone, and so far Starmidge had not had an opportunity of examining its geography.

There was not much to examine. The river, a mere ditch, eight or ten yards in breadth, wandered through a level mead at the base of the valley, separated from the gardens by a wide path. Between Scarnham Bridge, at the foot of Cornmarket and the corner of Joseph Chestermarke's big garden, and the end of Cordmaker's Alley, a narrow street which ran down from the further end of the Market-Place to the river-side, there were no features of any note or interest. On the other side of the river lay the deep woods through which Neale and Betty Fosdyke had passed on their way to Ellersdeane Hollow: Starmidge had heard all about that expedition, and he glanced curiously at the black depths of the trees, wondering if John Horbury and the mysterious stranger, supposing they had met, had turned into these woods to hold their conference. He presently came to the foot-bridge by which access to the woods and the other bank of the river was gained, and by it he lingered for a moment or two, looking at it in its bearings to the bank-house garden and orchard on his left hand, and to the Station Hotel, the lights of which he could plainly see down the valley. Certainly, if John Horbury and the stranger desired to meet in secret, here was the place. The stranger had nothing to do but stroll along the river-bank from the hotel; Horbury had only to step out of his orchard and meet him. Once together, they had only to cross that foot-bridge into the woods to be immediately in surroundings of great privacy.

Starmidge turned up Cordmaker's Alley, regained the Market-Place, and strolled on to Polke's private house. The superintendent was taking his ease after his day's labours and reading the Ecclesborough evening newspapers: he tossed one of them over to his visitor.

"All there!" he said, pointing to some big headlines. "Got it all in, just as you told it to Parkinson. Full justice to the descriptions of both Horbury and the Station Hotel stranger. Smart work, eh?"

"Power of the Press—as Parkinson said," answered Starmidge, with a laugh. "It's very useful, the Press: I don't know how they managed without it in the old days of criminal catching, Mr. Polke. Press and telegraph, eh?—they're valuable adjuncts."

"You think all that would be in the London papers this evening?" asked Polke.

"Sure to be," replied Starmidge. "I'm hoping we'll hear something from London tomorrow. I say—I've been taking a bit of a look round one or two places tonight, quietly, you know. What's that curious building in Joseph Chestermarke's garden?"

Polke put down his paper and looked unusually interested.

"I don't know!" he answered. "How did you see it? I've never seen inside his garden."

"Climbed a tree on the river-bank and looked over the wall," replied Starmidge.

"Well," said Polke, "I did hear, some few years ago, that he was building something in that garden, but the work was done by Ecclesborough contractors, and nobody ever knew much about it here. I believe Joseph's a bit of an amateur experimenter—but I don't know what he experiments in. Nobody ever goes inside his house—he's a hermit."

"He's got some sort of a forge there, anyhow," said Starmidge. "Or a furnace, or something of that sort."

Then they talked of other things until half-past ten, when the detective retired to his inn and went to bed. He was sleeping soundly when a steady knocking at his door roused him, to hear the voice of his landlady outside. And at the same time he heard the big clock of the parish church striking midnight.

"Mr. Starmidge!" said the voice, "there's a policeman wanting you. Will you go round at once to Mr. Polke's? There's a man come from London about that piece in the newspapers."



CHAPTER XV

MR. FREDERICK HOLLIS

Starmidge hastily pulled some garments about him, and flinging a travelling-coat over his shoulders, hurried downstairs, to find a sleepy-looking policeman in the hall.

"How did this man get here—at this time of night?" he asked, as they set off towards the police-station.

"Came in a taxi-cab from Ecclesborough," answered the policeman. "I haven't heard any particulars, Mr. Starmidge, except that he'd read the news in the London paper this evening and set off here in consequence. He's in Mr. Polke's house, sir."

Starmidge walked into the superintendent's parlour, to find him in company with a young man, whom the detective at once sized up as a typical London clerk—a second glance assured him that his clerkship was of the legal variety.

"Here's Detective-Sergeant Starmidge," said Polke. "Starmidge, this gentleman's Mr. Simmons, from London. Mr. Simmons says he's clerk to a Mr. Hollis, a London solicitor. And, having read that description in the papers this last evening, he's certain that the man who came to the Station Hotel here on Saturday is his governor."

Starmidge sat down and looked again at the visitor—a tall, sandy-haired, freckled young man, who was obviously a good deal puzzled.

"Is Mr. Hollis missing, then?" asked Starmidge.

Simmons looked as if he found it somewhat difficult to explain matters.

"Well," he answered. "It's this way. I've never seen him since Saturday. And he hasn't been at his rooms—his private rooms—since Saturday. In the ordinary course he ought to have been at business first thing yesterday—we'd some very important business on yesterday morning, which wasn't done because of his absence. He never turned up yesterday at all—nor today either—we never heard from or of him. And so, when I read that description in the papers this evening, I caught the first express I could get down here—at least to Ecclesborough—I had to motor from there."

"That description describes Mr. Hollis, then?" asked Starmidge.

"Exactly! I'm sure it's Mr. Hollis—it's him to a T!" answered the clerk. "I recognized it at once."

"Let's get everything in order," said Starmidge, with a glance at Polke. "To begin with, who is Mr. Hollis?"

"Mr. Frederick Hollis, solicitor, 59B South Square, Gray's Inn," replied Simmons promptly. "Andwell & Hollis is the name of the firm—but there isn't any Andwell—hasn't been for many a year—he's dead, long since, is Andwell. Mr. Hollis is the only proprietor."

"Don't know him at all," remarked Starmidge. "What's his particular line of practice?"

"Conveyancing," said Simmons.

"Then, naturally, I shouldn't," observed Starmidge. "My acquaintance is chiefly with police-court solicitors. And you say he'd private rooms some where? Where, now?"

"Paper Buildings, Temple," replied the clerk. "He'd a suite of rooms there—he's had 'em for years."

"Bachelor, then?" inquired the detective.

"Yes—he's a bachelor," agreed Simmons.

"You know he hasn't been at his rooms since Saturday—you've ascertained that?" continued Starmidge.

"He's never been at his rooms since he left them after breakfast on Saturday morning," replied Simmons. "I went there at eleven o'clock Monday—that was yesterday—again at four: twice on Tuesday. I was coming away from the Temple when I got the paper and read about this affair."

"When did you see him last?" asked Starmidge.

"Half-past-twelve Saturday. He went out—dressed just as it says in your description. And," concluded the clerk, with a shake of his head which suggested his own inability to understand matters, "he never said a word to me about coming down here."

"Did he say anything to anybody at his rooms about going away?—for the week-end, for instance?" asked the detective. "There'd be somebody there, of course."

"Only a woman who tidied up for him and got his breakfast ready of a morning," said Simmons. "He took all his other meals out. No—he said nothing to her. But he wasn't a week-ender: he very rarely left his rooms except for the office."

"Any of his relations been after him?" inquired Starmidge.

"I don't know anything about his relations—nor friends, either," answered the clerk. "Don't even know the address of one of them, or I'd have gone to seek him on Monday—everything's at a standstill. He was a lonely sort of man—I never heard of his relations or friends."

"How long have you been with him, then?" asked the detective. "Some time?"

"Six years," replied Simmons.

"And you've no doubt, from the description in the papers, that the gentleman who came here on Saturday last is Mr. Hollis?" asked Starmidge.

The clerk shook his head with an air of conviction.

"None!" he answered. "None whatever!"

Starmidge helped himself to a cigar out of an open box which lay on Polke's table. He lighted it carefully, and smoked for a minute or two in silence. Then he looked at Polke.

"Well, there's a very obvious question to put to Mr. Simmons after all that," he remarked. "Have you any idea," he continued, turning to the clerk, "of any reason that would bring Mr. Hollis to Scarnham?"

Simmons shook his head more vigorously than before.

"Not the ghost of an idea!" he exclaimed.

"There was no business being done with anybody at Scarnham?" asked Starmidge.

"Not in our office!" asserted Simmons. "I'm sure of that. I know all the business that we have in hand. To tell you the truth, gentlemen, though you may think me very ignorant, I never even heard of Scarnham myself until I read the paper this evening."

"Quite excusable," said Starmidge. "I never heard of it myself until Monday. Well—this is all very queer, Mr. Simmons. What does Mr. Polke think? And what's Mr. Polke got to suggest!"

Polke, who had been listening silently, turned to the clerk.

"Did you chance to look at Mr. Hollis's letters—recent letters, I mean—" he asked, "to see if you would find anything inviting him down here?"

"I did," replied Simmons promptly. "I looked through all the letters on his desk and in his drawers yesterday afternoon. I didn't find anything that explained his absence. And when I was at his rooms this evening I looked at some letters on his mantelpiece—nothing there. I tell you, I haven't the least notion as to what could bring him to Scarnham."

"And I suppose none of your fellow-clerks have, either?" asked Polke.

Simmons smiled and glanced at Starmidge.

"We've only myself and another—a junior clerk—and a boy," he said. "It's not a big practice—only a bit of good conveyancing now and then, and some family business. Mr. Hollis isn't dependent on it—he's private means of his own."

"Aye, just so!" observed Polke. "And I should say, Starmidge, that it was private business brought him down here—if he's the man, as he certainly seems to be. But—whose?"

Starmidge turned again to the clerk.

"You've a good memory, I can see," he said. "Now, did you ever hear Mr. Hollis mention the name of Horbury?"

"Never!" replied Simmons.

"Did you ever hear him speak of Chestermarke's Bank?" asked Starmidge.

"No—never! Never heard either name in my life until I saw them in the papers," asserted Simmons.

"Who looks after the banking account at Hollis's?" asked the detective. "I mean, the business account—you know. Not his private one."

"I do," said Simmons. "Always have done since I went there."

"You never saw any cheques paid to those names—or any cheques from them?" inquired Starmidge. "Think, now!"

"No—I'm absolutely sure of it," said the clerk. "Horbury, perhaps, I might not remember, but I should have remembered Chestermarke—it's an uncommon name, that—to me, anyway."

"Well," said Starmidge, after a pause, during which all three looked at each other as men look who have come to a dead stop in the progress of things, "there's one thing very certain, Mr. Simmons. If that was your governor who came down to the Station Hotel here on Saturday evening last, he certainly telephoned from there to Chestermarke's Bank as soon as he arrived. And he got a reply from there, and he evidently went out to meet whoever sent it—that sender seeming to be Mr. Horbury, the manager. And so," he concluded, turning to Polke, "what we've got to find out is—what did Hollis come here at all for?"

"We shan't find that out tonight," said Polke, with a yawn.

"Quite so-so we'll adjourn till morning, when Mr. Simmons shall see Mrs. Pratt—just to establish things," remarked Starmidge. "In the meantime he'd better come round with me to my place, and I'll get him a bed."

Neither the police-superintendent nor the detective had the slightest doubt after hearing Simmons' story that the man who presented himself at the Station Hotel at Scarnham on the evening of John Horbury's disappearance was Mr. Frederick Hollis, solicitor, of Gray's Inn. If they had still retained any doubt it would have disappeared next morning when they took the clerk down to see Mrs. Pratt. The landlady described her customer even more fully than before: Simmons had no doubt whatever that she described his employer: he wouldn't have been more certain, he said, that Mrs. Pratt was talking about Mr. Hollis, if she'd shown him a photograph of that gentleman.

"So we can take that for settled," remarked Polke, as the three left the hotel and went back to the town. "The man who came here last Saturday night was Mr. Frederick Hollis, solicitor, of South Square, Gray's Inn, London. That's established, I take it, Starmidge?"

"Seems so," agreed the detective.

"Then the next question is—Where's he got to?" said Polke.

"I think the next question is—Has anybody ever heard of him in connection with Mr. Horbury, or the Chestermarkes?" observed Starmidge. "There's no doubt he came down here to see one or other of them—Horbury, most likely."

"And who's to tell us anything?" asked Polke.

"Miss Fosdyke's a relation of Horbury's," replied Starmidge. "She may know Hollis by name. Mr. Neale's always been in touch with Horbury—he may have heard of Hollis. And—so may the bankers."

"The difficulty is to make them say anything," said Polke. "They'll only tell what they please."

"Let's try the other two, anyway," counselled Starmidge. "They may be able to tell something. For as sure as I am what I am, the whole secret of this business lies in Hollis's coming down here to see Horbury, and in what followed on their meeting. If we could only get to know what Hollis came here for—ah!"

But they got no further information from either Betty Fosdyke or Wallington Neale. Neither had ever heard of Mr. Frederick Hollis, of Gray's Inn. Betty was certain, beyond doubt, that he was no relation of the missing bank-manager: she had the whole family-tree of the Horburys at her finger-ends, she declared: no Hollis was connected with even its outlying twigs. Neale had never heard the name of Hollis mentioned by Horbury. And he added that he was absolutely sure that during the last five years no person of that name had ever had dealings with Chestermarke's Bank—open dealings, at any rate. Secret dealings with the partners, severally or collectively, or with Horbury, for that matter, Mr. Hollis might have had, but Neale was certain he had had no ordinary business with any of them.

Polke took heart of grace and led Simmons across to the bank. To his astonishment, the partners now received him readily and politely; they even listened with apparent interest to the clerk's story, and asked him some questions arising out of it. But each declared that he knew nothing about Mr. Frederick Hollis, and was utterly unaware of any reason that could bring him to Scarnham: it was certainly on no business of theirs, as a firm, or as private individuals, that he came.

"He came, of course, to see Horbury," said Joseph at last. "That's dead certain. No doubt they met. And after that—well, they seem to have vanished together."

Gabriel followed Polke into the hall and drew him aside.

"Did this clerk tell you whether his master was a man of standing?" he asked.

"Man of private means, Mr. Chestermarke, with a small, highly respectable practice—a conveyancing solicitor," answered Polke.

"Oh!" replied Gabriel. "Just so. Well—we know nothing about him."

Polke and his companion returned to the Scarnham Arms, where Starmidge was in consultation with Betty and Neale.

"They know nothing at all over there," he reported. "Never heard of Hollis. What's to be done now!"

"Mr. Simmons must do the next thing," answered the detective. "Get back to town, Mr. Simmons, and put yourself in communication with every single one of Mr. Hollis's clients—you know them all, of course. Find out if any of them gave Mr. Hollis any business that would send him to Scarnham. Don't leave a stone unturned in that way! And the moment you have any information, however slight, wire to me, here—on the instant."



CHAPTER XVI

THE LEAD MINE

Starmidge and Polke presently left—to walk down to the railway station with the bewildered clerk; when they had gone, Betty turned to Neale, who was hanging about her sitting-room with no obvious intention of leaving it.

"While these people are doing what they can in their way, is there nothing we can do in ours?" she asked. "I hate sitting here doing nothing at all! You're a free man now, Wallie—can't you suggest something?"

Neale was thoroughly enjoying his first taste of liberty. He felt as if he had just been released from a long term of imprisonment. To be absolutely free to do what he liked with himself, during the whole of a spring day, was a sensation so novel that he was holding closely to it, half-fearful that it might all be a dream from which it would be a terrible thing to awake—to see one of Chestermarke's ledgers under his nose. And this being a wonderfully fine morning, he had formed certain sly designs of luring Betty away into the country, and having the whole day with her. A furtive glance at her, however, showed him that Miss Fosdyke's thoughts and ideas just then were entirely business-like, but a happy inspiration suggested to him that business and pleasure might be combined.

"We ought to go and see if that tinker chap's found out or heard anything," he said. "You remember he promised to keep his eyes and ears open. And we might do a little looking round the country for ourselves: I haven't much faith in those local policemen and gamekeepers. Why not make a day of it, going round? I know a place—nice old inn, the other side of Ellersdeane—where we can get some lunch. Much better making inquiries for ourselves," he concluded insinuatingly, "than sitting about waiting for news."

"Didn't I say so?" exclaimed Betty. "Come on, then!—I'm ready. Where first?"

"Let's see the tinker first," said Neale. "He's a sharp man—he may have something else to tell by now."

He led his companion out of the town by way of Scarnham Bridge, pointing out Joseph Chestermarke's gloomy house to her as they passed it.

"I'd give a lot," he remarked, as they turned on to the open moor which led towards Ellersdeane Hollow, "to know if either of the Chestermarkes really did know anything about that chap Hollis coming to the town on Saturday. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if they did. Those detective fellows like Starmidge are very clever in their way, but they always seem to me to stop thinking a bit too soon. Now both Starmidge and Polke seem to take it for certain that this Hollis went to meet Horbury when he left the Station Hotel. There's no proof that he went to meet Horbury—none!"

"Whom might he have gone to meet, then?" demanded Betty.

"You listen to me a bit," said Neale. "I've been thinking it over. Hollis comes to the Station Hotel and uses their telephone. Mrs. Pratt overhears him call up Chestermarke's Bank—that's certain. Then she goes away, about her business. An interval elapses. Then she hears some appointment made, with somebody, along the river bank, for that evening. But—that interval during which Mrs. Pratt didn't overhear? How do we know that the person with whom Hollis began his conversation was the same person with whom he finished it? Come, now!"

"Wallie, that's awfully clever of you!" exclaimed Betty. "How did you come to think of such an ingenious notion?"

"Worked it out," answered Neale. "This way! Hollis comes down to Scarnham to see Chestermarke's Bank—which means one of the partners. He rings up the bank. He speaks to somebody there. How do we know that somebody was Horbury? We don't! It may have been Mrs. Carswell. Now supposing the real person Hollis wanted to see was either Gabriel or Joseph Chestermarke? Very well—this person who answered from the bank would put Hollis on to either of them at once. Gabriel has a telephone at the Warren: Joseph has a telephone at his home yonder behind us. It may have been with either Gabriel or Joseph that Hollis finished his conversation. And—if it was finished with one of them, it was, in my opinion, whatever that's worth, with Master Joseph!"

"What makes you think that?" asked Betty, startled by the suggestion.

Neale laid a hand on the girl's arm and turned her round to face the town. He lifted his stick and pointed at Joseph Chestermarke's high roof, towering above the houses around it; then he swept the stick towards the river and its course, plainly to be followed, in the direction of the station.

"You see Joseph's house there," he said. "You see the river—the path along its bank—going right down to the meadow opposite the Station Hotel? Very well—now, supposing it was Joseph with whom Hollis wound up that telephone talk, suppose it was Joseph whom Hollis was to see. What would happen? Joseph knew that Hollis was at the Station Hotel. The straightest and easiest way from the Station Hotel to Joseph's house is—straight along the river bank. Now then, call on your memory! What did Mrs. Pratt tell us? 'When I was going back to the bar,' says Mrs. Pratt, 'I heard more. "Along the river-side," says the gentleman. "Straight on from where I am—all right." Then, after a minute, "At seven-thirty, then?" he says. "All right—I'll meet you." And after that,' concludes Mrs. Pratt, 'he rings off.' Now, why shouldn't it be Joseph Chestermarke that he was going to meet?—remember, again, the river-side path leads straight to Joseph's house. Come!—Mrs. Pratt's story doesn't point conclusively to Horbury at all. It's as I say—the telephone conversation may have begun with Horbury, but it may have ended with—somebody else. And what I say is—who was the precise person whom Hollis went to meet?"

"Are you going to tell all that to Starmidge?" asked Betty admiringly. "Because I'm sure it's never entered his head—so far."

"Depends," replied Neale. "Let's see if the tinker has anything to tell. He's at home, anyway. There's his fire."

A spiral of blue smoke, curling high above the green and gold of the gorse bushes, revealed Creasy's whereabouts. He had shifted his camp since their first meeting with him: his tilted cart, his tethered pony, and his fire, were now in a hollow considerably nearer the town. Neale and Betty looked down into his retreat to find him busily mending a collection of pots and pans, evidently gathered up during his round of the previous day. He greeted his visitors with a smile, and fetched a three-legged stool from his cart for Betty's better accommodation.

"Heard anything?" asked Neale, seating himself on a log of wood.

The tinker pointed to several newspapers which lay near at hand, kept from blowing away by a stone placed on the uppermost.

"Only what's in these," he answered. "I've read all that—so I'm pretty well posted up, mister. I've just read this morning's—bought it in the town when I went to fetch some bread. Queer affair altogether, I call it!"

"Have you looked round about at all?" asked Betty.

"I've been a good bit over the Hollow, miss," answered Creasy. "But it's a stiff job seeking anything here. There's nobody knows what a wilderness this Hollow is until they begin exploring it. Holes—corners—nooks—crannies—bracken and bushes—it is a wilderness, and that's a fact! I'd engage to hide myself safely in this square mile for many a week, against a hundred seekers. It wouldn't a bit surprise me, you know, if it comes out in the end that Mr. Horbury, after all, did fall down one of these old shafts. I couldn't believe it possible at first, knowing that he knew every in and out of the place, but I'm beginning to think he may have done. There's only one thing against that theory."

"What?" asked Betty.

"Where's the other gentleman?" answered the tinker. "If they came together on to this waste, one couldn't fall down a shaft without the other knowing it, eh? And it's scarcely likely they'd both fall down."

Neale glanced at Betty and shook his head.

"There you are, you see!" he muttered. "They all hang to the notion that Hollis did meet Horbury! Mr. Horbury may have been alone, after all, you know," he went on, turning to Creasy. "There's no proof that the other gentleman was with him."

"Aye, well—I'm going on what these paper accounts say," answered Creasy. "They all take it for granted that those two were together. Well, about these old shaftings, mister—I did notice something very early this morning that I thought might be looked into."

"What is it?" asked Neale. "Don't let's lose any chance of finding anything out, however small it may be."

The tinker finished mending a kettle and set it aside amongst other renovated articles. He lifted the pan of solder off the fire, set it aside, too, and got up.

"Come this way, then," he said. "I was going in to Scarnham this noon to tell Mr Polke about it, but as long as you're here——"

He led the way through the thick gorse and heather until he came to a narrow track which wound across the moor in the direction of the town. There he paused, pointing towards Ellersdeane on the one hand, towards Scarnham on the other.

"You see this track, mister?" he said. "You'll notice that it goes to Ellersdeane village that way, and to Scarnham this. Of course, you can't see it all the way in either direction, but you can take my word for it—it does. It comes out at Ellersdeane by the duck-pond, at Scarnham by the bridge at the foot of Cornmarket. People who know it would follow it if they wanted a short cut across the moor from the town to the village—or the opposite, as you might say. Now then, look here—a bit this way."

He preceded them along the narrow track until, on an open space in the moorland, they came to one of the old lead-mine shafts, the mouth of which had been fenced in by a roughly built wall of stone gathered from its immediate surroundings. In this wall, extending from its parapet to the ground, was a wide gap: the stones which had been displaced to make it had disappeared into the cavernous opening.

"Now then!" said the tinker, turning on his companions with the inquiring look of a man who advances a theory which may or may not be accepted as reasonable, "you see that? What I'd like to know is—is that a recently made gap? It's difficult to tell. If this bit of a stone fence had been built with mortar, one could have told. But it's never had mortar or lime in it!—it's just rough masonry, as you see—stones picked up off the moor, like all these fences round the old shafts. But—there's the gap right enough! Do you know what I'm thinking?"

"No!" murmured Betty, with a glance of fear and doubt at the black vista which she saw through the gap. "But—don't be afraid to speak."

"I'm thinking this," continued the tinker: "Supposing a man was following this track from Ellersdeane to Scarnham, or t'other way about, as it might be—supposing he was curious to look down one of these old shafts—supposing he looked down this one, which stands, as you see, not two yards off the very track he was following—supposing he leaned his weight on this rotten bit of fencing—supposing it gave way? What?"

Neale, who had been listening intently, made a movement as if to lay his hand on the grey stones. Betty seized him impulsively.

"Don't, Wallie!" she exclaimed. "That frightens me!"

Creasy lifted his foot and pressed it against the stones at one edge of the gap. Before even that slight pressure three or four blocks gave way and dropped inward—the sound of their fall came dully from the depths beneath.

"You see," said the tinker, "it's possible. It might be. And—as you can tell from the time it takes a stone to drop—it's a long way down there. They're very deep, these old mines."

Neale turned from the broken wall and looked narrowly at the ground about it.

"I don't see any signs of anybody being about here recently," he remarked. "There are no footmarks."

"There couldn't be, mister," said Creasy. "You could march a regiment of soldiers over this moorland grass for many an hour, and there'd be no footprints on it when they'd gone—it's that wiry and strong. No!—if half a dozen men had been standing about here when one fell in—or if two or three men had come here to throw another man in," he added significantly, "there'd be no footmarks. Try it—you can't grind an iron-shod heel like mine into this turf."

"It's all very horrible!" said Betty, still staring at the black gap with its suggestions of subterranean horror. "If one only knew——"

The tinker turned and looked at the two young people as if he were estimating their strength.

"What are you wondering about?" asked Neale.

Creasy smiled as he glanced again at Betty.

"Well," he replied, "you're a pretty strong young fellow, mister, I take it, and the young lady looks as if she'd got a bit of good muscle about her. If you two could manage one end of a rope, I'd go down into that shaft at the other end—a bit of the way, at any rate. And then—I'd let down a lantern and see if there's aught to be seen."

Betty turned anxiously to Neale, and Neale looked the tinker over with appraising eyes.

"I could pull you up myself," he answered. "You're no great weight. And haven't those shafts got props and stays down the side?"

"Aye, but they'll be thoroughly rotten by this," said Creasy. "Well, we'll try it. Come to my cart—I've plenty of stuff there."

"You're sure there's no danger?" asked Betty. "Don't imperil yourself!"

"No danger, so long as you two'll stick to this end of the rope," said Creasy. "I shan't go too far down."

The tilted cart proved to contain all sorts of useful things: they presently returned to the shaft with two coils of stout rope, a crowbar, a lantern attached to a length of strong cord, and a great sledge-hammer, with which the tinker drove the crowbar firmly into the ground some ten or twelve feet from the edge of the gap. He made one end of the first rope fast to this; the other end he securely knotted about his waist; one end of the second rope he looped under his armpits, and handed the other to Neale; then, lighting his lantern, he prepared to descend, having first explained the management of the ropes to his assistants.

"All you've got to do," he said reassuringly to Betty, "is to hold on to this second rope and let me down, gradual-like. When I say 'Pull,' draw up—I'll help, hand over hand, up this first rope. Simple enough!—and I shan't go too far."

Nevertheless, he exhausted the full length of both ropes, and it seemed a long time before they heard anything of him. Betty, frightened of what she might hear, fearful lest Neale should go too near the edge of the shaft, began to get nervous at the delay, and it was with a great sense of relief that she at last heard the signal.

The tinker came hand over hand up the stationary rope, helped by the second one: his face, appearing over the edge of the gap, was grave and at first inscrutable. He shook himself when he stepped above ground, as if he wanted to shake off an impression: then he turned and spoke in a whisper.

"It's as I thought it might be!" he said. "There's a dead man down there!"



CHAPTER XVII

ACCIDENT OR MURDER?

Betty checked the cry of horror which instinctively started to her lips, and turned to Neale with a look which he was quick to interpret. He moved nearer to the tinker, who was unwinding the rope from his waist.

"You couldn't tell—what man?" he asked, in low tones.

Creasy shook his head with a look of dislike for what he had seen by the light of his lantern.

"No!" he answered. "'Twasn't possible, mister. But—a man there is! And dead, naturally. And—a long way it is, too, down to the bottom of that place!"

"What's to be done?" asked Neale.

The tinker slowly coiled up his ropes, and laid them in order by the crowbar.

"There's only one thing to be done," he answered, after a reflective pause. "We shall have to get him up. That'll be a job! Do you and the young lady go back to Scarnham, and tell Polke what we've found, and let him come out here with a man or two. I'll go into Ellersdeane yonder and get some help—and a windlass—can't do without that. There's a man that sinks wells in Ellersdeane—I'll get him and his men to come back with me. Then we can set to work."

Creasy moved away as he finished speaking, untethered his pony, threw an old saddle across its back, and without further remark rode off in the direction of the village, while Neale and Betty turned back to Scarnham. For a while neither broke the silence which had followed the tinker's practical suggestions; when Betty at last spoke it was in a hushed voice.

"Wallie!" she said, "do you think that can possibly be—Uncle John?"

"No!" answered Neale sharply, "I don't! I don't believe it possible that he would be so foolish as to lean over a rotten bit of walling like that—he'd know the danger of it."

"Then it must be—the other man—Hollis!" said Betty.

"Maybe," agreed Neale. "If it is——"

He paused, and Betty looked at his set face as if she were wondering what he was thinking of.

"What?" she asked timidly. "You're uneasy about something."

"It's a marvel to me—if it is Hollis—however he comes to be there," answered Neale at last. "According to all we know, he certainly went to meet somebody on Saturday night. I can't think how anybody who knew the district would have let a stranger do such a risky thing as to lean over one of those shafts. Besides, if anybody was with him, and there was an accident, why hasn't the accident been reported? Betty!—it's more like murder!"

"You think he may have been thrown down there?" she asked fearfully.

"Thrown down or forced down—it's all the same," said Neale. "There may have been a struggle—a fight. But there, what's the use of speculating? We don't even know whose body it is yet. Let's get on and tell those police chaps."

Turning off the open moor on to the highway at the corner of Scarnham Bridge, they suddenly came face to face with Gabriel Chestermarke, who, for once in a way, was walking instead of driving into the town. The two young people, emerging from the shelter of a high hedgerow which bordered the moorland at that point, started at sight of the banker's colourless face, cold and set as usual. But Gabriel betrayed no surprise, and was in no way taken aback. He lifted his hat in silence, and was marching on when Neale impulsively hailed him.

"Mr. Chestermarke!" he exclaimed.

Gabriel halted and turned, looking at his late clerk with absolute impassiveness. He made no remark, and stood like a statue, waiting for Neale to speak.

"You may like to know," said Neale, coming up to him, "we have just found the body of a man on the moor—Ellersdeane Hollow."

Gabriel showed no surprise. No light came into his eyes, no colour to his cheek. It seemed a long time before his firmly set lips relaxed.

"A man?" he said quietly. "What man?"

"We don't know," answered Neale. "All we know is, there's a man's body lying at the bottom of one of the old shafts up there—near Ellersdeane Tower. The tinker who camps out there has just seen it—he's been partly down the shaft."

"And—did not recognize it?" asked Gabriel.

"No—it was too far beneath him," replied Neale. "He's gone into the village to get help."

Gabriel lingered a moment, and then, lifting his hat again, began to move forward towards the town.

"I should advise you to acquaint the police, Mr. Neale," he said. "Good-morning!"

He marched away, stiffly upright, across the bridge and up the Cornmarket, and Neale and Betty followed.

"Why did you tell—him?" asked Betty.

Neale threw a glance of something very like scorn after the retreating figure.

"Wanted to see how he'd take it!" he answered. "Bah!—Gabriel Chestermarke's no better than a wax figure! You might as well tell a marble image any news of this sort as tell him! You'd have thought he'd have had sufficient human feeling in him to say that he hoped it wasn't your uncle, anyhow!"

"No, I shouldn't," said Betty. "I sized Gabriel up—and Joseph, too—when I walked into their parlour the other afternoon. They haven't any feelings—you might as well expect to get feeling out of a fish."

They met Starmidge in the Market-Place—talking to Parkinson. Neale told the news to both. The journalist dashed into his office for his hat, and made off to Ellersdeane Hollow: Starmidge turned to the police-station with his information.

"No one else knows, I suppose?" he remarked, as they went along.

"Gabriel Chestermarke knows," answered Neale. "We met him as we were coming off the moor and I told him."

"Show any surprise?" asked the detective.

"Neither surprise nor anything else," said Neale. "Absolutely unaffected!"

Polke, hearing the news, immediately bustled into activity, sending for a cab in which to drive along the road to a point near Ellersdeane Tower, from which they could reach the lead mine. But he shook his head when he saw that Betty meant to return.

"Don't, miss!" he urged. "Stay here in town—you'd far better. It's not a nice job for ladies, aught of that sort. Wait at the hotel—do, now!"

"Doing nothing!" exclaimed Betty. "That would be far worse. Let me go—I'm not afraid of anything. And to hang about, waiting and wondering—"

Neale, who had been about to enter the cab with the police, drew back.

"You go on," he said to Polke. "Get things through—Miss Fosdyke and I will walk slowly back there. We won't come close up till you can tell us something definite. Don't you see she's anxious about her uncle?—we can't keep her waiting."

He rejoined Betty as Polke and his men drove off: together they turned again in the direction of the bridge. Once across it and on the moor, Neale made the girl sit down on a ledge of rock at some distance from the lead mine, but within sight of it: he himself, while he talked to her, stood watching the figures grouped about the shaft. Creasy had evidently succeeded in getting help at once: Neale saw men fixing a windlass over the mouth of the old mine; saw a man at last disappear into its depths. And after a long pause he saw from the movements of the other men that the body had been drawn to the surface and that they were bending over it. A moment later, Starmidge separated himself from the rest, and came in Neale's direction. He nodded his head energetically at Betty as he drew within speaking distance.

"All right, Miss Fosdyke!" he said. "It's not your uncle. But—it's the other man, Mr. Neale!—no doubt of it!"

"Hollis!" exclaimed Neale.

"It's the man described by Mrs. Pratt and Simmons—that's certain," answered the detective. "So there's one mystery settled—though it makes all the rest stranger than ever. Now, Miss Fosdyke, that'll be some relief to you—so don't come any nearer. But just spare Mr. Neale a few minutes—I want to speak to him."

Betty obediently turned back to the ledge of rock, and Neale walked with Starmidge towards the group around the shaft.

"Can you tell anything?" he asked. "Are there any signs of violence?—I mean, does it look as if he'd been——"

"Thrown in there?" said the detective calmly. "Ah!—it's a bit early to decide that. The only thing I'm thinking of now is the fact that this is Hollis! That's certain, Mr. Neale. Now what could he be doing on this lonely bit of ground? Where does this track lead?"

"It's a short cut from Scarnham Bridge corner to the middle of Ellersdeane village," answered Neale, pointing one way and then the other.

"And Gabriel Chestermarke lives in Ellersdeane, doesn't he?" asked Starmidge. "Or close by?"

Neale indicated certain chimneys rising amongst the trees on the far side of the Hollow. "He lives there—The Warren," he replied.

"Um!" mused Starmidge. "I wonder if this poor fellow was making his way there—to see him?"

"How should he—a stranger—know of this short cut?" demurred Neale. "I don't think that's very likely."

"That's true—unless he'd had it pointed out to him," rejoined Starmidge. "It's odd, anyway, that his body should be found half-way, as it were, between Gabriel Chestermarke's place and Joseph Chestermarke's house—isn't it now? But, Lord bless you!—we're only on the fringe of this business as yet. Well—just take a look at him."

Neale walked within the group of bystanders, feeling an intense dislike and loathing of the whole thing. In obedience to Starmidge's wish, he looked steadily at the dead man and turned away.

"You don't know him?—never saw him during the five years you were at the bank?" whispered the detective. "Think!—make certain, now."

"Never saw him in my life!" declared Neale, stepping back. "I neither know him nor anything about him."

"I wanted you to make sure," said Starmidge. "I thought you might—possibly—recollect him as somebody who'd called at the bank during your time."

"No!" said Neale. "Certainly not! I've never set eyes on him until now. Of course, he's Hollis, I suppose?"

"Oh, without doubt!" answered Polke, who caught Neale's question as he came up. "He's Hollis, right enough. Mr. Neale—here's a difficulty. It's a queer thing, but there isn't one of us here who knows if this spot is in Scarnham or in Ellersdeane. Do you? Is it within our borough boundary, or is it in Ellersdeane parish? The Ellersdeane policeman there doesn't know, and I'm sure I don't! It's a point of importance, because the inquest'll have to be held in the parish in which the body was found."

The Ellersdeane constable who had followed Polke suddenly raised a finger and pointed across the heather.

"Here's a gentleman coming as might know, Mr. Polke," he said. "Mr. Chestermarke!"

Neale and Starmidge turned sharply—to see the banker advancing quickly from the adjacent road. A cab, drawn up a little distance off, showed that he had driven out to hear the latest news.

Polke stepped forward to meet the new-comer: Gabriel greeted him in his usual impassive fashion.

"This body been recovered?" he asked quietly.

"A few minutes ago, Mr. Chestermarke," answered Polke. "Will you look at it?"

Gabriel moved aside the group of men without further word, and the others followed him. He looked steadily at the dead man's face and withdrew.

"Not known to me," he said, in answer to an inquiring glance from Polke. "Hollis, I suppose, of course."

He went off again as suddenly as he had come—and Starmidge drew Neale aside.

"Mr. Neale!" he whispered, with a nearer approach to excitement than Neale had yet seen in him. "Did you see Gabriel Chestermarke's eyes? He's a liar! As sure as my name's Starmidge, he's a liar! Mr. Neale!—he knows that dead man!"



CHAPTER XVIII

THE INCOMPLETE CHEQUE

Neale, startled and amazed by this sudden outburst on the part of a man whom up to that time he had taken to be unusually cool-headed and phlegmatic, did not immediately answer. He was watching the Ellersdeane constable, who was running after Gabriel Chestermarke's rapidly retreating figure. He saw Gabriel stop, listen to an evident question, and then lift his hand and point to various features of the Hollow. The policeman touched his helmet, and came back to Polke.

"Mr. Chestermarke, sir, says the moorland is in three parishes," he reported pantingly. "From Scarnham Bridge corner to Ellersdeane Tower yonder is in Scarnham parish: this side the Hollow is in Ellersdeane; everything beyond the Tower is in Middlethorpe."

"Then we're in Scarnham," said Polke. "He'll have to be taken down to the town mortuary. We'd better see to it at once. What are you going to do, Starmidge?" he asked, as the detective turned away with Neale.

"I'll take this short cut back," said Starmidge. "I want to get to the post-office. Yes, sir!" he went on, as he and Neale slowly walked towards Betty. "I say—he knew him! knew him, Mr. Neale, knew him!—as soon as ever he clapped his eyes on him!"

"You're very certain about it," said Neale.

"Dead certain!" exclaimed the detective. "I was watching him—purposely. I've taught myself to watch men. The slightest quiver of a lip—the least bit of light in an eye—the merest twitch of a little finger—ah! don't I know 'em all, and know what they mean! And, when Gabriel Chestermarke stepped up to look at that body, I was watching that face of his as I've never watched mortal man before!"

"And you saw—what?" asked Neale.

"I saw—Recognition!" said Starmidge. "Recognition, sir! I'll stake my reputation as a detective officer that Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke has seen that dead man before. He mayn't know him personally. He may never have spoken to him. But—he knew him! He'd seen him!"

"Will your conviction of that help at all?" inquired Neale.

"It'll help me," replied the detective quickly. "I'm gradually getting some ideas. But I shan't tell Polke—nor anybody else—of it. You can tell Miss Fosdyke if you like—she'll understand: women have more intuition than men. Now I'm off—I want to get a wire away to London. Look here—drop in at the police-station when you get back. We shall examine Hollis's clothing, you know—there may be some clue to Horbury."

He hurried off towards the town, and Neale rejoined Betty. And as they slowly followed the detective, he told her what Starmidge had just said with such evident belief—and Betty understood, as Starmidge had prophesied, and she grew more thoughtful than ever.

"When are we going to find a way out of all this miserable business!" she suddenly exclaimed. "Are we any nearer a solution because of what's just happened? Does that help us to finding out what's become of my uncle?"

"I suppose one thing's sure to lead to another," said Neale. "That seems to be the detective's notion, anyhow. If Starmidge is so certain that Gabriel Chestermarke knew Hollis, he'll work that for all it's worth. It's my opinion—whatever that's worth!—that Hollis came down here to see the Chestermarkes. Did he see them? There's the problem. If one could only find out—that!"

"I wish you and I could do something—apart from the police," suggested Betty. "Isn't there anything we could do?"

Neale pointed ahead to the high roof of Joseph Chestermarke's house across the river.

"There's one thing I'd like to do—if I could," he answered. "I'd just like to know all the secrets of that place! That there are some I'm as certain as that we're crossing this moor. You see that queer-shaped structure—sort of conical chimney—sticking up amongst the trees in Joseph Chestermarke's garden? That's a workshop, or a laboratory, or something, in which Joseph spends his leisure moments. I'd like to know what he does there. But nobody knows! Nobody is ever allowed in that house, nor in the garden. I don't know a single soul in all Scarnham that's ever been inside either. I'm perfectly certain Mr. Horbury was never asked there. Once Joseph's across his thresholds, back or front, there's an end of him—till he comes out again!"

"But—he doesn't live entirely alone, does he?" asked Betty.

"As near as can be," replied Neale. "His entire staff consists of an old man and an old woman—man and wife—who've been with him—oh, ever since he was born, I believe! You may have seen the old man about the town—old Palfreman. Everybody knows him—queer, old-fashioned chap: he goes out to buy in whatever's wanted: the old woman never shows. That's the trio that live in there—a queer lot, aren't they?"

"It's all queer!" sighed Betty. "But now that this unfortunate man's body has been found—Wallie! do you think it possible he was thrown down that mine? That would mean murder!"

"If he was thrown down there, already dead," answered Neale grimly, "it would not only mean murder but that more than one person was concerned in it. We shall know more when they've examined the body and searched the clothing. I'm going round to the police-station when I've seen you back to the hotel—I'm hoping they'll find something that'll settle the one point that's so worrying."

"Which point?" asked Betty.

"The real critical point—in my opinion," answered Neale. "Who it was that Hollis came to see on Saturday? There may be letters, papers, on him that'll settle that. And if we once know that—ah! that will make a difference! Because then—then——"

"What then?" demanded Betty.

"Then the police can ask that person if Hollis did meet him!" exclaimed Neale. "And they can ask, too, what that person did with Hollis. Solve that, and we'll see daylight!"

But Betty shook her head with clear indications of doubt as to the validity of this theory.

"No!" she said. "It won't come off, Wallie. If there's been foul play, the guilty people will have had too much cleverness to leave any evidences on their victim. I don't believe they'll find anything on Hollis that'll clear things up. Daylight isn't coming from that quarter!"

"Where are we to look for it, then?" asked Neale dismally.

"It's somewhere far back," declared Betty. "I've felt that all along. The secret of all this affair isn't in anything that's been done here and lately—it's in something deep down. And how to get at it, and to find out about my uncle, I don't know."

Neale felt it worse than idle to offer more theories—speculation was becoming useless. He left Betty at the Scarnham Arms, and went round to the police-station to meet Starmidge: together they went over to the mortuary. And before noon they knew all that medical examination and careful searching could tell them about the dead man.

Hollis, said the police-surgeon and another medical man who had been called in to assist him, bore no marks of violence other than those which were inevitable in the case of a man who had fallen seventy feet. His neck was broken; he must have died instantaneously. There was nothing to show that there had been any struggle previous to his fall. Had such a struggle taken place, the doctors would have expected to find certain signs and traces of it on the body: there were none. Everything seemed to point to the theory that he had leaned over the insecure fencing of the old shaft to look into its depths; probably to drop stones into them; that the loose, unmortared parapet had given way with his weight, and that he had plunged headlong to the bottom. He might have been pushed in—from behind—of course, but that was conjecture. Under ordinary circumstances, agreed both doctors, everything would have seemed to point to accident. And one of them suggested that it was very probable that what really had happened was this—Hollis, on his way to call on some person in the neighbourhood, or on his return from such a call, had crossed the moor, been attracted by inquisitiveness to the old mine, had leaned over its parapet, and fallen in. Accident!—it all looked like sheer accident.

In one of the rooms at the police-station, Neale anxiously watched Polke and Starmidge examine the dead man's clothing and personal effects. The detective rapidly laid aside certain articles of the sort which he evidently expected to find—a purse, a cigar-case; the usual small things found in a well-to-do man's pockets; a watch and chain; a ring or two. He gave no particular attention to any of these beyond ascertaining that there was a good deal of loose money in the purse—some twelve or fifteen pounds in gold—and pointing out that the watch had stopped at ten minutes to eight.

"That shows the time of the accident," he remarked.

"Are you sure?" suggested Polke doubtfully. "It may merely mean that the watch ran itself out then."

Starmidge picked up the watch—a stem winder—and examined it.

"No," he said, "it's broken—by the fall. See there!—the spring's snapped. Ten minutes to eight, Saturday night, Mr. Polke—that's when this affair happened. Now then, this is what I want!"

From an inner pocket of the dead man's smart morning-coat, he drew a morocco-leather letter-case, and carefully extracted the papers from it. With Neale looking on at one side, and Polke at the other, Starmidge examined every separate paper. Nothing that he found bore any reference to Scarnham. There were one or two bills—from booksellers—made out to Frederick Hollis, Esquire. There was a folded playbill which showed that Mr. Hollis had recently been to a theatre, and—because of some pencilled notes on its margins—had taken an unusual interest in what he saw there. There were two or three letters from correspondents who evidently shared with Mr. Hollis a taste for collecting old books and engravings. There were some cuttings from newspapers: they, too, related to collecting. And Neale suddenly got an idea.

"I say!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Horbury was a bit of a collector of that sort of thing, as you probably saw from his house. This man may have run down to see him about some affair of that sort."

But at that moment Starmidge unfolded a slip of paper which he had drawn from an inner pocket of the letter-case. He gave one glance at it, and laid it flat on the table before his companions.

"No!" he said. "That's probably what brought Hollis down to Scarnham! A cheque for ten thousand pounds! And—incomplete!"

The three men bent wonderingly over the bit of pink paper. Neale's quick eyes took in its contents at a glance.

LONDON: May 12th, 1912. VANDERKISTE, MULLINEAU & COMPANY, 563 LOMBARD STREET, E.C.

Pay .............................. or Order the sum of Ten Thousand Pounds L10,000.00. ...................

"That's extraordinary!" exclaimed Neale. "Date and amount filled in—and the names of payee and drawer omitted! What does it mean?"

"Ah!" said Starmidge, "when we know that, Mr. Neale, we shall know a lot! But I'm pretty sure of one thing. Mr. Hollis came down here intending to pay somebody ten thousand pounds. And—he wasn't exactly certain who that somebody was!"

"Good!" muttered Polke. "Good! That looks like it."

"So," said Starmidge, "he didn't fill in either the name of the payee or his own name until he was—sure! See, Mr. Neale!"

"Why did he fill in the amount?" remarked Neale, sceptically.

Starmidge winked at Polke.

"Very likely to dangle before somebody's eyes," he answered slyly. "Can't you reconstruct the scene, Mr. Neale? 'Here you are!' says Hollis, showing this cheque. 'Ten thousand of the very best, lying to be picked up at my bankers. Say the word, and I'll fill in your name and mine!' Lay you a pound to a penny that's been it, gentlemen!"

"Good!" repeated Polke. "Good, sergeant! I believe you're right. Now, what'll you do about it?"

The detective carefully folded up the cheque and replaced it in the slit from which he had taken it. He also replaced all the other papers, put the letter-case in a stout envelope and handed it to the superintendent.

"Seal it up and put it away in your safe till the inquest tomorrow," he said. "What shall I do? Oh, well—you needn't mention it, either of you, except to Miss Fosdyke, of course—but as soon as the inquest is adjourned—as it'll have to be—I shall slip back to town and see those bankers. I don't know, but I don't think it's likely that Mr. Hollis would have ten thousand pounds always lying at his bank. I should say this ten thousand has been lodged there for a special purpose. And what I shall want to find out from them, in that case, is—what special purpose? And—what had it to do with Scarnham, or anybody at Scarnham? See? And I'll tell you what, Mr. Polke—I don't know whether we'll produce that cheque at the inquest on Hollis—at first, anyhow. The coroner's bound to adjourn—all he'll want tomorrow will be formal identification of the body—all other evidence can be left till later. I've wired for Simmons—he'll be able to identify. No—we'll keep this cheque business back till I've been to London. I shall find out something from Vanderkistes—they're highly respectable private bankers, and they'll tell me——"

At that moment a policeman entered the room and presented Polke with a card.

"Gentleman's just come in, sir," he said. "Wants to see you particular."

Polke glanced at the card, and read the name aloud, with a start of surprise: "Mr. Leonard Hollis!"



CHAPTER XIX

THE DEAD MAN'S BROTHER

Polke hastily followed the policeman from the room—to return immediately with a quiet-looking elderly gentleman in whom Neale and Starmidge saw a distinct likeness to the dead man.

"His brother!" whispered Polke, as he handed a chair to the visitor. "So you've seen about this in the newspapers, sir?" he went on, turning to Mr. Leonard Hollis. "And you thought you'd better come over, I suppose?"

"I have not only read about it in the newspapers," answered the visitor, "but I last night—very late—received a telegram from my brother's clerk—Mr. Simmons—who evidently found my address at my brother's rooms. So I left Birmingham—where I now live—at once, to see you. Now, have you heard anything of my brother?"

Polke shook his head solemnly and warningly.

"I'm sorry to say we have, sir," he replied. "You'd better prepare for the worst news, Mr. Hollis. We found the body this morning—not two hours ago. And—we don't know, as yet, how he came by his death. The doctors say it may have been pure accident. Let's hope it was! But there are strange circumstances, sir—very strange!"

Hollis quietly rose from his chair.

"I suppose I can see him?" he asked.

Polke led him out of the room, and Starmidge turned to Neale.

"We're gradually getting at something, Mr. Neale," he said. "All this leads somewhere, you know. Now, since we found that incomplete cheque, there's a question I wanted to ask you. You've left Chestermarke's Bank now, and under the circumstances we're working in you needn't have any delicacy about answering questions about them. Do you know of any recent transaction of theirs which involved ten thousand pounds?"

"No!" replied Neale. "I certainly don't."

"Nor any sum approaching it?" suggested Starmidge. "Or exceeding it?"

"Nothing whatever!" reiterated Neale. "I know of all recent banking transactions at Chestermarke's, and I can't think—I've been thinking since we saw that cheque—of anything that the cheque had to do with."

"Well—it's a queer thing," remarked the detective meditatively. "I'll lay anything Hollis brought that cheque down here for some specific purpose—and who on earth is there in this place that he could bring it to but Chestermarke's? However, we'll see if I don't trace something about it when I get up to town, and then——"

Polke and the dead man's brother came back, talking earnestly. The superintendent carefully closed the door, and begging his visitor to be seated again, turned to Starmidge.

"I've told Mr. Hollis all the main facts of the case," he said. "Of course, he identified his brother at once."

"When did you see him last, sir!" asked Starmidge.

"Some eight or nine months ago," replied Hollis. "He came to see me, in Birmingham. Previous to that, I hadn't seen him for several years. I ought to tell you," he went on, turning to Polke, "that for a great many years I have lived abroad—tea-planting in Ceylon. I came back to England about a year ago, and eventually settled down at Edgbaston. I suppose my brother's clerk found my address on an old letter or something last night, and wired to me in consequence."

"When Simmons was here," observed Starmidge, "he said that your brother seemed to have no relations."

"I daresay Simmons would get that impression," remarked Hollis. "My brother was a very reserved man, who was not likely to talk much of his family. As a matter of fact, I am about the only relation he had—except some half-cousins, or something of that sort."

"Can you tell us anything about your brother's position?" asked Starmidge. "The clerk said he didn't practise very much, and had means of his own."

"Quite true," assented Hollis. "I believe he had a comfortable income, apart from his practice—perhaps five or six hundred a year. He mentioned to me that he only did business for old clients."

"Do you think he'd be likely to have a sum of ten thousand pounds lying at his bankers?" inquired Starmidge.

Hollis looked sharply at the detective and then shook his head.

"Not unless it was for some special purpose," he answered. "He might have such a sum if he'd been selling out securities for re-investment. But my impression is—in fact, it's more than an impression—I'm sure that he bought himself an annuity of about the amount I mentioned just now, some years ago. You see, he'd no children, and he knew that I was a well-to-do man, so—he used his capital in that a way."

"Would you be surprised to see a cheque of his drawn for ten thousand pounds?" asked Starmidge suddenly.

"Frankly, I should!" replied Hollis, with a smile. "That is, if it was on his private account."

"Do you happen to know who kept his private account?" inquired Starmidge.

"Yes," answered Hollis. "He banked with an old private firm called Vanderkiste, Mullineau & Company, of Lombard Street."

Starmidge, after a whispered word with Polke, took up the envelope in which he had placed the dead man's letter-case, and produced the cheque.

"Look at that, sir," he said, laying it before the visitor. "Is that your brother's handwriting?"

"His handwriting—oh, yes!" exclaimed Hollis. "Most certainly! But—there's no signature!"

"No—and there's no name of any payee," said Starmidge. "That's where the mystery comes in. But—this—and this letter-case and its contents—was found on him, and there's no doubt he came down to Scarnham intending to pay that cheque to somebody. You can't throw any light on that, sir?"

The visitor, who continued to regard the cheque with evident amazement, at last turned away from it and glanced at his three companions.

"Well," he said, "I don't know that I can. But one principal reason why I hurried here, after getting Simmons' telegram last night, is this: In the newspapers there is a good deal of mention of a Mr. John Horbury, manager of a bank in this town. He, too, you tell me, has disappeared. Now, I happen to possess a remarkably good memory, and it was at once stirred by seeing that name. My brother Frederick and I were at school together at Selburgh—Selburgh Grammar School, you know—quite thirty-five or six years ago. One of our schoolmates was a John Horbury. And—he came from this place—Scarnham."

The three listeners looked at each other. And Neale started, as if at some sudden reminiscence, and he spoke quickly.

"I've heard Mr. Horbury speak of his school-days at Selburgh!" he said. "And—now I come to think of it—he had some books with the school coat-of-arms on the sides—prizes."

"Just so!" remarked Hollis. "I remember Jack Horbury very well indeed, though I never saw him after I left school, nor heard of him either, until I saw all this news about him in the papers. Of course, your missing bank manager is the John Horbury my brother and I were at school with! And I take it that the reason my brother came down to Scarnham last Saturday was—to see John Horbury."

Starmidge had been listening to all this with close attention. He was now more than ever convinced that he was at last on some track—but so far he could not see many steps ahead. Nevertheless, his next step was clearly enough discernible.

"You say you saw your brother some eight or nine months ago, sir?" he remarked. "Did he mention Mr. Horbury to you at that time?"

"No, he didn't," replied Hollis.

"Did he ever—recently, I mean—ever mention his name to you in a letter?" asked Starmidge.

"No—never! I don't know," said Hollis, "that he or I ever spoke to each other of John Horbury from the time we left school. John Horbury was not, as it were, a very particular chum of ours. We knew him—as we knew a hundred other boys. As I have already told you, the two names, Horbury, Scarnham, in the newspapers yesterday, immediately recalled John Horbury, our schoolmate, to me. Up to then, I don't suppose I'd ever thought of him for—years! And I don't suppose he'd ever thought of me, or of my brother. Yet—I feel sure my brother came here to see him. For business reasons, I suppose?"

"The odd thing about that, Mr. Hollis," remarked Polke, "is that we can't find the slightest reason, either from anybody here, or from your brother's clerk in London, why your brother should come to see Horbury, whether for business, or for any other purpose. And as to his remembering Mr. Frederick Hollis, well, here's Mr. Neale—Mr. Horbury was his guardian—and Mr. Neale, of course, has known him all his life. Now, Mr. Neale never heard him mention Mr. Frederick Hollis by name at any time. And there's now staying in the town Mr. Horbury's niece, Miss Fosdyke; she, too, never heard her uncle speak of any Mr. Hollis. Then, as to business—the partners at Chestermarke's Bank declare that they know nothing whatever of your brother—Mr. Gabriel, the senior partner, has seen the poor gentleman, and didn't recognize him. So—we at any rate, are as wise as ever. We don't know what your brother came here for!"

Hollis bowed his head in full acceptance of the superintendent's remarks. But he looked up at Starmidge and smiled.

"Exactly!" he said. "I quite understand you, Mr. Polke. But—I am convinced that my brother came here to see John Horbury. Why he came, I know no more than you do—but I hope to know!"

"You'll stay in the town a bit, sir?" suggested Polke. "You'll want to make arrangements for your poor brother's funeral, of course. Aught that we can do, sir, to help, shall be done."

"I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Polke," replied Hollis. "Yes, I shall certainly stay in Scarnham. In fact," he went on, rising and looking quietly from one man to the other, "I shall stay in Scarnham until I, or you, or somebody have satisfactorily explained how my brother came to his death! I shall spare neither effort nor money to get at the truth—that's my determination!"

"There's somebody else in like case with you, Mr. Hollis," observed Polke. "Miss Fosdyke's just as concerned about her uncle as you are about your brother. She declares she'll spend a fortune on finding him—or finding out what's happened to him. It was Miss Fosdyke insisted on having Detective-Sergeant Starmidge down at once."

Hollis quietly scrutinized the detective.

"Well?" he asked. "And what do you make of it?"

But Starmidge was not in the mood for saying anything more just then, and he put his questioner off, asking him, at the same time, to keep the matter of the cheque to himself. Presently Hollis went away with Neale, to whom he wished to talk, and Starmidge, after a period of what seemed to be profound thought, turned to Polke.

"Superintendent!" he said earnestly. "With your leave, I'd like to try an experiment."

"What experiment?" demanded Polke.

Starmidge pointed to the ten thousand pound cheque, which was still lying on the table.

"I'd like to take that cheque across to Chestermarke's Bank, and show it to the partners," he answered.

"Good heavens!—why?" exclaimed Polke. "I thought you didn't want anybody to know about it."

"Never mind—I've an idea," said the detective. "I'd just like them to see it, anyway, and," he added, with a wink, "I'd like to see them when they do see it!"

"You know best," said Polke. "If you think it well, do it."

Starmidge put the cheque in an envelope and walked over to the bank. He was shown into the partners' room almost immediately, and the two men glanced at him with evident curiosity.

"Sorry to trouble you, gentlemen," said Starmidge, in his politest manner. "There's a little matter you might help us in. We've been searching this unfortunate gentleman's clothing, you know, for papers and so on. And in his letter-case we found—this!"

He had the cheque ready behind his back, and he suddenly brought it forward, and laid it immediately before the partners, on Gabriel's desk, at the same time stepping back so that he could observe both men.

"Queer, isn't it, gentlemen?" he remarked quietly. "Incomplete!"

Gabriel Chestermarke, in spite of his habitual control, started: Joseph, bending nearer to the desk, made a curious sound of surprise. A second later they both looked at Starmidge—each as calm as ever. "Well?" said Gabriel.

"You don't know anything about that, gentlemen?" asked Starmidge, affecting great innocence.

"Nothing!" answered Gabriel.

"Of course not!" murmured Joseph, a little derisively.

"I thought you might recognize that handwriting," suggested Starmidge, using one of his previously invented excuses.

"No!" replied Gabriel. "Don't know it!"

"From Adam's writing," added Joseph.

"You know the name of the bankers, I suppose, gentlemen?" asked the detective.

"Vanderkiste? Oh, yes!" assented Gabriel. "Well-known city firm. But I don't think we've ever done business with them," he added, turning to his nephew.

"Never!" replied Joseph. "In my time, at any rate."

Starmidge picked up the cheque and carefully replaced it in its envelope.

"Much obliged to you, gentlemen," he said, retreating towards the door. "Oh!—you'll be interested in hearing, no doubt, that the dead man's brother, Mr. Leonard Hollis, of Birmingham, has come. He's identified the body."

"And what does he think, or suggest?" asked Joseph, glancing out of the corners of his eyes at Starmidge. "Has he any suggestions—or ideas?"

"He thinks his brother came here to meet Mr. Horbury," answered Starmidge.

"That's so evident that it's no news," remarked Joseph. "Perhaps he can suggest where Horbury's to be found."

Starmidge bowed and went out and straight back to Polke. He handed him the cheque and the letter-case.

"Lock 'em up!" he said. "Now then, listen! You can do all that's necessary about that inquest. I'm off to town. Sit down, and I'll tell you why. And what I tell you, keep to yourself."

That evening, Starmidge, who had driven quietly across the country from Scarnham to Ecclesborough, joined a London express at the Midland Station in the big town. The carriages were unusually full, and he had some difficulty in finding the corner seat that he particularly desired. But he got one, at last, at the very end of the train, and he had only just settled himself in it when he saw Gabriel Chestermarke hurry past. Starmidge put his head out of the window and watched—Gabriel entered a first-class compartment in the next coach.

"First stop Nottingham!" mused the detective. And he pulled a sheaf of telegram forms out of his pocket, and leisurely began to write a message which before he signed his name to it had run into many words.



CHAPTER XX

THE OTHER CHEQUE

Starmidge sent off his telegram when the train stopped at Nottingham, and thereafter went to sleep, secure in the knowledge that it would be promptly acted upon by its recipients. And when, soon after eleven o'clock, the express ran into St. Pancras, he paid no particular attention to Gabriel Chestermarke. He had no desire, indeed, that the banker should see him, and he hung back when the crowded carriages cleared, and the platform became a scene of bustle and animation. But he had no difficulty in distinguishing Gabriel's stiffly erect figure as it made its way towards the hall of the station, and his sharp eyes were quick to notice a quietly dressed, unobtrusive sort of man who sauntered along, caught sight of the banker, and swung round to follow him. Starmidge watched both pass along towards the waiting lines of vehicles—then he turned on his heel and went to the refreshment room and straight to a man who evidently expected him.

"You got the wire in good time, then?" said Starmidge.

"Plenty!" answered the other man laconically. "I've put a good man on to him. See anything of them?"

"Yes—but I didn't know our man," remarked Starmidge. "Who is he? Will he do what I want?"

"He's all right—fellow who's just been promoted, and, of course, he's naturally keen," replied Starmidge's companion. "Name of Gandam. That was a pretty good and full description of the man you want followed, Starmidge," he went on, with a smile. "You don't leave much out!"

"I didn't want him to be overlooked, and I didn't want to show up myself," said Starmidge. "I noticed that our man spotted him quick. Now, look here—I'll be at headquarters first thing tomorrow morning—I want this chap Gandam's report. Nine-thirty sharp! Now we'll have a drink, and I'll get home."

"Good case, this?" asked the other man, as they pledged each other. "Getting on with it?"

"Tell you more tomorrow," answered Starmidge. "When—and if—I know more. Nine-thirty, mind!"

But when Starmidge met his companion of the night before at nine-thirty next morning, it was to find him in conversation with the other man, and to see dissatisfaction on the countenances of both. And Starmidge, a naturally keen observer, knew what had happened. He frowned as he looked at Gandam.

"You don't mean to say he slipped you!" he exclaimed.

"I don't know about slipped," muttered Gandam. "I lost him, anyway, Mr. Starmidge, and I don't see how I can be blamed, either. Perhaps you might have done differently, but——"

"Tell about it!" interrupted Starmidge. "What happened?"

"I spotted him, of course, from your description, as soon as he got out of the train," replied Gandam. "No mistaking him, naturally—he's an extra good one to watch. He'd no luggage—not even a handbag. I followed him to the taxi-cabs. I was close by when he stepped into one, and I heard what he said. 'Stage door—Adalbert Theatre.' Off he went—I followed in another taxi. I stopped mine and got out, just in time to see him walk up the entry to the stage-door. He went in. It was then half-past eleven; they were beginning to close. I waited and waited until at last they closed the stage-door. I'll take my oath he'd never come out!—never!"

Starmidge made a face of intense disgust.

"No, of course he hadn't!" he exclaimed. "He'd gone out at the front. I suppose that never struck you? I know that stage-door of the Adalbert—it's up a passage. If you'd stood at the end of that passage, man, you could have kept an eye on the front and stage-door at the same time. But, of course, it never struck you that a man could go in at the back of a place and come out at the front, did it? Well—that's off for the present. And so am I."

Vexed and disappointed that Gabriel Chestermarke had not been tracked to wherever he was staying in London, Starmidge went out, hailed a taxi-cab, and was driven down to the city. He did not particularly concern himself about Gabriel's visit to the stage-door of the Adalbert Theatre; it was something, after all, to know he had gone there: if need arose, he might be traced from that theatre, in which, very possibly, he had some financial interest. What Starmidge had desired to ascertain was the banker's London address: he had already learned in Scarnham that Gabriel Chestermarke was constantly in London for days at a time—he must have some permanent address at which he could be found. And Starmidge foresaw that he might wish to find him—perhaps in a hurry.

But just then his chief concern was with another banking firm—Vanderkiste's. He walked slowly along Lombard Street until he came to the house—a quiet, sober, eminently respectable-looking old business place, quite unlike the palatial affairs in which the great banking corporations of modern origin carry on their transactions. There was no display of marble and plaster and plate glass and mahogany and heavy plethoric fittings—a modest brass plate affixed to the door was the only sign and announcement that banking business was carried on within. Equally old-fashioned and modest was the interior—and Starmidge was quick to notice that the clerks were all elderly or middle-aged men, solemn and grave as undertakers.

The presentation of the detective's official card procured him speedy entrance to a parlour in which sat two old gentlemen, who were evidently greatly surprised to see him. They were so much surprised indeed, as to be almost childishly interested, and Starmidge had never had such attentive listeners in his life as these two elderly city men, to whom crime and detention were as unfamiliar as higher finance was to their visitor. They followed Starmidge's story point by point, nodding every now and then as he drew their attention to particular passages, and the detective saw that they comprehended all he said. He made an end at last—and Mr. Vanderkiste, a white-bearded, benevolent-looking gentleman, looked at Mr. Mullineau, a little, rosy-faced man, and shook his head.

"It would be an unusual thing, certainly," he observed, "for Mr. Frederick Hollis to have ten thousand pounds lying here to his credit. Mr. Hollis was an old customer—we knew him very well—but he didn't keep a lot of money here. We—er—know his circumstances. He bought himself a very nice annuity some years ago—it was paid into his account here twice a year. But—ten thousand pounds!"

Mr. Mullineau leaned forward.

"We don't know if Frederick Hollis paid any large amount in lately, you know," he observed. "Hadn't you better summon Linthwaite?"

"Our manager," remarked Mr. Vanderkiste, as he touched a bell. "Ah, yes, of course—he'll know. Mr. Linthwaite," he continued, as another elderly man entered the room, "can you tell us what Mr. Frederick Hollis's balance in our hands is?"

"I have just been looking it up, sir," replied the manager, "in consequence of this sad news in the papers. Ten thousand, eight hundred, seventy-nine, five, four, Mr. Vanderkiste."

"Ten thousand eight hundred and seventy-nine pounds, five shillings and fourpence," repeated Mr. Vanderkiste. "Ah! An unusually large amount, I think, Mr. Linthwaite?"

"Just so, sir," agreed the manager. "The reason is that rather more than a week ago Mr. Hollis called here himself with a cheque for ten thousand pounds which he paid into his account, explaining to me that it had been handed to him for a special purpose, and that he should draw a cheque for his own against it, for the same amount, very shortly."

"Ah!" remarked Mr. Vanderkiste. "Has the cheque which he paid in been cleared?"

"We cleared it at once," replied the manager. "Oh, yes! But the cheque which Mr. Hollis spoke of drawing against it has not come in—and now, of course——"

"Just so," said Mr. Vanderkiste. "Now that he's dead, of course, his cheque is no good. Um! That will do, thank you, Mr. Linthwaite."

He turned and looked at Starmidge when the manager had withdrawn.

"That explains matters," he said. "The ten thousand pounds had been paid to Mr. Frederick Hollis for a special purpose."

"But—by whom?" asked Starmidge. "That's precisely what I want to know! The knowledge will help me—ah!—I don't know how much it mayn't help me! For there's no doubt about it, gentlemen, Hollis went down to Scarnham to pay ten thousand pounds to somebody on somebody else's account! He was, I am sure, as it were, ambassador for somebody. Who was—who is—that somebody? Almost certainly, the person who gave Hollis the cheque your manager has just mentioned—and whose ten thousand pounds is, as a matter of fact, still lying in your hands! Who is that person? What bank was the cheque drawn on? Let me have an answer to both these questions, and——"

The two old gentlemen exchanged looks, and Mr. Mullineau quietly rose and left the room. In his absence Mr. Vanderkiste shook his head at the detective.

"A very, very queer case, officer!" he remarked.

"An extraordinary case, sir," agreed Starmidge. "Before we get to the end of it there'll be some strange revelations, Mr. Vanderkiste."

"So I should imagine—so I should imagine!" assented the old gentleman. "Very remarkable proceedings altogether! We shall be deeply interested in hearing how matters progress. Of course, this affair of the ten thousand pounds is very curious. We——"

Mr. Mullineau came back—with a slip of paper, which he handed to the detective.

"That gives you the information you want," he said.

Starmidge read aloud what the manager had written down on his principal's instructions.

"Drawer—Helen Lester," he read. "Bank—London & Universal: Pall Mall Branch." He looked up at the two partners. "I suppose you gentlemen don't know who this Mrs. or Miss Helen Lester is?" he inquired.

"No—not at all," answered Mr. Mullineau. "Nor does Linthwaite. I thought Mr. Hollis might have told him something about that special purpose. But—he told him nothing."

"You'll have to go to the London & Universal people," observed Mr. Vanderkiste. "They, of course, will know all about this customer."

Mullineau looked inquiringly at his partner.

"Don't you think that—as there are almost certain to be some complications about this matter—Linthwaite had better go with Detective Starmidge?" he suggested. "The situation, as regards the ten thousand pounds, is a somewhat curious one. This Miss or Mrs. Lester will want to recover it. Now, according to what Mr. Starmidge tells us, no body, so far as he's aware, is in possession of any facts, papers, letters, anything, relating to it. I think there should be some consultation between ourselves and this other bank which is concerned."

"Excellent suggestion!" agreed Mr. Vanderkiste. "Let him go—by all means."

Half an hour later, Starmidge found himself closeted with another lot of bankers. But these were younger men, who were quicker to grasp situations and comprehend points, and they quickly understood what the detective was after: moreover, they were already well posted up in those details of the Scarnham mystery which had already appeared in the newspapers.

"What you want," said one of them, a young and energetic man, addressing Starmidge at the end of their preliminary conversation, "is to find out for what purpose Mrs. Lester gave Mr. Frederick Hollis ten thousand pounds?"

"Precisely," replied Starmidge. "It will go far towards clearing up a good many things."

"I have no doubt Mrs. Lester will tell you readily enough," said the banker. "In fact, as things are, I should say she'll only be too glad to give you any information you want. That ten thousand pounds being in Messrs. Vanderkiste's hands, in Hollis's name, and Hollis being dead, there will be bother—not serious, of course, but still formal bother—about recovering it. Very well—Mrs. Lester, who, I may tell you, is a wealthy customer of ours, lives in the country as a rule, and I happen to know she's there now. I'll write down her address. Tell her, by all means, that you have been to see us on the matter."

Starmidge left Mr. Linthwaite talking with the London & Universal people; he himself, now that he had got the desired information, had no more to say. Outside the bank he opened the slip of paper which had just been handed to him, and saw that another journey lay before him. Mrs. Lester lived at Lowdale Court, near Chesham.



CHAPTER XII

ABOUT CENT PER CENT.

Starmidge, lingering a moment on the steps of the bank to consider whether he would go straight to Chesham or repair to headquarters for a consultation with his superior, was suddenly joined by the manager who had just given him his information.

"You are going down to Lowdale Court?" asked the manager.

"During the morning—yes," answered Starmidge.

"If it will be any help to you," said the manager, "I'll ring up Mrs. Lester on the telephone, and let her know you're coming. She's rather a nervous woman and it will pave the way for you if I give you a sort of introduction. Besides—" here he paused, and looked at the detective with an inquiring air—"don't you think Mrs. Lester had better be warned—at once—not to speak of this matter until she's seen you?"

"You think she may be approached?" asked Starmidge.

The manager wagged his head and smiled knowingly.

"I think there's something so very queer about this affair that Mrs. Lester ought to be seen at once," he said.

"She shall be!" answered Starmidge. "Tell her I'll be down there within two hours—I'll motor there. Thank you for your suggestion. Now I'll just run to headquarters and then be straight off."

He hailed a passing taxi-cab and drove to New Scotland Yard, where he was presently closeted with a high personage in deep and serious consultation, the result of which was that by twelve o'clock, Starmidge and a fellow-officer, one Easleby, in whom he had great confidence, were spinning away towards the beech-clad hills of Buckinghamshire, and discussing the features and probabilities of the queer business which took them there. Before two, they were in the pleasant valley which lies between Chenies and Chesham and pulling up at the door of a fine old Jacobean house, which, set in the midst of delightful lawns and gardens, looked down on the windings of the river Chess. And practical as both men were, and well experienced in their profession, it struck both as strange that they should come to such a quiet and innocent-looking place to seek some explanation of a mystery which had surely some connection with crime.

The two detectives were immediately shown into a morning room in which sat a little, middle-aged lady in a widow's cap and weeds, who looked at her visitors half-timidly, half-welcomingly. She sat by a small table on which lay a heap of newspapers, and Starmidge's sharp eyes saw at once that she had been reading the published details of the Scarnham affair.

"You have no doubt been informed by your bankers that we were coming, ma'am?" began Starmidge, when he and Easleby had seated themselves near Mrs. Lester. "The manager there was good enough to say he'd telephone you."

Mrs. Lester, who had been curiously inspecting her callers and appeared somewhat relieved to find that they were quite ordinary-looking beings, entirely unlike her own preconceived notions of detectives, bowed her head.

"Yes," she answered, "my bankers telephoned that an officer from Scotland Yard would call on me this morning, and that I was to speak freely to him, and in confidence, but—I really don't quite know what it is that I'm to talk to you about, though I suppose I can guess."

"This, ma'am," answered Starmidge, bending towards the pile of newspapers and tapping a staring head-line with his finger. "I see you've been reading it up. I have been in charge of this affair since Monday last, and I came up to town last night about it—specially. You will have read in this morning's paper that the body of Mr. Frederick Hollis was found at Scarnham yesterday?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Lester, with a sigh. "I have read of that. Of course, I knew Mr. Hollis—he was an old friend of my husband. I saw him last week. But—what took Mr. Hollis down to Scarnham? I have been in the habit of seeing Mr. Hollis constantly—regularly—and I never even heard him mention Scarnham, nor any person living at Scarnham. There are many persons mentioned in these newspaper accounts," continued Mrs. Lester, "in connection with this affair whose names I never heard before—yet they are mentioned as if Mr. Hollis had something to do with them. Why did he go there?"

"That, ma'am, is precisely what we want to find out from you!" replied Starmidge, with a side glance at his fellow-detective. "It's just what we've come for!"

He was watching Mrs. Lester very closely as he spoke, and he saw that up to that moment she had certainly no explanation in her own mind as to the reason of this police visit.

"But what can I tell you?" she exclaimed. "As I have said, I don't know why Frederick Hollis went to Scarnham! He never mentioned Scarnham to me when he was here last week."

"Let me tell you something that is not in the papers—yet—ma'am," said Starmidge. "I think it will explain matters to you. When we examined Mr. Hollis's effects at Scarnham, yesterday morning, after the finding of his body, we found in his letter-case a cheque for ten thousand pounds——"

Starmidge stopped suddenly. Mrs. Lester had started, and her pale face had grown paler. Her eyes dilated as she looked at the two men.

"A cheque!" she exclaimed. "For—ten thousand pounds. On—him? And—whose cheque?"

"It was a curious cheque, ma'am," replied Starmidge. "It was drawn on Mr. Hollis's bankers, Vanderkiste, Mullineau & Company, of Lombard Street. It was dated. It was filled in for ten thousand pounds—in words and in figures. But it was not signed—and it was not made out to any body. No name of payee, you understand, ma'am, no name of payer. But—it is very evident Mr. Hollis made out that cheque intending to pay it to—somebody. What we want to know is—who is—or was, that somebody? I came up to town to try to find that out! I went to Mr. Hollis's bankers this morning. They told me that last week Mr. Hollis paid into his account there a cheque for ten thousand pounds, drawn by Helen Lester, and told their manager that he should be drawing a cheque for his own against it in a day or two. I then went to your bank, ma'am, saw your bankers, and got your address. Now, Mrs. Lester, there's no doubt whatever that the cheque which we found on Mr. Hollis is the cheque he spoke of to Vanderkiste's manager. And we want you, if you please, to tell us two things: For what purpose did you give Mr. Hollis ten thousand pounds?—To whom was he to pay it? Tell us, ma'am—and we shall have gone a long way to clearing this affair! And—it's more serious than you'd think."