Mrs. Lester, who had listened to Starmidge with absorbed and almost frightened attention, looked anxiously at both men before she replied to the detective's direct inquiry.

"You will respect my confidence, of course?" she asked at last. "Whatever I say to you will be in strict confidence?"

"Whatever you tell us, Mrs. Lester," answered Starmidge, "we shall have to report to our superiors at the Criminal Investigation Department. You may rely on their discretion—fully. But if there is any secret in this, ma'am, it will all have to come out, now that it's an affair of police investigation. Far better tell us here and now!"

"There'll be no publication of anything without Mrs. Lester's knowledge and consent," remarked Easleby, who guessed at the reason of the lady's diffidence. "This is a private matter, so far. All that she can tell us will be for police information—only."

"I shall have to mention the affairs of—some other person," said Mrs. Lester. "But—I suppose it's absolutely necessary? Now that you know what you do, for instance, I suppose I could be made to give evidence, eh!"

"I'm afraid you're quite right, ma'am," admitted Starmidge. "The mystery of Mr. Hollis's death will certainly have to be cleared up. Now that this cheque affair is out, you could be called as a witness at the inquest. Better tell us, ma'am—and leave things to us."

Mrs. Lester, after a moment's reflection, looked steadily at her visitors. "Very well!" she answered, "I suppose I had better. Indeed, I have been feeling, ever since my bankers rang me up this morning, that I should have to tell you—though I still can't see how anything that I can tell you has to do—that is, precisely—with Mr. Hollis's visit to Scarnham. Yet—it may—perhaps must have. The fact is, I recently called in Mr. Hollis, as an old friend, to give me some advice. I must tell you that my husband died last year—now about eight months ago. We have an only son—who is an officer in the Army."

"You had better give us his name—and regiment, ma'am," suggested Starmidge.

Mrs. Lester hesitated a little.

"Very well," she said at last. "He is Lieutenant Guy Lester, of the 55th Lancers. Stationed where? At present at Maychester. Now I have got to tell you what is both painful and unpleasant for me to tell. My husband, though a very kind father, was a very strict one. When our son went into the Army, his father made him a certain yearly allowance which he himself considered a very handsome one. But my husband," continued Mrs. Lester, with a faint smile, "had been engaged in commercial pursuits all his life, until a year or two before his death, and he did not know that the expenses, and the—well, the style of living in a crack cavalry regiment are—what they are. More than once Guy asked his father to increase his allowance—considerably. His father always refused—he was a strict and, in some ways, a very hard man about money. And so—my son had recourse to a money-lender."

Starmidge, who was sitting close by his fellow-detective, pressed his elbow against Easleby's sleeve—at last they were getting at something.

"Just so, ma'am," he said encouragingly. "Nothing remarkable in all this so far—quite an everyday matter, I assure you! Nothing for you to distress yourself about, either—all that can be kept quiet."

"Well," continued Mrs. Lester, "my son borrowed money from a money-lender in London, expecting, of course, to pay it back on his father's death. I must tell you that my husband married very late in life—he was quite thirty years my senior. No doubt this money-lender acquainted himself with Mr. Lester's age—and state of health."

"He would, ma'am, he would!" agreed Starmidge.

"He'd take particular good care of that, ma'am," added Easleby. "They always do—in such cases."

"Yes," said Mrs. Lester, "but, you see, when my husband died, he did not leave Guy anything at all! He left everything to me. So Guy had nothing to pay the money-lender with. Then, of course, the money-lender began to press him, and in the end Guy was obliged to come and tell me all about it. That was only a few weeks ago. And it was very bad news, because the man claimed much—very much—more money than he had ever advanced. His demands were outrageous!"

Starmidge gave Mrs. Lester a keen glance, and realized an idea of her innocence in financial matters.

"Ah!" he observed, "they are very grasping, ma'am, some of these money-lenders! How much was this particular one asking of your son, now?"

"He demanded between fourteen and fifteen thousand pounds," replied Mrs. Lester. "An abominable demand!—for my son assured me that at the very outside he had not had more than seven or eight thousand."

"And—what happened, ma'am?" inquired Starmidge sympathetically. "The man pestered you, of course!"

"Guy made him one or two offers," answered Mrs. Lester. "Of course I would have made them good—to get rid of the affair. It was no use—he had papers and things signed by Guy—who had borrowed all the money since he came of age—and he refused to abate a penny. The last time that Guy called on him, he told him flatly that he would have his fifteen thousand to the last shilling. It was, of course, extortion!"

Starmidge and Easleby exchanged looks. Both felt that they were on the very edge of a discovery.

"To be sure, ma'am," asserted Starmidge. "Absolute extortion! And—what is the name of the money-lending gentleman?"

"His name," replied Mrs. Lester, "is Godwin Markham."

"Did you ever see him, ma'am?" asked Starmidge.

Mrs. Lester looked her astonishment.

"I?" she exclaimed. "No—never!"

"Did your son ever describe him to you?—his personal appearance, I mean," inquired Starmidge.

Mrs. Lester shook her head.

"No!" she replied. "Indeed, I have heard my son say that he never saw Markham himself but once. He did his—business, I suppose you would call it—with the manager—who always said—when this recent pressing began—that he was powerless—he could only do what Mr. Markham bade him do."

"Precisely!" said Starmidge. "There generally is a manager whose chief business is to say that sort of thing, ma'am. Dear me!—and where, ma'am, is this Mr. Godwin Markham's office? You know that, no doubt?"

"Oh, yes—it is in Conduit Street—off New Bond Street," replied Mrs. Lester.

"Of course you never went there?" asked Starmidge. "No, of course not. All was done through your son, until you called in Mr. Hollis. Now, when did you call in Mr. Hollis, Mrs. Lester?—the date's important."

"About a fortnight ago," replied Mrs. Lester—"I sent for him—I told him all about it—I asked his advice. At his suggestion I gave him a cheque for ten thousand pounds. He said he would make an endeavour to settle the whole thing for that amount, and have everything cleared up. He took the cheque away with him."

"Between then—that day when he was here and you gave him the cheque," asked Starmidge, "and last Saturday, when we know Mr. Hollis went to Scarnham, did you hear of or from Mr. Hollis at all?"

"Only in this way," replied Mrs. Lester. "When he left me, he said that before approaching Markham, as intermediary, he should like to see Guy, and hear what his account of the transactions was, and that he would ask my son to come up to town from Maychester and meet him. I heard from Guy at the end of last week—last Saturday morning, as a matter of fact—that he had been to town, that he had lunched with Mr. Hollis at Mr. Hollis's club, and that after discussing the whole affair, Mr. Hollis said that he would make a determined effort to settle the matter at once. And after that," concluded Mrs. Lester, "I heard no more or anything until I read of this Scarnham affair in the newspapers."

"And now that you have read it, ma'am, and have heard what I have to tell," said Starmidge, "do you connect it in any way with Mr. Guy Lester's affair?"

Mrs. Lester looked puzzled. She considered the detective's proposition in silence for a time.

"No!" she answered at last. "Really, I don't!"

Starmidge got up, and Easleby followed his lead.

"Well, ma'am," said Starmidge, "there is a connection, without doubt, and I think that within a very short time we shall have discovered what it is. What you have told us has been of great assistance—the very greatest assistance. And you can make your mind easy for the present—I don't see any reason for any unpleasant publicity just now—in fact, I think you'll find there won't be any. The unpleasant publicity, ma'am," concluded Starmidge, with an almost imperceptible wink at Easleby, "will be for—some other people."

The two detectives bowed themselves out, re-entered their car, and were driven on to Chesham. Neither had touched food since breakfast-time and each was hungry. They discovered an old-fashioned hotel in the main street of the little town, and were presently confronting a round of cold beef, a cold ham, and two foaming tankards, in the snug parlour which they had to themselves.

"One result of our profession, young Starmidge," observed the middle-aged Easleby, bending towards his companion over a well-filled plate, "is that it makes a man indulge in a tremendous lot of what you might call intellectual speculation!"

"What are you speculating about?" asked Starmidge.

"This—on information received," replied Easleby, as he lifted his tankard. "There are the names of three Scarnham gentlemen before me—Gabriel Chestermarke, Joseph Chestermarke, John Horbury. Now, then—which of the three sports the other name of Godwin Markham?"



CHAPTER XXII

SPECULATION—AND CERTAINTY

Starmidge ate and drank in silence for awhile, evidently pondering his companion's question.

"Yes," he said at last, "there's all that in it. It may be any one of the three. You never know! Yet, according to all I've been told, Horbury's a thoroughly straight man of business."

"According to all I've been told," remarked Easleby, "and all I've been told about anything has been told by yourself, the two Chestermarkes have the reputation of being thoroughly straight men of business—outwardly. But one thing is certain, my lad, after what we've just learned—Hollis went down to Scarnham to offer that cheque to one of these three men. And whichever it was, that man's Godwin Markham! It's a double-life business, Jack—the man's Godwin Markham here in London, and he's somebody else in—somewhere else. Dead certainty, my lad!"

"It's not Horbury," said Starmidge, after some reflection. "I'll stake my reputation, such as it is, on that!"

"You don't know," replied Easleby. "Remember, Mrs. Lester said this son of hers always did business with a manager. That's a usual thing with these big money-lending offices—the real man doesn't show. For aught you know, Horbury may have been running a money-lender's office in town, unknown to anybody, under the name of Godwin Markham. And—he may have wanted new funds for it, and he may have collared those securities which the Chestermarkes say are missing, and he may have appropriated Lord Ellersdeane's jewels—d'ye see? You never can tell—in any of these cases. You see, my lad, you've been going, all along, on the basis, the supposition, that Horbury's an innocent man, and the victim of foul play. But—he may be a guilty man! Lord bless you!—I don't attach any importance to reputation and character, not I! It isn't ten years since Jim Chambers and myself had a case in point—a bank manager who was churchwarden, Sunday-School teacher, this, that, and t'other in the way of piety and respectability—all a cloak to cover as clever a bit of thievery and fraud as ever I heard of!—he got ten years, that chap, and he ought to have been hanged. As I say, you never can make certain. Hollis may have found out that Godwin Markham of Conduit Street was in reality John Horbury of Scarnham, and then——"

"I'll tell you what!" interrupted Starmidge, who had been thinking as well as listening. "There's a very sure and certain way of finding out who Godwin Markham is! Do you remember?—Mrs. Lester said her son had only seen him once. Well, once is enough!—he'd remember him. We must go to Maychester right away and see this young Lester, and get him to describe the man he saw."

"Good notion, of course," assented Easleby. "Where is Maychester, now?"

"Essex," replied Starmidge.

"That would certainly be a solver," said Easleby. "But there's something else we could do, following up your special line of thought. Now, honour bright, which of these men do you take Godwin Markham to be?"

"Gabriel Chestermarke!" answered Starmidge promptly. "It's established that he's constantly in London—as much in London as in Scarnham. Gabriel Chestermarke certainly—with, no doubt, Joseph in collusion. The probability is that they run that money-lending office in Conduit Street under the name of Godwin Markham. They're within the law."

"What about the Moneylenders' Act?" asked Easleby. "Compulsory registration, you know."

"It's this way," explained Starmidge. "The object of that Act was to enable a borrower to know for certain who it was that was lending him the money he borrowed. So registration was made compulsory. But, as in the case of many another Act of Parliament, Easleby, evasion is not only possible, but easy. A money-lender can register in a name which isn't his own if it's one which he generally uses in his business. So—there you are! I've seen that name Godwin Markham advertised ever since I was a youngster—it's an old established business, well known. There's nothing to prevent Abraham Moses from styling himself Fitzwilliam Simpkins, if he's always done business as Fitzwilliam Simpkins—see? And—it's highly probable that, as he's so much in town, Gabriel Chestermarke lives in town under the name of Godwin Markham—double-life business, as you suggest. But you were going to suggest something else. What?"

"This," said Easleby. "You know that Gabriel Chestermarke went to the stage-door of the Adalbert Theatre the other night. Go there—officially—and find out if he called there as Gabriel Chestermarke. That'll solve a lot."

"We'll both go!" assented Starmidge. "It's a good notion—I hadn't thought of it. Whom shall we try to see?"

"Top man of all," counselled Easleby. "Lessee, manager, whatever he is. Our cards'll manage it."

"I'm obliged to you, old man!" exclaimed Starmidge. "It's a bright idea! Of course, somebody there'll know who the man was that called last night—know his name, of course. And in that case——"

"Aye, but don't you anticipate too much, my lad!" interrupted Easleby. "There's no doubt that Gandam traced your Gabriel Chestermarke to the stage-door of the Adalbert Theatre—and lost him there. But, you know, for anything you know, Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke, banker, of Scarnham, may have had legitimate and proper business at that theatre. For aught you know, Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke may be owner of that theatre—ground-landlord—part-proprietor—financier. He may have a mortgage on it. All sorts of reasons occur to me as to why Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke may have called. He might be a personal friend of the manager's, or the principal actor's—called to take 'em out to supper, d'ye see, on his arrival in town. So—whoever we see there, you want to go guardedly, eh?"

"I'll tell you what," said Starmidge, "I'll leave it to you. I'll go with you, of course, but you manage it."

"Right, my lad!" assented Easleby. "All I shall want'll be a copy of this morning's newspaper—to lead up from."

One of the London morning journals had been making a great feature of the Scarnham affair from the moment Parkinson, on Starmidge's inspiration, had supplied the Press with its details, and it had that day printed an exhaustive resume of the entire history of the case, brought up to the discovery of Frederick Hollis's body. Easleby bought a copy of this issue as soon as he and Starmidge returned to town, and carefully blue-pencilled the cross-headed columns and the staring capitals above them. With the folded paper in his hand, and Starmidge at his heel, he repaired to the stage-door of the Adalbert Theatre at a quarter to eight, when the actors and actresses were beginning to pass in for their evening's work and thrust his head into the glass-fronted cage in which the stage door-keeper sat.

"A word with you, mister," whimpered Easleby. "A quiet word, you understand. Me and my friend here are from the Yard—New Scotland Yard, you know, and we've an inquiry to make. Our cards, d'ye see?—I shall ask you to take 'em inside in a minute. But first, a word with you. Do you remember a gentleman coming here last night, late, who nodded to you and walked straight in? Little, stiffly built gentleman, very pale face, holds himself well up—what?"

"I know him," answered the door-keeper, much impressed by the official cards which Easleby held before his nose. "Seen him here many a time, but I don't know his name. He's a friend of Mr. Castlemayne's, and he's the entry, d'ye see—walks in as he likes."

"Ah, just so—and who may Mr. Castlemayne be, now?" asked Easleby confidentially.

"Mr. Castlemayne?" repeated the door-keeper. "Why, he's the lessee, of course!—the boss!"

"Ah, the boss, is he?" said Easleby. "Much obliged to you, sir. Well, now, then, just take these two cards to Mr. Castlemayne, will you, and ask him if he'll be good enough to see their owners for a few minutes on very important private business?"

The door-keeper departed up a dark passage, and Easleby pointed Starmidge to a playbill which hung, framed on the wall, behind them.

"There you are!" he said, indicating a line near the big capitals at the top. "'Lessee and Manager—Mr. Leopold Castlemayne.' That's our man. Fancy name, of course—real name Tom Smith, or Jim Johnson, you know. But, Lord bless you, what's in a name? Haven't we got a case in point?"

"There's a good deal in what's in a name in our case, old man!" retorted Starmidge. "You're off it there!"

Easleby was about to combat this reply when a boy appeared, and intimated that Mr. Castlemayne would see the gentlemen at once. And the two detectives followed up one passage and down another, and round corners and across saloons and foyers, until they were shown into a snug room, half office, half parlour, very comfortably furnished and ornamented, wherein, at a desk, and alone, sat a gentleman in evening dress, whose countenance, well-fed though it was, seemed to be just then clouded with suspicion and something that looked very like anxiety. He glanced up from the cards which lay before him to the two men who had sent them in, and silently pointed them to chairs near his own.

"Good-evening, sir," said Easleby, with a polite bow. "Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Castlemayne, but you see our business from our cards, and we've called, sir, to ask if you can give us a bit of much-wanted information. I don't know, sir," continued Easleby, laying the blue-pencilled newspaper on the lessee's desk, "if you've read in the papers any account of the affair which is here called the Scarnham Mystery!"

Mr. Leopold Castlemayne glanced at the columns to which Easleby pointed, rubbed his chin, and nodded.

"Yes—yes!" he said. "I have just seen the papers. Case of a strange disappearance—bank manager—isn't it?"

"It's more than that, sir," replied Easleby. "It's a case of—all sorts of things. Now you're wondering, Mr. Castlemayne, why we come to you? I'll explain. You'll see there, sir, the name—blue-pencilled—Gabriel Chestermarke. Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke is a banker at Scarnham. You don't happen to know him, Mr. Castlemayne?"

The two detectives watched the lessee narrowly as that question was put. And each knew instantly that the prompt reply was a truthful one.

"Never heard of him in my life," said Mr. Castlemayne.

"Thank you, sir," said Easleby. "Just so! Well, sir, my friend here—Detective-Sergeant Starmidge—has been down at Scarnham in charge of this case from the first, and he's formed some ideas about this Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke. Last night Gabriel Chestermarke travelled up to town from Ecclesborough—Mr. Starmidge arranged for him to be shadowed when he arrived at St. Pancras. A man of ours—not quite as experienced as he might be, you understand, sir—did shadow him—and lost him. He lost him here at your theatre, Mr. Castlemayne."

"Ah!" said the lessee, half indifferently. "Got amongst the audience, I suppose?"

"No, sir," replied Easleby. "Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke, sir, entered your stage-door at about eleven-thirty—walked straight in. But he never came out of that door—so he must have left by another exit."

Mr. Leopold Castlemayne suddenly sat up very erect and rigid. His face flushed a little, his lips parted; he looked from one man to the other.

"Mr.—Gabriel—Chestermarke!" he said. "Entered my stage-door—eleven-thirty—last night? Here!—describe him!"

Easleby glanced at Starmidge. And Starmidge, as if he were describing a picture, gave a full and accurate account of Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke's appearance from head to foot.

The lessee suddenly jumped from his chair, walked over to a door, opened it, and looked into an inner room. Evidently satisfied, he closed the door again, came back, seated himself, thrust his hands in his pockets, and looked at the detectives.

"All in confidence—strict confidence?" he said. "All right, then!—I understand. I tell you, I don't know any Gabriel Chestermarke, banker, of Scarnham! The man you've described—the man who came here last night—is Godwin Markham, the Conduit Street money-lender—damn him!"



CHAPTER XXIII

THE AGGRIEVED VICTIM

If Mr. Leopold Castlemayne's last word was expressive, his next actions were suggestive and significant. Returning to the door of the inner room, he turned the key in it; crossing to the door by which the detectives had been shown in, he locked that also; proceeding to a cupboard in an adjacent recess, he performed an unlocking process—after which he produced a decanter, a syphon, three glasses, and a box of cigars. He silently placed these luxuries on a desk before his visitors, and hospitably invited their attention.

"Yes!" he said presently, proceeding to help the two men to refreshment, and pressing the cigars upon them, "I've good reason to say that, gentlemen! Godwin Markham, indeed! I ought to know him! If I don't look out, that devil of a bloodsucker is going to ruin me—he is, so!"

Easleby gave Starmidge an almost imperceptible wink as he lighted a cigar. It was evident that Mr. Leopold Castlemayne was not only willing to talk, but was uncommonly glad to have somebody to talk to. Indeed, his moody countenance began to clear as his tongue became unloosed; he was obviously at that stage when a man is thankful to give confidences to any fellow-creature.

"I've done business with gentlemen of your profession before," he went on, nodding to his visitors over the rim of his tumbler, "and I know you're to be trusted—naturally, you hear a good many queer things and queer secrets in your line of life. And as you come to me in confidence, I'll tell you a thing or two in confidence. It may help you—if you're certain that the man you're wanting is the man who came here last night. Do you want him?"

"We—may do," replied Easleby. "We don't know yet. Mr. Starmidge here is much disposed to think that we shall. But let's be clear, sir. We're all three agreed that we're talking about the same man? Starmidge has accurately described a certain man who without doubt entered your stage-door about eleven-thirty last night——"

"And left, with me, by the box-office door, in the front street, a few minutes later," murmured the lessee. "That's how it was."

"Just so," agreed Easleby. "Now, Starmidge up to now has only known that man as Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke, senior partner in Chestermarke's Bank, at Scarnham, while you, up to now——"

"Have only known him as Godwin Markham, money-lender, financial agent, and so on, of Conduit Street," interrupted Castlemayne. "And known him a lot too much for my peace, I can tell you! Of course, we're talking of the same man! I can quite believe he runs a double show. I know that he's a great deal away from town. It's very rarely that he's to be found at Conduit Street—very, very rarely indeed—he's a clever manager there, who sees everybody and does everything. And I know that he's quite two-thirds of his time away from his own house—so, of course, he's got to put it in somewhere else."

"His own house!" said Starmidge, catching at an idea which presented itself. "You know where he lives in London, then, Mr. Castlemayne?"

"Do I know where my own mother lives!" exclaimed the lessee. "I should think I do! He's a neighbour of mine—lives close by me, up Primrose Hill way. Nice little bachelor establishment he has—Oakfield Villa. Spent many an evening there with him—Sunday evenings, of course. Oh, yes—I know all about him—as Godwin Markham. Bless me!—so he's a country banker, is he? And mixed up in this affair, eh? Gosh!—I hope you'll find out that he murdered his manager, and that you'll be able to hang him—I'd treat the town to a free show if you could hang him in public on my stage, I would, indeed!"

"You were going to tell us something, sir?" suggested Easleby. "Something that you thought might help us."

"I hope it will help you—and me, too!" responded Castlemayne, who was obviously incensed and truculent. "'Pon my honour, when I got your cards, I wondered if I'd been sleep-walking last night, and had gone and done for this man—I really did! It was all I could do to keep from punching his nose last night in the open street, and I left him feeling very bad indeed! It's this way—I dare say you know that men like me, in this business, want a bit of financing when we start. All right!—we do, like most other people. Now, when I thought of taking up the lease of this spot, a few years ago, I wanted money. I knew this man Markham as a neighbour, and I mentioned the matter to him, not knowing then he was the Markham of Conduit Street. He let me know who he was, then, and he offered to do things privately—no need to go to his office, do you see? And—he found me in necessary capital. And I dare say I signed papers without thoroughly understanding 'em. And, of course, when you get into the hands of a fellow like that, it's like putting your foot on a piece of butter in the street—you're down before you know what's happened! But I ain't down yet, my boys!" concluded Mr. Castlemayne, drinking off the contents of his glass, and replenishing it. "And damme if I'm going to be, without a bit of a fight for it, that I ain't!"

"Putting some pressure on you, I suppose, sir?" suggested Easleby, who knew that their host would tell anything and everything if left to himself. "Wants his pound of flesh, no doubt?"

This Shakespearean allusion appeared to be lost on the lessee, but he evidently understood what pressure meant.

"Pressure!" he exclaimed. "Yah!—there's nothing would suit that fellow better than to have one of his victims under one of those steam-hammers that they have nowadays, and to bring it down on him till he'd crushed the last drop of blood out of his toes! Pressure!—I'll tell you! This place didn't do well at first—everybody in town, in our line, anyway, knows that—but even in these days I paid him his interest regular—down on the nail, mind, as prompt as the date came round. But now—things are different. I'm doing well—in a bit I could pay my gentleman off—though not just yet. But there's big money ahead—this house has caught on, got a reputation, become popular. And now what d'ye think my lord wants—what he's screwing me for? Turns out that in one of those confounded papers I signed there's a clause, that if I didn't repay him by a certain date I should surrender my lease to him! I no doubt signed it, not quite understanding—but damme if he didn't keep it dark till the date was expired! And now, when I've worked things up, not only as lessee, mind you, but as manager—to success and big prospects, hanged if he doesn't want to collar my lease with all its fine possibilities, and put me into work for him at a blooming salary!"

"Dear me, sir!" exclaimed Easleby. "Now—what might that exactly mean? We're not up in these matters, you know."

"Mean?" vociferated the lessee. "It 'ud mean this. I've paid that man as much in interest as the original loan was. He now wants my lease, all my interest, all my chances of reward—this lease is worth many a thousand a year now! If I surrender my lease peaceably—without fuss, you understand—he'll wipe off my original debt to him and give me a blooming salary of twenty-five quid a week—me! Gosh!—he ought to be burnt alive!"

"And if you don't?" asked Starmidge, deeply interested by this sidelight on financial dealings. "What then?"

"Then he relies on his damn paper and my signature to it, and turns me out!" replied the aggrieved one. "Thievery!—that's what I call it. That's his blooming ultimatum—came in last night to tell me. I hope you'll catch him and hang him!"

The two detectives had long since realized that Mr. Leopold Castlemayne's interest in the banker-money-lender was a purely personal one, based on his own unlucky dealings with him. But they wished for something outside that interest, and Starmidge, after a word or two of condolence, and another of advice to go to a shrewd and smart solicitor, asked a plain question.

"You say you've been on terms of—shall we call it neighbourly intimacy?—with this man," he remarked. "Have you ever met his nephew?"

The lessee made a face expressive of deep scorn.

"Nephew!" he exclaimed. "Yah!—d'ye think a fellow like that 'ud have a nephew? I don't believe he's any relations that's flesh and blood! I don't believe he ever had a mother! I believe he's one of these ghouls you read about in the story-books—what's he look like? A bloodsucker!—that's what he is!"

Starmidge gave his host an accurate description of Joseph Chestermarke.

"Did you ever see a man like that at this Markham's house?" he asked.

"Never!" answered the lessee.

"Or at his office?" persisted Starmidge.

"No—don't know such a man! I've only been to the offices in Conduit Street a few times," said Castlemayne. "The chap you see there is a fellow called Stipp—Mr. James Stipp. A nice, smooth-tongued, mealy-mouthed chap—you know. I say—d'ye think you'll be able to fasten anything on to Markham, or Chestermarke, or whatever his name is?"

Easleby responded jocularly that they certainly wouldn't if they sat there, and after solemnly assuring Mr. Leopold Castlemayne that his confidence would be severely respected, he and Starmidge went away. Once outside they walked for awhile in silence, each reflecting on what he had just heard.

"Well," remarked Starmidge at last, "we're certain on one point now, anyway. Godwin Markham, money-lender, of Conduit Street, is the same person as Gabriel Chestermarke, banker, of Scarnham. That's flat! And now that we've got to know that much, how much nearer am I to finding out the real thing that I'm after?"

"Which is—exactly what?" asked Easleby.

"I was called in," answered Starmidge, "to find out the secret of John Horbury's disappearance. It isn't my business to interfere with Gabriel Chestermarke or Godwin Markham in his money-lending affairs—nor to trace Lord Ellersdeane's missing jewels. My job is—to find John Horbury, or to get to know what happened to him."

"And all this helps," answered Easleby. "Haven't you got anything?"

"Don't know that I have," admitted Starmidge. "Just now, anyway. I've had a dozen ideas—but they're a bit mixed at present. Have you—after what we've found out?"

"What sort of banking business is it the Chestermarkes carry on down there at Scarnham?" asked Easleby. "I suppose you'd get a general idea."

"Usual thing in a small country town," replied Starmidge. "Highly respectable, county family business, I should say, from what I saw and heard."

"All the squires, and the parsons, and the farmers, and better sort of tradesmen go to 'em, I suppose?" suggested Easleby. "And all the nice old ladies and that sort—an extra-respectable connection, eh?"

"Just as I say—regular country-town business," said Starmidge, half impatiently.

"Um!" remarked Easleby. "Now, if you were a highly respectable country-town banker, with a connection of that sort amongst very proper people, and if it so happened that you were living a double life, and running a money-lending business in London, do you think you'd want your banking customers to know what you were after when you weren't banking!"

"What do you think he'd do?" asked Starmidge.

"I'm not quite sure," replied Easleby, with candour. "But I think I shall get there, all the same. Now, didn't you say that from all the accounts supplied to you, this Mr. John Horbury was an eminently proper sort of person? Very well—supposing it suddenly came to his knowledge that his employer—or employers, for I expect both Chestermarkes are in at it—were notorious money-lenders in London, and that they carried on this secret business in the greedy and grasping fashion—what do you suppose he'd do?—especially if he was, as you say Horbury was, a man of considerable means?"

"What do you think he'd do?" asked Starmidge.

"I think it's quite on the cards that he'd chuck his job there and then," said Easleby, "and not only that, but that he'd probably threaten exposure. Men of a very severe type of commercial religion would, my lad!—I know 'em!"

"You're suggesting—what?" inquired the younger detective.

"I'm suggesting that on that night of Hollis's visit to Scarnham, Horbury, through Hollis, became acquainted with the Chestermarke secret," replied Easleby, "and that he let the Chestermarkes know it. And in that case—what would happen?"

Starmidge walked slowly on at his companion's side, thinking. He was trying to fit together a great many things; he felt as a child feels who is presented with a puzzle in many pieces and told to put them together.

"I know what you're after," he said suddenly. "You think the Chestermarkes murdered Horbury?"

"If you want it plain and straight," replied Easleby, "I do!"

"There's the other man—Hollis," suggested Starmidge.

"I should say they finished him as well," said Easleby. "Easy enough job, that, on the evidence. Supposing one of 'em took Hollis off, alone, across that moor you've told me about, and induced him to look into that old lead-mine? What easier than to push him into it? Meanwhile, the other could settle Horbury. Murder, my lad!—that's what all this comes to. I've known men murdered for less than that."

Again Starmidge reflected in silence.

"There's only one thing puzzles me on that point," he said eventually. "It's not a puzzle, either—it's a doubt. Do you think the Chestermarkes—or, we'll say Gabriel, as we're certain about him—do you think Gabriel would be so keen about keeping his secret as to go to that length? Do you think he's cultivated it as a secret—that it's been a really important secret?"

"We can soon solve that," answered Easleby. "At least—tomorrow morning."

"How?" demanded Starmidge.

"By calling," said Easleby, "on Mr. Godwin Markham, in Conduit Street."



CHAPTER XXIV

MRS. CARSWELL?

Starmidge looked at his companion as if in doubt about Easleby's exact meaning.

"According to what the theatre chap said just now," he remarked, "Markham is very rarely to be found in Conduit Street."

"Exactly," agreed Easleby. "That's why I want to go there."

Starmidge shook his head.

"Don't follow!" he said. "Make it clear."

Easleby tapped his fellow-detective's arm.

"You said just now—would Gabriel Chestermarke be so keen about keeping his secret as to go to any length in keeping it," he answered "Now I say we can solve that by calling at his office. His manager, as Castlemayne told us, is one Stipp—Mr. Stipp. I propose to see Mr. Stipp. You and I must be fools if, inside ten minutes, we can't find out if Stipp knows that Godwin Markham is Gabriel Chestermarke! We will find out! And if we find out that Stipp doesn't know that, if we find that Stipp is utterly unaware that there is such a person as Gabriel Chestermarke, or, at any rate, that he doesn't connect Gabriel Chestermarke with Godwin Markham—why, then——"

He ended with a dry laugh, and waved his hand as if the matter were settled. But Starmidge had a love of precision, and liked matters to be put in plain words.

"Well—and what then?" he demanded.

"What, then?" exclaimed Easleby. "Why, then we shall know, for a certainty, that Gabriel Chestermarke is keen about his secret! If he keeps it from the man who does his business for him here in London, he'd go to any length to keep it safe if it was threatened by his manager at Scarnham. Is that clear, my lad?"

The two men in the course of their slow strolling away from the Adalbert Theatre had come to the end of Shaftesbury Avenue, and had drawn aside from the crowds during the last minute or two to exchange their confidences in private.

Starmidge looked meditatively at the thronging multitudes of Piccadilly Circus, and watched them awhile before he answered his companion's last observation.

"I don't want to precipitate matters," he said at last. "I don't want an anti-climax. Suppose we found Markham—or Chestermarke—there? Or supposing he came in?"

"Excellent!—in either case," replied Easleby. "Serve our purpose equally well. If he's there, you betray the greatest surprise at seeing him—you can act up to that. If he should come in, you're equally surprised—see! We haven't gone there about any Chestermarke, you know—we aren't going to let it out there that we know what we do know—not likely!"

"What have we gone there for then?" asked Starmidge.

"We've gone to say that Mrs. Helen Lester, of Lowdale Court, near Chesham, has informed us, the police, that she placed a certain sum of money in the hands of her friend, Mr. Frederick Hollis, for the purpose of clearing off a debt contracted by her son, Lieutenant Lester, with Mr. Godwin Markham; that Mr. Hollis had been found dead under strange circumstances at Scarnham, and that we should be vastly obliged to Mr. Markham if he can give us any information or light on the matter, or hints about it," replied Easleby. "That, of course, is what we shall say—and all that we shall say—to Mr. James Stipp. If, however, we find Gabriel Chestermarke there—well, then, we shall say nothing—at first. We shall leave him to do the saying—it'll be his job to begin."

"All right," assented Starmidge, after a moment's reflection. "We'll try it! Meet you tomorrow morning, then—corner of Conduit Street and New Bond Street—say at ten-thirty. Now I'm going home."

Starmidge, being a bachelor, tenanted a small flat in Westminster, within easy reach of headquarters. He repaired to it immediately on leaving Easleby, intent on spending a couple of hours in ease and comfort before retiring to bed. But he had scarcely put on his slippers, lighted his pipe, mixed a whisky-and-soda, and picked up a book, when a knock at his outer door sent him to open it and to find Gandam standing in the lobby. Gandam glanced at him with a smile which was half apologetic and half triumphant.

"I've been to the office after you, Mr. Starmidge," he said. "They gave me your address, so I came on here."

Starmidge saw that the man was full of news, and he motioned him to enter and led him to his sitting-room.

"You've heard something, then?" he asked.

"Seen something, Mr. Starmidge," answered Gandam, taking the chair which Starmidge pointed to. "I'm afraid I didn't hear anything—I wish I had!"

Starmidge gave his visitor a drink and dropped into his own easy-chair again.

"Chestermarke, of course!" he suggested. "Well—what!"

"I happened to catch sight of him this evening," replied Gandam. "Sheer accident it was—but there's no mistaking him. Half-past six I was coming along Piccadilly, and I saw him leaving the Camellia Club. He——"

"What sort of a club's that, now?" asked Starmidge.

"Social club—men about town, sporting men, actors, journalists, so on," replied Gandam. "I know a bit about it—had a case relating to it not so long ago. Well—he went along Piccadilly, and, of course, I followed him—I wasn't going to lose sight of him after that set-back of last night, Mr. Starmidge! He crossed the Circus, and went into the Cafe Monico. I followed him in there. Do you know that downstairs saloon there?"

"I know it," assented Starmidge.

"He went straight down to it," continued Gandam. "And as I knew that he didn't know me, I presently followed. When I'd got down he'd taken a seat at a table in a quiet corner, and the waiter was bringing him a glass of sherry. There was a bit of talk between 'em—Chestermarke seemed to be telling the waiter that he was expecting somebody, and he'd wait a bit before giving an order. So I sat down—in another corner—and as I judged it was going to be a longish job, I ordered a bit of dinner. Of course I kept an eye on him—quietly. He read a newspaper, smoked a cigarette, and sipped his sherry. And at last—perhaps ten minutes after he'd got in—a woman came down the stairs, looked round, and went straight over to where he was sitting."

"Describe her," said Starmidge.

"Tallish, very good figure, very good-looking, well-dressed, but quietly," replied Gandam. "Had a veil on when she came in, but lifted it when she sat down by Chestermarke. What I should call a handsome woman, Mr. Starmidge—and, I should say, about thirty-five to forty. Dark hair, dark eyes—taking expression."

"Mrs. Carswell, for a fiver!" thought Starmidge. "Well?" he said aloud. "You say she went straight over to him?"

"Straight to him—and began talking at once," answered Gandam. "It seemed to me that it was what you might call an adjourned meeting—they began talking as if they were sort of taking up a conversation. But she did most of the talking. He ordered some dinner for both of 'em as soon as she came—she talked while they ate. Of course, being right across the room from them, I couldn't catch a word that was said, but she seemed to be explaining something to him the whole time, and I could see he was surprised—more than once."

"It must have been something uncommonly surprising to make him show signs of surprise!" muttered Starmidge, who had a vivid recollection of Gabriel Chestermarke's granite countenance. "Yes?—go on."

"They were there about three-quarters of an hour," continued Gandam. "Of course, I ate my dinner while they ate theirs, and I took good care not to let them see that I was watching them. As soon as I saw signs of a move on their part—when she began putting on her gloves—I paid my waiter and slipped out upstairs to the front entrance. I got a taxi-cab driver to pull up by the kerb and wait for me, and told him who I was and what I was after, and that if those two got into a cab he was to follow wherever they went—cautiously. Gave him a description of the man, you know. Then I hung round till they came out. They parted at once—she went off up Regent Street——"

"I wish you'd had another man with you!" exclaimed Starmidge. "I'd give a lot to get hold of that woman. She's probably the housekeeper who disappeared from the bank, you know."

"So I guessed, Mr. Starmidge, but what could I do?" said Gandam. "I couldn't follow both, and it was the man you'd put me on to. I decided, of course, for him. Well—he tried to get my cab; when he found it was engaged, he walked on a bit to the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and got one there. And, of course, we followed. A longish follow, too!—right away up to the back of Regent's Park. You know those detached houses—foot of Primrose Hill? It's one of those—he was a cute chap, my driver, and he contrived to slow down and keep well behind, and yet to see where Chestermarke got out. The name of the house is Oakfield Villa—it's on the gateposts. Of course, I made sure. I sent my man off—and then I hung round some time, passing and re-passing once or twice. And I saw Chestermarke in a front room—the blinds were not drawn—and he was in a smoking-cap and jacket, so I reckoned he was safe for the night. But I can watch the house all night if you think it's necessary, you know, Mr. Starmidge."

"No!" answered Starmidge. "Not at all. But I'll tell you what—you be about there first thing tomorrow morning. Can you hang about without attracting attention?"

"Easily!" replied Gandam. "Easiest thing in the world. Do you know where a little lodge stands, as you go into Primrose Hill, the St. John's Wood side? Well, his house is close by that. On the other side of the road there's a little path leading over a bridge into the Park—close by the corner of the Zoo—I can watch from that path. You can rely on me, Mr. Starmidge. I'll not lose sight of him this time."

Starmidge saw that the man was deeply anxious to atone for his mistake of the previous night, and he nodded assent.

"All right," he said, "but—take another man with you. Two are better than one in a job like that—and Chestermarke might be meeting that woman again. Watch the house carefully tomorrow morning from first thing—follow him wherever he goes. If he should meet the woman, and they part after meeting, one of you follow her. And listen—I shall be at headquarters at twelve o'clock tomorrow. Contrive to telephone me there as to what you're doing. But—don't lose him—or her, if you see her again."

"One thing more," said Gandam, as he rose to go. "Supposing he goes off by train? Do I follow?"

"No," answered Starmidge after a moment's reflection, "but manage to find out where he goes."

He sat and thought a long time after his visitor had left, and his thoughts all centred on one fact: the undoubted fact that Gabriel Chestermarke and Mrs. Carswell had met.



CHAPTER XXV

THE PORTRAIT

The offices of Mr. Godwin Markham, at which the two detectives presented themselves soon after half-past ten next morning, were by no means extensive in size or palatial in appearance. They were situated in the second floor of a building in Conduit Street, and apparently consisted of no more than two rooms, which, if not exactly shabby, were somewhat well-worn as to furniture and fittings. It was evident, too, that Mr. Godwin Markham's clerical staff was not extensive. There was a young man clerk, and a young woman clerk in the outer office: the first was turning over a pile of circulars at the counter; the second, seated at a typewriter, was taking down a letter which was being dictated to her by a man who, still hatted and overcoated, had evidently just arrived, and was leaning against the mantelpiece with his hands in his pockets. He was a very ordinary, plain-countenanced, sandy-haired, quite commercial-looking man, this, who might have been anything from a Stock Exchange clerk to a suburban house-agent. But there was a sudden alertness in his eye as he turned it on the visitors, which showed them that he was well equipped in mental acuteness, and probably as alert as his features were commonplace.

The circular-sorting young man looked up with indifference as Easleby approached the counter, and when the detective asked if Mr. Godwin Markham could be seen, turned silently and interrogatively to the man who leaned against the mantelpiece. He, interrupting his dictation, came forward again, narrowly but continually eyeing the two men.

"Mr. Markham is not in town, gentlemen," he said, in a quick, business-like fashion, which convinced Starmidge that the speaker was not uttering any mere excuse. "He was here yesterday for an hour or two, but he will be away for some days now. Can I do anything for you?—his manager."

Easleby handed over the two professional cards which he had in readiness, and leaned across the counter.

"A word or two in private," he whispered confidentially. "Business matter."

Starmidge, watching Mr. James Stipp's face closely as he looked at the cards, saw that he was not the sort of man to be taken unawares. There was not the faintest flicker of an eyelid, not a motion of the lips, not the tiniest start of surprise, no show of unusual interest on the manager's part: he nodded, opened a door in the counter, and waved the two detectives towards the inner room.

"Be seated, gentlemen," he said, following them inside. "You'll excuse me a minute—important letter to get off—I won't keep you long."

He closed the door upon them and Starmidge and Easleby glanced round before taking the chairs to which Mr. Stipp had pointed. There was little to see. A big, roomy desk, middle-Victorian in style, some heavy middle-Victorian chairs, a well-worn carpet and rug, a book-case filled with peerages, baronetages, county directories, Army lists, Navy lists, and other similar volumes of reference to high life, a map or two on the walls, a heavy safe in a corner—these things were all there was to look at. Except one thing—which Starmidge was quick to see. Over the mantelpiece, with an almanac on one side of it, and an interest-table on the other, hung a somewhat faded photograph of Gabriel Chestermarke.

The younger detective tapped his companion's arm and silently indicated this grim counterfeit of the man in whose doings they were so keenly interested just then.

"That's—the man!" he whispered. "Chestermarke! Gabriel!"

Easleby opened mouth and eyes and stared with eager interest.

"Egad!" he muttered. "That's lucky! Makes it all the easier. I'll lay you anything you like, my lad, this manager doesn't know anything—not a thing!—about the double identity business. We shall soon find out—leave it to me—at first, anyway. A few plain questions——"

Mr. Stipp came bustling in, closing the door behind him. He took off overcoat and hat, ran his fingers through his light hair, and, seating himself, glanced smilingly at his visitors.

"Well, gentlemen!" he demanded. "What can I do for you now? Want to make some inquiries?"

"Just a few small inquiries, sir," replied Easleby. "I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name—Mr.——?"

"Stipp's my name, sir," answered the manager promptly. "Stipp—James Stipp."

"Thank you, sir," said Easleby, with great politeness. "Well, Mr. Stipp, you see from our cards who we are. We've called on you—as representing Mr. Godwin Markham—on behalf—informally, Mr. Stipp—of Mrs. Lester, of Lowdale Court, Chesham."

Mr. Stipp's face showed a little surprise at this announcement, and he glanced from one man to the other as if he were puzzled.

"Oh!" he said. "Dear me! Why—what has Mrs. Lester called you in for?"

Easleby, who had brought another marked newspaper with him, laid it on the manager's desk.

"You've no doubt read of this Scarnham affair, Mr. Stipp?" he asked, pointing to his own blue pencillings. "Most people have, I think. Or perhaps it's escaped your notice."

"Hardly could!" answered Mr. Stipp, with a friendly smile. "Yes—I've read it. Most extraordinary! One of the most puzzling cases I ever did read. Are you in at it? But this call hasn't anything to do with that, surely? If it has—what?"

"This much," answered Easleby. "Mrs. Lester has told us, of course, that her son, the young officer, is in debt to your governor. Well, last week, Mrs. Lester handed a certain sum of money to the Mr. Frederick Hollis who's been found dead at Scarnham, to be applied to the settlement of her son's liability in that respect."

Mr. Stipp showed undoubted surprise at this announcement.

"She did!" he exclaimed. "Gave Mr. Hollis money—for that? Why!—Mr. Hollis never told me of it!"

In the course of a long professional experience Easleby had learned to control his facial expression; Starmidge was gradually progressing towards perfection in that art. But each man was hard put to it to check an expression of astonishment. And Easleby showed some slight sign of perplexity when he replied.

"Mr. Hollis has—called on you, then?" he said.

"Hollis was here last Friday afternoon," answered Mr. Stipp. "Called on me at five o'clock—just before I was leaving for the day. He never offered me any money! Glad if he had—it's time young Lester paid up."

"What did Hollis come for, then, if that's a fair question?" asked Easleby.

"He came, I should say, to take a look at us, and find out who he'd got to deal with," replied the manager, smiling. "In plain language, to make an inquiry or two. He told me he'd been empowered by Mrs. Lester to deal with us, and he wanted the particulars of what we'd advanced to her son, and he got them—from me. But he never made me any offer. He just found out what he wanted to know—and went away."

"And, evidently, next day travelled to Scarnham," observed Easleby. "Now, Mr. Stipp, have you any idea whether his visit to Scarnham was in connection with the money affair of yours and young Lester's?"

Again the look of undoubted surprise; again the appearance of genuine perplexity.

"I?" exclaimed Mr. Stipp. "Not the least! Not the ghost of an idea! What could his visit to Scarnham have to do with us? Nothing!—that I know of, anyway."

"You don't think it rather remarkable that Mr. Hollis should go down there the very day after he called on you?" asked Starmidge, putting in a question for the first time.

"Why should I?" asked Mr. Stipp. "What do I know about him and his arrangements? He never mentioned Scarnham to me."

Easleby laid a finger on the marked newspaper.

"You see some names of Scarnham people there, Mr. Stipp?" he observed. "Those names—Horbury—Chestermarke. You don't happen to know 'em?"

"I don't know them," replied the manager, with obvious sincerity. "Banking people, all of them, aren't they? I might have heard their names, in a business way, some time—but I don't recall them at all."

"You said that Mr. Markham was here yesterday," suggested Starmidge. "Did you tell him—you'll excuse my asking, but it's important—did you tell him that Hollis had called last Friday on behalf of Mrs. Lester?"

"I just mentioned it," replied Mr. Stipp. "He took no particular notice—except to say that what we claim from young Lester will have to be—paid."

"You don't know if he knew Hollis?" inquired Starmidge.

The manager shook his head in a fashion which seemed to indicate that Hollis's case was no particular business of either his or his principal's.

"I don't think he did," he answered. "Never said so, anyhow. But, I say! you'll excuse me, now—what is it you're trying to get at? Do you think Hollis went to Scarnham on this business of young Lester's? And if you do, why?"

Easleby rose, and Starmidge followed his example.

"We don't know yet—exactly—why Hollis went to Scarnham," said the elder detective. "We hoped you could help us. But, as you can't—well, we're much obliged, Mr. Stipp. That your governor over the chimney-piece there?"

"Taken a few years ago," replied Mr. Stipp carelessly. "I say—you don't know what Hollis was empowered to offer us, do you?"

The two detectives looked at each other; a quiet nod from Starmidge indicated that he left it to Easleby to answer this question. And after a moment's reflection, Easleby spoke.

"Mr. Hollis was empowered to offer ten thousand pounds in full satisfaction, Mr. Stipp," he said. "And what's more—a cheque for that amount was found on his dead body when it was discovered. Now, sir, you'll understand why we want to know who it was that he went to see at Scarnham!"

Both men were watching the money-lender's manager with redoubled attention. But it needed no very keen eye to see that the surprise which Mr. Stipp had already shown at various stages of the interview was nothing to that which he now felt. And in the midst of his astonishment the two detectives bade him good-day and left him, disregarding an entreaty to stop and tell him more.

"My lad!" said Easleby, when he and Starmidge were out in the street again, "that chap has no more conception that his master is Gabriel Chestermarke than we had—twenty-four hours since—that Gabriel Chestermarke and Godwin Markham are one and the same man. He's a clever chap, this Gabriel—and now you can see how important it's been for him to keep his secret. What's next to be done? We ought to keep in touch with him from now."

"I'm expecting word from Gandam at noon at headquarters," answered Starmidge, who had already told Easleby of the visit of the previous night. "Let's ride down there and hear if any message has come in."

But as their taxi-cab turned out of Whitehall into New Scotland Yard they overtook Gandam, hurrying along. Starmidge stopped the cab and jumped out.

"Any news?" he asked sharply.

"He's off, Mr. Starmidge!" replied Gandam. "I've just come straight from watching him away. He left his house about nine-twenty, walked to the St. John's Wood Station, went down to Baker Street, and on to King's Cross Metropolitan. We followed him, of course. He walked across to St. Pancras, and left by the ten-thirty express."

"Did you manage to find out where he booked for!" demanded Starmidge.

"Ecclesborough," answered Gandam. "Heard him! I was close behind."

"He was alone, I suppose?" asked Starmidge.

"Alone all the time, Mr. Starmidge," assented Gandam. "Never saw a sign of the other party."

Starmidge rejoined Easleby. For the last twenty-four hours he had let his companion supervise matters, but now, having decided on a certain policy, he took affairs into his own hands.

"Now, then," he said, "he's off—back to Scarnham. A word or two at the office, Easleby, and I'm after him. And you'll come with me."



CHAPTER XXVI

THE LIGHTNING FLASH

At half-past seven that evening Starmidge and Easleby stepped out of a London express at Ecclesborough, and walked out to the front of the station to get a taxi-cab for Scarnham. The newsboys were rushing across the station square with the latest editions of the evening papers, and Starmidge's quick ear caught the meaning of their unfamiliar North-country shoutings.

"Latest about the Scarnham mystery," he said, stopping a lad and taking a couple of papers from him. "Something about the adjourned inquest—of course that would be today. Now then—what's this?"

He drew aside to a quiet corner of the station portico, and with his companion looking over his shoulder, read aloud a passage from the latest of the two papers.

"'An important witness gave evidence this afternoon at the adjourned inquest held at Scarnham on the body of Mr. Frederick Hollis, solicitor, of London, who was recently found lying dead at the bottom of one of the old lead-mines in Ellersdeane Hollow. It will be remembered that the circumstances of this discovery—already familiar to our readers—allied with the mysterious disappearance of Mr. John Horbury, and the presumed theft of the Countess of Ellersdeane's jewels, seem to indicate an extraordinary crime, and opinion varies considerably in the Scarnham district as to whether Mr. Hollis—the reason of whose visit to Scarnham is still unexplained—fell into the old mine by accident, or whether he was thrown in.

"'At the beginning of the proceedings this afternoon, a shepherd named James Livesey, of Ellersdeane, employed by Mr. Marchant, farmer, of the same place, was immediately called. He stated in answer to questions put by the Coroner, that on Monday morning last he had gone with his employer to an out-of-the-way part of Northumberland to buy new stock, and in consequence of his absence from home had not heard of the Scarnham affair until his return this morning, when, on Mr. Marchant's advice, he had at once called on the Coroner's office to volunteer information.

"'Livesey's evidence, in brief, was as follows: At nine o'clock last Saturday evening, he was walking home from Scarnham to Ellersdeane by a track which crosses the Hollow, and cuts into the high road between the town and the village at a point near the Warren, an isolated house which is the private residence of Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke, banker, of Scarnham. As he reached this point, he saw Mr. John Horbury, whom he knew very well by sight, accompanied by a stranger, come out of the Hollow by another path, cross the high road, and walk down the lane which leads to the Warren. They were talking very earnestly, but Mr. Horbury saw him and said good-night in answer to his own greeting. There was a strong moonlight at the time, and he saw the stranger's face clearly. He was quite sure that the stranger was the dead man whose body had just been shown to him at the mortuary.

"'Questioned further, Livesey positively adhered to all his statements. He was certain of the time; certain of the identity of the two gentlemen. He knew Mr. Horbury very well indeed; had known him for many years; Mr. Horbury had often talked to him when they met in the fields and lanes of the neighbourhood. He had no doubt at all that the dead man he had seen in the mortuary was the gentleman who was with Mr. Horbury on Saturday night. He had noticed him particularly as the two gentlemen passed him, and had wondered who he was. The moon was very bright that night: he saw Mr. Hollis quite plainly: he would have known him again at any time. He was positive that the two gentlemen entered the lane which led to Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke's house. They were evidently making a direct line for it when he first saw them, and they crossed the high road straight to its entrance. That lane led nowhere else than to the Warren—it was locally called the lane, but it was really a sort of carriage-drive to Mr. Chestermarke's front door, and there was a gate at the high-road entrance to it. He saw Mr. Horbury and his companion enter that gate; he heard it clash behind them.

"'Questioned by Mr. Polke, superintendent of police at Scarnham, Livesay said that when he first saw the two gentlemen they were coming from the direction of Ellersdeane Tower. There was a path right across the Hollow, from a point in front of the Warren, to the Tower, and thence to the woods on the Scarnham side. That was the path the two gentlemen were on. He was absolutely certain about the time, for two reasons. Just before he saw Mr. Horbury and his companion, he heard the clock at Scarnham Parish Church strike nine, and after they had passed him he had gone on to the Green Archer public-house, and had noticed that it was ten minutes past nine when he entered. Further questioned, he said he saw no one else on the Hollow but the two gentlemen.

"'At the conclusion of Livesey's evidence, the Coroner announced to the jury that, having had the gist of the witness's testimony communicated to him earlier in the day, he had sent his officer to request Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke's attendance. The officer, however, had returned to say that Mr. Chestermarke was away on business, and that it was not known when he would be back at the bank. As it was highly important that the jury should know at once if Mr. Horbury and Mr. Hollis called at the Warren on Saturday evening last, he, the Coroner, had sent for Mr. Chestermarke's butler, who would doubtless be able to give information on that point. They would adjourn for an hour until the witness attended.'"

"That's the end of it—in that paper," remarked Starmidge. "Let's see if the other has any later news. Ah!—here we are!—there is more in the stop press space of this one. Now then——"

He held the second newspaper half in front of himself, half in front of Easleby, and again rapidly read over the report.

"'Scarnham—further adjournment. On the Coroner's inquiry being resumed at four o'clock, Thomas Beavers, butler to Mr. Chestermarke at the Warren, said that so far as he knew, Mr. Horbury did not call on his master on Saturday evening last, nor did any gentleman call who answered the description of Mr. Hollis. It was impossible for anybody to call at the Warren, in the ordinary way, without his, the butler's, knowledge. As a matter of fact, the witness continued, Mr. Chestermarke was not at home during the greater part of that evening. Mr. Joseph Chestermarke had dined at the Warren at seven o'clock, and at half-past eight he and his uncle left the house together. Mr. Chestermarke did not return until eleven. Asked by Mr. Polke, superintendent of police, if he knew in which direction Mr. Gabriel and Mr. Joseph Chestermarke proceeded when they went away, the witness said that a short time after they left the house, he, in drawing the curtains of the dining-room window, saw them walking in a side-path of the garden, apparently in close conversation. He saw neither of them after that until Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke returned home, alone, at the time he had mentioned.

"'Later. The inquest was further adjourned at the close of this afternoon's proceedings. Before adjourning, the Coroner informed the jury that he understood there were rumours in the town to the effect that Mr. Hollis had been strangled before being thrown into the old lead-mine. He need hardly say that there were not the slightest grounds for those rumours. But the medical men had some suspicion that the unfortunate gentleman might have been poisoned, and he, the Coroner, thought it well to tell them that a specialist was being sent down by the Home Office, who, with the Scarnham doctors, would perform an autopsy on his arrival. The result would be placed before the jury when these proceedings were resumed.'"

Starmidge dropped the paper and looked at Easleby with an expression of astonishment.

"Poison!" he exclaimed. "That's a new idea! Poisoned first!—and thrown into that old mine after? That's—but, there, what's the good of theorizing? Pick out the best of those cars, and let's get to Scarnham as quick as possible. Something's got to be done tonight."

Easleby made no immediate answer. But presently, when they were in a fast motor and leaving the Ecclesborough streets behind them, he shook his head, and spoke more gravely than was usual with him.

"The big question, my lad," he said, "is—what to do? And there's another—what's been done—and possibly, what's being done? It's my impression something's being done now—still going on!"

"I know one thing!" exclaimed Starmidge determinedly. "We'll confront Gabriel Chestermarke tonight with what we know. That's positive!"

"If we can find him," said Easleby. "You don't know! The coming down to Ecclesborough may have been all a blind. You can reach a lot of places from Ecclesborough—and you can leave a train at more than one place between Ecclesborough and London."

"I telephoned Polke to keep an eye on him, anyway, if he did arrive at either Scarnham or the Warren," answered Starmidge, still grimly determined. "And it's my impression that he has come down—to see that nephew of his. Easleby!—they're both in at it. Both!"

Again the elder detective made no answer. He was obviously much impressed by the recent developments as related in the newspapers which they had just read, and was deep in thought about them and the possibilities which they suggested to him.

"Well!" he said at last, as the high roofs of Scarnham came in view, "we'll hear what Polke has to tell. Something may have happened since those inquest proceedings this afternoon."

But Polke, when they reached his office, had little o tell. Lord Ellersdeane, Betty Fosdyke, and Stephen Hollis were with him, evidently in consultation, and Starmidge at once saw that Betty looked distressed and anxious in no ordinary degree. All turned eagerly on the two detectives. But Starmidge addressed himself straight to Polke with one direct inquiry.

"Seen him?—heard of him?" he asked.

"Not a word!" answered Polke. "Nor a sign! If he came down by that train you spoke of, he ought to have been in the town by four o'clock at the outside. But he's never been to the bank, and he certainly hadn't arrived at his house three-quarters of an hour ago. And since ten o'clock this morning t'other's disappeared, too!"

"What—Joseph?" exclaimed Starmidge.

"Just so!" replied Polke, with the expression of a man who feels that things are getting too much for individual effort, "He was at the bank at eight o'clock this morning—one of my men saw him go in by the back way—orchard way, you know. The clerks say he went out—that way again—at ten, and he's never been seen since."

"His house!" said Starmidge. "Have you tried that?"

"Know nothing of him there—the old man and old woman said so, at any rate," answered Polke. "He seems to have cleared out. And now here's fresh bother, though I don't know if it's anything to do with this. Mr. Neale's missing—never been seen since six yesterday evening. Miss Fosdyke's anxious——"

"He was to see me at nine last night," said Betty. "No one has seen him. His landlady says he never returned home last night. Do you think anything can have happened——"

"If anything's happened to Mr. Neale," interrupted Starmidge, "it's all of a piece with the rest of it. Now, superintendent!" he went on, turning to Polke, "never mind what news I've brought—we've got to find these two Chestermarkes at once! We must go, some of us, to the Warren, some to the Cornmarket. See here!—Easleby and I will go on to the Cornmarket now—you get some of your men and follow. If we hear nothing there—then, the Warren. But—quick!"

The two detectives hurried out of the police-station; Lord Ellersdeane and Betty, after a word or two with Polke, followed. Outside, Starmidge and Easleby paused a moment, consulting; the Earl stepped forward to speak to them.

"As regards Mr. Neale," he began, "Miss Fosdyke thinks you ought to know that——"

A sudden searching flash, as of lightning, glared across the open space in front, lighting up the tower of the old church, the high roofs of the ancient houses, and the drifting clouds above them. Then a crash as of terrible thunder shook the little town from end to end, and as it died away the street lamps went out, and the tinkle of falling glass sounded on the pavements of the Market-Place. And in the second of dead silence which followed, a woman's voice, shrill, terrified, shrieked loudly, once, somewhere in the darkness.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE OLD DOVE-COT

On the previous evening, Wallington Neale, who had spent most of the day with Betty Fosdyke, endeavouring to gain some further light on the disappearance of her uncle, had left her at eight o'clock in order to keep a business appointment. He was honourary treasurer of the Scarnham Cricket Club: the weekly meeting of the committee of which important institution was due that night at the Hope and Anchor Inn, an old tavern in the Cornmarket. Thither Neale repaired, promising to rejoin Betty at nine o'clock. There was little business to be done at the meeting: by a quarter to nine it was all over and Neale was going away. And as he walked down the long sanded passage which led from the committee-room to the front entrance of the inn, old Rob Walford, the landlord, came out of the bow-windowed bar-parlour, beckoned him, with a mystery-suggesting air, to follow, and led him into a private room, the door of which he carefully closed.

Walford, a shrewd-eyed, astute old fellow, well known in Scarnham for his business abilities and his penetration, chiefly into other people's affairs, looked at Neale with a mingled expression of meaning and inquiry.

"Mr. Neale!" he whispered, glancing round at the panelling of the old parlour in which they stood, as if he feared that its ancient boards might conceal eavesdroppers, "I wanted a word with you—in private. How's this here affair going? Is aught being done? Is aught being found out? Is that detective chap any good?—him from London, I mean. Is there aught new—since this morning?"

"Not to my knowledge, Mr. Walford," answered Neale, who knew well that the old innkeeper was hand-in-glove with the Scarnham police, and invariably kept himself well primed with information about their doings. "I should think you know nearly everything—just as much as I do—more, perhaps."

The landlord poked a stout forefinger into Neale's waistcoat.

"Aye!" he said. "Aye, so I do!—as to what you might call surface matter, Mr. Neale. But—about the main thing, which, in my opinion, is the whereabouts of John Horbury? Does yon young lady at the Scarnham Arms know aught more about her uncle? Do you? Does anybody? Is there aught behind, like; aught that hasn't come out on the top?"

"I don't know of anything," replied Neale. "I wish I did! Miss Fosdyke's very anxious indeed about her uncle: she'd give anything or do anything to get news of him. It's all rot, you know, to say he's run away—it's my impression he's never gone out of Scarnham or the neighbourhood. But where he is, and whether dead or alive, is beyond my comprehension," he concluded, shaking his head. "If he's alive, why don't we hear something, or find out something?"

Walford gave his companion a quick glance out of his shrewd old eyes.

"He might be under such circumstances as wouldn't admit of that there, Mr. Neale," he said. "But come!—I've got something to tell you—something that I found out not half an hour ago. I was going on to tell Polke about it at once, but I remembered that you were in the house at this cricket club meeting, so I thought you'd do instead—you can tell Polke. I'm in a bit of a hurry myself—you know it's Wymington Races tomorrow, and I'm off there tonight, at once, to meet a man that I do a bit of business with in these matters—we make a book together, d'ye see—so I can't stop. But come this way."

He led Neale out into the long sanded passage, and down through the rear of the old house into a big stable-yard, enclosed by variously shaped buildings, more or less in an almost worn-out and dilapidated condition, whose roofs and gables showed picturesquely against the sky, faintly lighted by the waning moon. To one of these, a tower-like erection, considerably higher than the rest, the old landlord pointed.

"I suppose you know that these back premises of mine partly overlook Joseph Chestermarke's garden?" he whispered. "They do, anyway—you can see right over his garden and the back of his house—that is, in bits, for he's a fine lot of tall trees round his lawns. But there's a very fair view of that workshop he's built from the top storey of this old dove-cot of mine—we use it as a store-house. Come up—and mind these here broken steps—there's no rail, you see, and you could easy fall over."

He led his companion up a flight of much-worn stone stairs which were built against the wall of the old dove-cot; through an open doorway twenty feet above; across a rickety floor; and up another stairway of wood, into a chamber in which was a latticed window, from which most of the glass and the woodwork had disappeared.

"Now, then," he said, taking Neale to this outlook, and pointing downwards. "There you are!—you see what I mean?"

Neale looked out. Joseph Chestermarke's big garden lay beneath him. As Walford had said, much of it was obscured by trees, but there was a good prospect of one side of the laboratory from where Neale was standing. That side was furnished with a door—and on the level of that door at the extreme end of the building was a window fitted with a light-coloured blind. All the other windows, as in the case of the side which Neale had seen previously from the tree on the river-bank, were high up in the walls and fitted with red material. And from the curiously shaped smoke stack in the flat roof, the same differently tinted vapours which he had noticed on the same occasion were curling up above the elms and beeches.

"Now look here!" whispered the landlord. "D'ye see that one window with the whitish blind and the light behind it? I came up here, maybe half an hour ago, to see if we were out of something that's kept here, and I chanced to look out on to Joseph Chestermarke's garden. Mr. Neale!—there's a man in that room with the light-coloured blind—I saw his shadow on the blind, pass and repass, you understand, twice, while I looked. And—it's not Joseph Chestermarke!"

"Could you tell?—had you any idea?—whose shadow it was?" demanded Neale eagerly.

"No!—he passed in a sort of slanting direction—back and forward—just once," answered Walford. "But—his build was, I should say, about the like of John Horbury's. Mr. Neale—Horbury might be locked up there! He's a bad 'un, is Joe Chestermarke—oh, he's a rank bad 'un, my lad!—though most folk don't know it. You don't know what mayn't be happening, or what mayn't have happened in yon place! But look here—I can't stop. Me and Sam Barraclough's going off to Wymington now, in his motor—he'll be waiting at this minute. You do what I say—stop here and watch a bit. And if you see aught, go to Polke and insist on the police searching that place. That's my advice!"

"I shall do that, in any case, after what you've said," muttered Neale, who was staring at the lighted window. "But I'll watch here a bit. You've said nothing of this to anybody else?"

"No," replied the landlord. "As I said, I knew you were in the house. Well, I'm off, then. Shan't be back till late tomorrow night—and I hope you'll have some news by then, Mr. Neale."

Walford went off across the creaking floor and down the stairs, and Neale leaned out of the dismantled window and stared into the garden beneath. Was it possible, he wondered, that there was anything in the old fellow's suggestion?—possible that the missing bank manager was really concealed in that mysterious laboratory, or workshop, or whatever the place was, into which Joseph Chestermarke never allowed any person to enter? And if he was there at all, was it with his consent, or against his will, or—what? Was he being kept a prisoner—or was he—hiding?

In spite of his own knowledge of Horbury, and of Betty Fosdyke's assertions of her uncle's absolute innocence, Neale had all along been conscious of a vague, uneasy feeling that, after all, there might be something of an unexplained nature in which the manager had been, or was concerned. It might have something to do with the missing jewels; it might be mixed up with Frederick Hollis's death; it might be that Horbury and Joseph Chestermarke were jointly concerned in—but there he was at a loss, not knowing or being able to speculate on what they could be concerned in. Strange beyond belief it was, nevertheless, that old Rob Walford should think the shadow he had seen to be the missing man's! Supposing——

The door of Joseph Chestermarke's laboratory suddenly opened, letting out a glare of light across the lawn in front. And Joseph came out, carrying a sort of sieve-like arrangement, full of glowing ashes. He went away to some distant part of the garden with his burden; came back, disappeared; re-appeared with more ashes; went again down the garden. And each time he left the door wide open. A sudden notion—which he neglected to think over—flashed into Neale's mind. He left the upper chamber of the old dove-cot, made his way down the stairs to the yard beneath, turned the corner of the buildings, and by the aid of some loose timber which lay piled against it, climbed to the top of Joseph Chestermarke's wall. A moment of hesitation, and then he quietly dropped to the other side, noiselessly, on the soft mould of the border. From behind a screen of laurel bushes he looked out on the laboratory, at close quarters.

Joseph was still coming and going with his sieve—now that Neale saw him at a few yards distance he saw that the junior partner and amateur experimenter was evidently cleaning out his furnace. The place into which he threw the ashes was at the far end of the garden; at least three minutes was occupied in each journey. And—yielding to a sudden impulse—when Joseph made his next excursion and had his back fairly turned, Neale crossed the lawn in half a dozen agile and stealthy strides, and within a few seconds had slipped within the open door and behind it.

A moment later, and he knew he was trapped. Joseph came back—and did not enter. Neale heard him fling the sieve on the gravel. Then the door was pulled to with a metallic bang, from without, and the same action which closed it also cut off the electric light.



CHAPTER XXVIII

SOUND-PROOF

It needed no more than a moment's reflection to prove to Neale that he had made a serious mistake in obeying that first impulse. Joseph Chestermarke had gone away—probably for the night. And there had been something in the metallic clang of that closing door, something in the sure and certain fashion in which it had closed into its frame, something in the utter silence which had followed the sudden extinction of the light, which made the captive feel that he might beat upon door or wall as hard and as long as he pleased without attracting any attention. This place into which he had come of his own free will was no ordinary place—already he felt that he was in a trap out of which it was not going to be easy to escape.

He stood for a moment, heart thumping and pulses throbbing, to listen and to look. But he saw nothing—beyond the faint indication of the waning moonlight outside the red-curtained, circular windows high above him, and a fainter speck of glowing cinder, left behind in the recently emptied furnace. He heard nothing, either, save a very faint crackling of the expiring ashes in that furnace. Presently even that minute sound died down, the one speck of light went out, and the silence and gloom were intense.

Neale now knew that unless Joseph Chestermarke came back to his workshop he was doomed to spend the night in it—and possibly part of the next day. He felt sure that it was impossible to obtain release otherwise than by Joseph's coming. He could do nothing—in all probability—to release himself. No one in the town would have the remotest idea that he was fastened up within those walls. The only man to whom such an idea could come on hearing that he, Neale, was missing, was old Rob Walford—and Walford, by that time, would be well on his way to Wymington, thirty miles off, and as he was to be there all night, and all next day, he would hear nothing until his return to Scarnham, twenty-four hours hence. No!—he was caught. Joseph Chestermarke had had no idea of catching him—but he had caught him all the same.

And now that he was safely caught, Neale began to wonder why he had slipped into that place. He had an elementary idea, of course—he had wanted to find out if anybody was concealed in that room which the landlord had pointed out. Certainly he had felt no fear about meeting Joseph Chestermarke. Yet—now that he was there—he did not know what he should have done if Joseph had come in, as he expected he would, nor what he should, or could do now that he was in complete possession. If he had been able to face Joseph, he would have demanded information, point-blank, about the shadow on the blind; he even had some misty notion about enforcing it, if need be. But—he was now helpless. He could do no good; he could not tell Polke or anybody else what Walford had reported. And if he was to be left there all night—which seemed likely—he had only got himself into a highly unpleasant situation.

He moved at last, feeling about in the darkness. His hands encountered smooth, blank walls, on each side of the door. He dared not step forward lest he should run against machinery or meet with some cavity in the flooring. And reflecting that the small, insignificant gleam which it would make could scarcely be noticed from outside, he struck a match, and carefully holding it within the flap of his outstretched jacket, looked around him. A first quick glance gave him a general idea of his surroundings. Immediately in front of him was the furnace; a little to its side was a lathe; on one side of the place a long table stood, covered with a multitude of tools, chemical apparatus, and the like; on the other was a blank wall. And in that blank wall, to which Neale chiefly directed his attention during the few seconds for which the match burned, was a door.

The match went out; he dropped it on the floor and moved forward in the darkness to the door which he had just seen. That, of course, must open into the inner room to the outer window of which Walford had drawn his attention. He went on until his outstretched fingers touched the door. Then he cautiously struck another match and looked the door up and down. What he saw added to the mystery of the whole adventure. Neale had seen doors of that sort before, more than once—but they were the doors of very big safes or of strong rooms. Before the second match burned through he knew that this particular door was of some metal—steel, most likely—that it was set into a framework of similar metal, and that the room to which it afforded entrance was probably sound-proof.

He struck a third match and a fourth. By their light he saw there was but one small keyhole to the door, and he judged from that that it was fitted with some patent mechanical lock. There was no way by which he could open it, of course, and though he stood for a long time listening with straining ears against it he could not detect the slightest sound from whatever chamber or recess lay behind it. If there really was a man in there, thought Neale, he must surely feel himself to be in a living tomb. And after a time, taking the risk of being heard from outside the laboratory, he beat heavily upon the door with his fist. No response came: the silence all around him was more oppressive, if possible, than before.