Eldrick and Byner looked at each other for a moment. Then the solicitor spoke—quietly and with a significance which the agent understood.

"Do you want to ask Mr. Pickard any questions?" he said.

Byner nodded and turned to the landlord.

"Did Parrawhite tell you where he was going to meet Pratt?" he asked.

"He did," replied Pickard. "Near Pratt's lodgin' place."

"Did—or does—Pratt live near you, then?"

"Closish by—happen ten minutes' walk. There's few o' houses—a sort o' terrace, like, on t' edge o' what they call Whitcliffe Moor. Pratt lodged—lodges now for all I know to t' contrary—i' one o' them."

"Did Parrawhite give you any idea that he was going to the house in which Pratt lodged?"

"No! He were not goin' to t' house. I know he worn't. He tell'd me 'at he'd a good idea what time Pratt 'ud be home, 'cause he knew where he was that evening and he were goin' to meet him just afore Pratt got to his place. I know where he'd meet him."

"Where?" asked Byner. "Tell me exactly. It's important."

"Pratt 'ud come up fro' t' town i' t' tram," answered Pickard. "He'd approach this here terrace I tell'd you about by a narrow lane that runs off t' high road. He'd meet him there, would Parrawhite."

"Did you ever ask any question of Pratt about Parrawhite?"

"No—never! I'd no wish that Pratt should know owt about my dealin's with Parrawhite. When Parrawhite never come back—why, I kep' it all to myself, till now."

"What do you think happened to Parrawhite, Mr. Pickard?" asked Byner.

"Gow, I know what I think!" replied Pickard disgustedly. "I think 'at if he did get any brass out o' Pratt—which is what I know nowt about, and hewn't much belief in—he went straight away fro' t' town—vanished! I do know this—he nivver went back to his lodgin's that neet, 'cause I went theer mysen next day to inquire."

Eldrick pricked up his ears at that. He remembered that he had sent Pratt to make inquiry at Parrawhite's lodgings on the morning whereon the money was missing.

"What time of the day—on the twenty-fourth—was that, Mr. Pickard?" he asked.

"Evenin', sir," replied the landlord. "They'd nivver seen naught of him since he went out the day before. Oh, he did me, did Parrawhite! Of course, I lost mi brass—fifty odd pounds!"

Byner gave Eldrick a glance.

"I think Mr. Pickard has earned the ten pounds you offered," he said.

Eldrick took the hint and pulled out his cheque-book.

"Of course, you're to keep all this private—strictly private, Mr. Pickard," he said as he wrote. "Not a word to a soul!"

"Just as you order, sir," agreed Pickard. "I'll say nowt—to nobody."

"And—perhaps tomorrow—perhaps this afternoon—you'll see me at the Green Man," remarked Byner. "I shall just drop in, you know. You needn't know me—if there's anybody about."

"All right, sir—I understand," said Pickard.

"Quiet's the word—what? Very good—much obliged to you, gentlemen."

When the landlord had gone Eldrick motioned Byner to pick up his hat. "Come across the street with me," he said. "I want us to have a consultation with a friend of mine, a barrister, Mr. Collingwood. For this matter is assuming a very queer aspect, and we can't move too warily, nor consider all the features too thoroughly."

Collingwood listened with deep interest to Eldrick's account of the morning's events. And once again he was struck by the fact that all these various happenings in connection with Pratt, and now with Parrawhite, took place at the time of Antony Bartle's death, and he said so.

"True enough!" agreed Eldrick.

"And once more," pointed out Collingwood. "We're hearing of a hold! Pratt claims to have a hold on Mrs. Mallathorpe—now it turns out that Parrawhite boasted of a hold on Pratt. Suppose all these things have a common origin? Suppose the hold which Parrawhite had—or has—on Pratt is part and parcel of the hold which Pratt has on Mrs. Mallathorpe? In that case—or cases—what is the best thing to do?"

"Will you gentlemen allow me to suggest something?" said Byner. "Very well—find Parrawhite! Of all the people concerned in this, Parrawhite, from your account of him, anyway, Mr. Eldrick, is the likeliest person to extract the truth from."

"There's a great deal in that suggestion," said Eldrick. "Do you know what I think?" he went on, turning to Collingwood, "Mr. Byner tells me he means to stay here until he has come across some satisfactory news of Parrawhite or solved the mystery of his disappearance. Well, now that we've found that there is some ground for believing that Parrawhite was in some fashion mixed up with Pratt about that time, why not place the whole thing in Mr. Byner's hands—let him in any case see what he can do about the Parrawhite-Pratt business of November twenty-third, eh?"

"I take it," answered Collingwood, looking at the inquiry agent, "that Mr. Byner having heard what he has, would do that quite apart from us?"

"Yes," said Byner. "Now that I've heard what Pickard had to say, I certainly shall follow that up."

"I am following out something of my own," said Collingwood, turning to Eldrick. "I shall know more by this time tomorrow. Let us have a conference here—at noon."

They separated on that understanding, and Byner went his own ways. His first proceeding was to visit, one after another, the Barford newspaper offices, and to order the insertion in large type, and immediately, of the Halstead-Byner advertisement for news of Parrawhite. His second was to seek the General Post Office, where he wrote out and dispatched a message to his partner in London. That message was in cypher—translated into English, it read as follows:—

"If person named Pratt sends any communication to us re Parrawhite, on no account let him know I am in Barford, but forward whatever he sends to me at once, addressed to H.D. Black, Central Station Hotel."



CHAPTER XIX

THE EYE-WITNESS

When Collingwood said that he was following out something of his own, he was thinking of an interesting discovery which he had made. It was one which might have no significance in relation to the present perplexities—on the other hand, out of it might come a good deal of illumination. Briefly, it was that on the evening before this consultation with Eldrick & Byner, he had found out that he was living in the house of a man who had actually witnessed the famous catastrophe at Mallathorpe's Mill, whereby John Mallathorpe, his manager, and his cashier, together with some other bystanders, had lost their lives.

On settling down in Barford, Collingwood had spent a couple of weeks in looking about him for comfortable rooms of a sort that appealed to his love of quiet and retirement. He had found them at last in an old house on the outskirts of the town—a fine old stone house, once a farmstead, set in a large garden, and tenanted by a middle-aged couple, who having far more room than they needed for themselves, had no objection to letting part of it to a business gentleman. Collingwood fell in love with this place as soon as he saw it. The rooms were large and full of delightful nooks and corners; the garden was rich in old trees; from it there were fine views of the valley beneath, and the heather-clad hills in the distance; within two miles of the town and easily approached by a convenient tram-route, it was yet quite out in the country.

He was just as much set up by his landlady—a comfortable, middle-aged woman, who fostered true Yorkshire notions about breakfast, and knew how to cook a good dinner at night. With her Collingwood had soon come to terms, and to his new abode had transferred a quantity of books and pictures from London. He soon became acquainted with the domestic menage. There was the landlady herself, Mrs. Cobcroft, who, having no children of her own, had adopted a niece, now grown up, and a teacher in an adjacent elementary school: there was a strapping, rosy-cheeked servant-maid, whose dialect was too broad for the lodger to understand more than a few words of it; finally there was Mr. Cobcroft, a mild-mannered, quiet man who disappeared early in the morning, and was sometimes seen by Collingwood returning home in the evening.

Lately, with the advancing spring, this unobtrusive individual was seen about the garden at the end of the day: Collingwood had so seen him on the evening before the talk with Eldrick and Byner, busied in setting seeds in the flower-beds. And he had asked Mrs. Cobcroft, just then in his sitting-room, if her husband was fond of gardening.

"It's a nice change for him, sir," answered the landlady. "He's kept pretty close at it all day in the office yonder at Mallathorpe's Mill, and it does him good to get a bit o' fresh air at nights, now that the fine weather's coming on. That was one reason why we took this old place—it's a deal better air here nor what it is in the town."

"So your husband is at Mallathorpe's Mill, eh?" asked Collingwood.

"Been there—in the counting-house—boy and man, over thirty years, sir," replied Mrs. Cobcroft.

"Did he see that terrible affair then—was it two years ago?"

The landlady shook her head and let out a weighty sigh.

"Aye, I should think he did!" she answered. "And a nice shock it gave him, too!—he actually saw that chimney fall—him and another clerk were looking out o' the counting-house window when it gave way."

Collingwood said no more then—except to remark that such a sight must indeed have been trying to the nerves. But for purposes of his own he determined to have a talk with Cobcroft, and the next evening, seeing him in his garden again, he went out to him and got into conversation, and eventually led up to the subject of Mallathorpe's Mill, the new chimney of which could be seen from a corner of the garden.

"Your wife tells me," observed Collingwood, "that you were present when the old chimney fell at the mill yonder?"

Cobcroft, a quiet, unassuming man, usually of few words, looked along the hillside at the new chimney, and nodded his head. A curious, far-away look came into his eyes.

"I was, sir!" he said. "And I hope I may never see aught o' that sort again, as long as ever I live. It was one o' those things a man can never forget!"

"Don't talk about it if you don't want to," remarked Collingwood. "But I've heard so much about that affair that——"

"Oh, I don't mind talking about it," replied Cobcroft. He leaned over the fence of his garden, still gazing at the mill in the distance. "There were others that saw it, of course: lots of 'em. But I was close at hand—our office was filled with the dust in a few seconds."

"It was a sudden affair?" asked Collingwood.

"It was one of those affairs," answered Cobcroft slowly, "that some folk had been expecting for a long time—only nobody had the sense to see that it might happen at some unexpected minute. It was a very old chimney. It looked all right—stood plumb, and all that. But Mr. Mallathorpe—my old master, Mr. John Mallathorpe, I'm talking of—he got an idea from two or three little things, d'ye see, that it wasn't as safe as it ought to be. And he got a couple of these professional steeplejacks to examine it. They made a thorough examination, too—so far as one could tell by what they did. They'd been at the job several days when the accident happened. One of 'em had only just come down when the chimney fell. Mr. Mallathorpe, himself, and his manager, and his cashier, had just stepped out of the counting-house and crossed the yard to hear what this man had got to say when—down it came! Not the slightest warning at the time. It just—collapsed!"

"You saw the actual collapse?" asked Collingwood.

"Aye—didn't I?" exclaimed Cobcroft. "Another man and myself were looking out of the office window, right opposite. It fell in the queerest way—like this," he went on, holding up his garden-rake. "Supposing this shaft was the chimney—standing straight up. As we looked we saw it suddenly bulge out, on all sides—it was a square chimney, same size all the way up till you got to the cornice at the top—bulge out, d'ye see, just about half-way up—simultaneous, like. Then—down it came with a roar that they heard over half the town! O' course, there were some two or three thousands of tons of stuff in that chimney—and when the dust was cleared a bit there it was in one great heap, right across the yard. And it was a good job," concluded Cobcroft, reflectively, "that it fell straight—collapsed in itself, as you might say—for if it had fallen slanting either way, it 'ud ha' smashed right through some of the sheds, and there'd ha' been a terrible loss of life."

"Mr. John Mallathorpe was killed on the spot, I believe?" suggested Collingwood.

"Aye—and Gaukrodger, and Marshall, and the steeplejack that had just come down, and another or two," said Cobcroft. "They'd no chance—they were standing in a group at the very foot, talking. They were all killed there and then—instantaneous. Some others were struck and injured—one or two died. Yes, sir,—I'm not very like to forget that!"

"A terrible experience!" agreed Collingwood. "It would naturally fix itself on your memory."

"Aye—my memory's very keen about it," said Cobcroft. "I remember every detail of that morning. And," he continued, showing a desire to become reminiscent, "there was something happened that morning, before the accident, that I've oft thought over and has oft puzzled me. I've never said aught to anybody about it, because we Yorkshiremen we're not given to talking about affairs that don't concern us, and after all, it was none o' mine! But you're a law gentleman, and I dare say you get things told to you in confidence now and then, and, of course, this is between you and me. I'll not deny that I have oft thought that I would like to tell it to a lawyer of some sort, and find out how it struck him."

"Anything that you like to tell me, Mr. Cobcroft, I shall treat as a matter of confidence—until you tell me it's no longer a secret," answered Collingwood.

"Why," continued Cobcroft, "it isn't what you rightly would call a secret—though I don't think anybody knows aught about it but myself! It was just this—and it may be there's naught in it but a mere fancy o' mine. That morning, before the accident happened, I was in and out of the private office a good deal—carrying in and out letters, and account books, and so on. Mr. John Mallathorpe's private office, ye'll understand, sir, opened out of our counting-house—as it does still—the present manager, Mr. Horsfall, has it, just as it was. Well, now, on one occasion, when I went in there, to take a ledger back to the safe, Mr. Mallathorpe had his manager and cashier, Gaukrodger and Marshall in with him. Mr. Mallathorpe, he always used a stand-up desk to write at—never wrote sitting down, though he had a big desk in the middle of the room that he used to sit at to look over accounts or talk to people. Now when I went in, he and Gaukrodger and Marshall were all at this stand-up desk—in the window-place—and they were signing some papers. At least Gaukrodger had just signed a paper, and Marshall was taking the pen from him. 'Sign there, Marshall,' says Mr. Mallathorpe. And then he went on, 'Now we'll sign this other—it's well to have these things in duplicate, in case one gets lost.' And then—well, then, I went out, and—why, that was all."

"You've some idea in your mind about that," said Collingwood, who had watched Cobcroft closely as he talked. "What is it?"

Cobcroft smiled—and looked round as if to ascertain that they were alone. "Why!" he answered in a low voice. "I'll tell you what I did wonder—some time afterwards. I dare say you're aware—it was all in the papers—that Mr. John Mallathorpe died intestate?"

"Yes," asserted Collingwood. "I know that."

"I've oft wondered," continued Cobcroft, "if that could ha' been his will that they were signing! But then I reflected a bit on matters. And there were two or three things that made me say naught at all—not a word. First of all, I considered it a very unlikely thing that a rich man like Mr. John Mallathorpe would make a will for himself. Second—I remembered that very soon after I'd been in his private office Marshall came out into the counting-house and gave the office lad a lot of letters and documents to take to the post—some of 'em big envelopes—and I thought that what I'd seen signed was some agreement or other that was in one of them. And third—and most important—no will was ever found in any of Mr. John Mallathorpe's drawers or safes or anywhere, though they turned things upside down at the office, and, I heard, at his house as well. Of course, you see, sir, supposing that to have been a will—why, the only two men who could possibly have proved it was were dead and gone! They were killed with him. And of course, the young people, the nephew and niece, they came in for everything—so there was an end of it. But—I've oft wondered what those papers were. One thing is certain, anyway!" concluded Cobcroft, with a grim laugh, "when those three signed 'em, they were picking up their pens for the last time!"

"How long was it—after you saw the signing of those papers—that the accident occurred?" asked Collingwood.

"It 'ud be twelve or fifteen minutes, as near as I can recollect," replied Cobcroft. "A few minutes after I'd left the private office, Gaukrodger came out of it, alone, and stood at the door leading into the yard, looking up at the chimney. The steeple-jack was just coming down, and his mate was waiting for him at the bottom. Gaukrodger turned back to the private office and called Mr. Mallathorpe out. All three of 'em, Mallathorpe, Gaukrodger, Marshall, went out and walked across the yard to the chimney foot. They stood there talking a bit—and then—down it came!"

Collingwood thought matters over. Supposing that the document which Cobcroft spoke of as being in process of execution before him were indeed duplicate copies of a will. What could have been done with them, in the few minutes which elapsed between the signing and the catastrophe to the chimney? It was scarcely likely that John Mallathorpe would have sent them away by post. If they had been deposited in his own pocket, they would have been found when his clothing was removed and examined. If they were in the private office when the three men left it——

"You're sure the drawers, safe and so on in Mr. Mallathorpe's room were thoroughly searched—after his death?" he asked.

"I should think they were!" answered Cobcroft laconically. "I helped at that, myself. There wasn't as much as an old invoice that was not well fingered and turned over. No!—I came to the conclusion that what I'd seen signed was some contract or something—sent off there and then by the lad to post."

Collingwood made no further remark and asked no more questions. But he thought long and seriously that night, and he came to certain conclusions. First: what Cobcroft had seen signed was John Mallathorpe's will. Second: John Mallathorpe had made it himself and had taken the unusual course of making a duplicate copy. Third: John Mallathorpe had probably slipped the copy into the History of Barford which was in his private office when he went out to speak to the steeple-jack. Fourth: that copy had come into Linford Pratt's hands through Antony Bartle.

And now arose two big questions. What were the terms of that will? And—where was the duplicate copy? He was still putting these to himself when noon of the next day came and brought Eldrick and Byner for the promised serious consultation.



CHAPTER XX

THE GREEN MAN

Byner, in taking his firm's advertisement for Parrawhite to the three Barford newspaper offices, had done so with a special design—he wanted Pratt to see that a serious wish to discover Parrawhite was alive in more quarters than one. He knew that Pratt was almost certain to see Eldrick's advertisement in his own name; now he wanted Pratt to see another advertisement of the same nature in another name. Already he had some suspicion that Pratt had not told Eldrick the truth about Parrawhite, and that nothing would suit him so well as that Parrawhite should never be heard of or mentioned again: now he wished Pratt to learn that Parrawhite was much wanted, and was likely to be much mentioned—wherefore the supplementary advertisements with Halstead & Byner's name attached. It was extremely unlikely that Pratt could fail to see those advertisements.

There were three newspapers in Barford: one a morning journal of large circulation throughout the county; the other two, evening journals, which usually appeared in three or four editions. As Byner stipulated for large type, and a prominent position, in the personal column of each, it was scarcely within the bounds of probability that a townsman like Pratt would miss seeing the advertisement. Most likely he would see it in all three newspapers. And if he had also seen Eldrick's similar advertisement, he would begin to think, and then——

"Why, then," mused Byner, ruminating on his design, "then we will see what he will do!"

Meanwhile, there was something he himself wanted to do, and on the morning following his arrival in the town, he set out to do it. Byner had been much struck by Pickard's account of his dealings with James Parrawhite on the evening which appeared to be the very last wherein Parrawhite was ever seen. He had watched the landlord of the Green Man closely as he told his story, and had set him down for an honest, if somewhat sly and lumpish soul, who was telling a plain tale to the best of his ability. Byner believed all the details of that story—he even believed that when Parrawhite told Pickard that he would find him fifty pounds that evening, or early next day, he meant to keep his word. In the circumstances—as far as Byner could reckon them up from what he had gathered—it would not have paid Parrawhite to do otherwise. Byner put the situation to himself in this fashion—Pratt had got hold of some secret which was being, or could be made to be, highly profitable to him. Parrawhite had discovered this, and was in a position to blackmail Pratt. Therefore Parrawhite would not wish to leave Pratt's neighbourhood—so long as there was money to be got out of Pratt, Parrawhite would stick to him like a leech. But if Parrawhite was to abide peaceably in Barford, he must pay Pickard that little matter of between fifty and sixty pounds. Accordingly, in Byner's opinion, Parrawhite had every honest intention of returning to the Green Man on the evening of the twenty-third of November after having seen Pratt. And, in Byner's further—and very seriously considered—opinion, the whole problem for solution—possibly involving the solution of other and more important problems—was this: Did Parrawhite meet Pratt that night, and if he did what took place between them which prevented Parrawhite from returning to Pickard?

It was in an endeavour to get at some first stage of a solution of this problem that Byner, having breakfasted at the Central Hotel on his second day in the town, went out immediately afterwards, asked his way to Whitcliffe, and was directed to an electric tram which started from the Town Hall Square, and after running through a district of tall warehouses and squat weaving-sheds, began a long and steady climb to the heights along the town. When he left it, he found himself in a district eminently characteristic of that part of the country. The tram set him down at a cross-roads on a high ridge of land. Beneath him lay Barford, its towers and spires and the gables of its tall buildings showing amongst the smoke of its many chimneys. All about him lay open ground, broken by the numerous stone quarries of which Eldrick had spoken, and at a little distance along one of the four roads at the intersection of which he stood, he saw a few houses and cottages, one of which, taller and bigger than the rest, was distinguished by a pole, planted in front of its stone porch and bearing a swinging sign whereon was rudely painted the figure of a man in Lincoln green. Byner walked on to this, entered a flagged hall, and found himself confronting Pickard, who at sight of him, motioned him into a little parlour behind the bar.

"Mornin', mister," said he. "You'll be all right in here—there's nobody about just now, and if my missis or any o' t' servant lasses sees yer, they'll tak' yer for a brewer's traveller, or summat o' that sort. Come to hev a look round, like—what?"

"I want to have a look at the place where you told us Parrawhite was to meet Pratt that night," replied Byner. "I thought you would perhaps be kind enough to show me where it is."

"I will, an' all—wi' pleasure," said the landlord, "but ye mun hev a drop o' summat first—try a glass o' our ale," he went on, with true Yorkshire hospitality. "I hev some bitter beer i' my cellar such as I'll lay owt ye couldn't get t' likes on down yonder i' Barford—no, nor i' London neyther!—I'll just draw a jug."

Byner submitted to this evidence of friendliness, and Pickard, after disappearing into a dark archway and down some deeply worn stone steps, came back with a foaming jug, the sight of which seemed to give him great delight. He gazed admiringly at the liquor which he presently poured into two tumblers, and drew his visitor's attention to its colour.

"Reight stuff that, mister—what?" he said. "I nobbut tapped that barril two days since, and I'd been keepin' it twelve month, so you've come in for it at what they call t' opportune moment. I say!" he went on, after pledging Byner and smacking his lips over the ale. "I heard summat last night 'at might be useful to you and Lawyer Eldrick—about this here Parrawhite affair."

"Oh!" said Byner, at once interested. "What now?"

"You'll ha' noticed, as you come along t' road just now, 'at there's a deal o' stone quarries i' this neighbourhood?" replied Pickard. "Well, now, of course, some o' t' quarry men comes in here. Last night theer wor sev'ral on 'em i' t' bar theer, talkin', and one on 'em wor readin' t' evenin' newspaper—t' Barford Dispatch. An' he read out that theer advertisement about Parrawhite—wi' your address i' London at t' foot on it. Well, theer wor nowt said, except summat about advertisin' for disappeared folk, but later on, one o' t' men, a young man, come to me, private like. 'I say, Pickard,' he says, 'between you an' me, worrn't t' name o' that man 'at used to come in here on a Sunday sometimes, Parrawhite? It runs a' my mind,' he says, ''at I've heerd you call him by that name.' 'Well, an' what if it wor?' I says. 'Nay, nowt much,' he says, 'but I see fro' t' Dispatch 'at he's wanted, and I could tell a bit about him,' he says. 'What could ye tell?' says I—just like that theer. 'Why,' he says, 'this much—one night t' last back-end——'"

"Stop a bit, Mr. Pickard," interrupted Byner. "What does that mean—that term 'back-end'?"

"Why, it means t' end o' t' year!" answered the landlord. "What some folks call autumn, d'ye understand? 'One night t' last back-end,' says this young fellow, 'I wor hengin' about on t' quiet at t' end o' Stubbs' Lane,' he says: 'T' truth wor,' he says, 'I wor waitin' for a word wi' a young woman 'at lives i' that terrace at t' top o' Stubbs' Lane—she wor goin' to come out and meet me for half an hour or so. An,' he says, 'I see'd that theer feller 'at I think I've heerd you call Parrawhite, come out o' Stubbs' Lane wi' that lawyer chap 'at lives i' t' Terrace—Pratt. I know Pratt,' he says, ''cause them 'at he works for—Eldricks—once did a bit o' law business for me.' 'Where did you see 'em go to, then?' says I. 'I see'd 'em cross t' road into t' owd quarry ground,' he says. 'I see'd 'em plain enough, tho' they didn't see me—I wor keepin' snug agen 't wall—it wor a moonlit night, that,' he says. 'Well,' I says, 'an' what now?' 'Why,' he says, 'd'yer think I could get owt o' this reward for tellin that theer?' So I thowt pretty sharp then, d'ye see, mister. 'I'll tell yer what, mi lad,' I says. 'Say nowt to nobody—keep your tongue still—and I'll tell ye tomorrow night what ye can do—I shall see a man 'at's on that job 'tween now and then,' I says. So theer it is," concluded Pickard, looking hard at Byner. "D'yer think this chap's evidence 'ud be i' your line?"

"Decidedly I do!" replied Byner. "Where is he to be found?"

"I couldn't say wheer he lives," answered the landlord. "But it'll be somewhere close about; anyway, he'll be in here tonight. Bill Thomson t' feller's name is—decent young feller enough."

"I must contrive to see him, certainly," said Byner. "Well, now, can you show me this Stubbs' Lane and the neighbourhood?"

"Just step along t' road a bit and I'll join you in a few o' minutes," assented Pickard. "We'd best not be seen leavin t' house together, or our folk'll think it's a put-up job. Walk forrard a piece."

Byner strolled along the road a little way, and leaned over a wall until Mr. Pickard, wearing his white billycock hat and accompanied by a fine fox-terrier, lounged up with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. Together they went a little further along.

"Now then!" said the landlord, crossing the road towards the entrance of a narrow lane which ran between two high stone walls. "This here is Stubbs' Lane—so called, I believe, 'cause an owd gentleman named similar used to hev a house here 'at's been pulled down. Ye see, it runs up fro' this high-road towards yon terrace o' houses. Folks hereabouts calls that terrace t' World's End, 'cause they're t' last houses afore ye get on to t' open moorlands. Now, that night 'at Parrawhite wor aimin' to meet Pratt, it wor i' this very lane. Pratt, when he left t' tram-car, t' other side o' my place, 'ud come up t' road, and up this lane. And it wor at t' top o' t' lane 'at Bill Thomson see'd Pratt and Parrawhite cross into what Bill called t' owd quarry ground."

"Can we go into that?" asked Byner.

"Nowt easier!" said Pickard. "It's a sort of open space where t' childer goes and plays about: they hev'n't worked no stone theer for many a long year—all t' stone's exhausted, like."

He led Byner along the lane to its further end, pointed out the place where Thomson said he had seen Pratt and Parrawhite, and indicated the terrace of houses in which Pratt lived. Then he crossed towards the old quarries.

"Don't know what they should want to come in here for—unless it wor to talk very confidential," said Pickard. "But lor bless yer!—it 'ud be quiet enough anywheer about this neighbourhood at that time o' neet. However, this is wheer Bill Thomson says he see'd 'em come."

He led the way amongst the disused quarries, and Byner, following, climbed on a mound, now grown over with grass and weed, and looked about him. To his town eyes the place was something novel. He had never seen the like of it before. Gradually he began to understand it. The stone had been torn out of the earth, sometimes in square pits, sometimes in semi-circular ones, until the various veins and strata had become exhausted. Then, when men went away, Nature had stepped in to assert her rights. All over the despoiled region she had spread a new clothing of green. Turf had grown on the flooring of the quarries; ivy and bramble had covered the deep scars; bushes had sprung up; trees were already springing. And in one of the worn-out excavations some man had planted a kitchen-garden in orderly and formal rows and plots.

"Dangerous place that there!" said Pickard suddenly. "If I'd known o' that, I shouldn't ha' let my young 'uns come to play about here. They might be tummlin' in and drownin' theirsens! I mun tell my missis to keep 'em away!"

Byner turned—to find the landlord pointing at the old shaft which had gradually become filled with water. In the morning sunlight its surface glittered like a plane of burnished metal, but when the two men went nearer and gazed at it from its edge, the water was black and unfathomable to the eye.

"Goodish thirty feet o' water in that there!" surmised Pickard. "It's none safe for childer to play about—theer's nowt to protect 'em. Next time I see Mestur Shepherd I shall mak' it my business to tell him so; he owt either to drain that watter off or put a fence around it."

"Is Mr. Shepherd the property-owner?" asked Byner.

"Aye!—it's all his, this land," answered Pickard. He pointed to a low-roofed house set amidst elms and chestnuts, some distance off across the moor. "Lives theer, does Mestur Shepherd—varry well-to-do man, he is."

"How could that water be drained off?" asked Byner with assumed carelessness.

"Easy enough!" replied Pickard. "Cut through yon ledge, and let it run into t' far quarry there. A couple o' men 'ud do that job in a day."

Byner made no further remark. He and Pickard strolled back to the Green Man together. And declining the landlord's invitation to step inside and take another glass, but promising to see him again very soon, the inquiry agent walked on to the tram-car and rode down to Barford to keep his appointment with Eldrick and Collingwood at the barrister's chambers.



CHAPTER XXI

THE DIRECT CHARGE

While Byner was pursuing his investigations in the neighbourhood of the Green Man, Collingwood was out at Normandale Grange, discussing certain matters with Nesta Mallathorpe. He had not only thought long and deeply over his conversation with Cobcroft the previous evening, but had begun to think about the crucial point of the clerk's story as soon as he spoke in the morning, and the result of his meditations was that he rose early, intercepted Cobcroft before he started for Mallathorpe's Mill and asked his permission to re-tell the story to Miss Mallathorpe. Cobcroft raised no objection, and when Collingwood had been to his chambers and seen his letters, he chartered a car and rode out to Normandale where he told Nesta of what he had learned and of his own conclusions. And Nesta, having listened carefully to all he had to tell, put a direct question to him.

"You think this document which Pratt told me he holds is my late uncle's will?" she said. "What do you suppose its terms to be?"

"Frankly—these, or something like these," replied Collingwood. "And I get at my conclusions in this way. Your uncle died intestate—consequently, everything in the shape of real estate came to your brother and everything in personal property to your brother and yourself. Now, supposing that the document which Pratt boasts of holding is the will, one fact is very certain—the property, real or personal, is not disposed of in the way in which it became disposed of because of John Mallathorpe's intestacy. He probably disposed of it in quite another fashion. Why do I think that? Because the probability is that Pratt said to your mother, 'I have got John Mallathorpe's will! It doesn't leave his property to your son and daughter. Therefore, I have all of you at my mercy. Make it worth my while, or I will bring the will forward.' Do you see that situation?"

"Then," replied Nesta, after a moment's reflection, "you do think that my mother was very anxious to get that document—a will—from Pratt?"

Collingwood knew what she was thinking of—her mind was still uneasy about Pratt's account of the affair of the foot-bridge. But—the matter had to be faced.

"I think your mother would naturally be very anxious to secure such a document," he said. "You must remember that according to Pratt's story to you, she tried to buy it from him—just as you did yourself, though you, of course, had no idea of what it was you wanted to buy."

"What I wanted to buy," she answered readily, "was necessity from further interference! But—is there no way of compelling Pratt to give up that document—whatever it is? Can't he be made to give it up?"

"A way is may be being made, just now—through another affair," replied Collingwood. "At present matters are vague. One couldn't go to Pratt and demand something at which one is, after all, only guessing. Your mother, of course, would deny that she knows what it is that Pratt holds. But—there is the possibility of the duplicate to which Cobcroft referred. Now, I want to put the question straight to you—supposing that duplicate will can be found—and supposing—to put it plainly—-its terms dispossess you of all your considerable property—what then?"

"Do you want the exact truth?" she asked. "Well, then, I should just welcome anything that cleared up all this mystery! What is it at present, this situation, but intolerable? I know that my mother is in Pratt's power, and likely to remain so as long as ever this goes on—probably for life. She will not give me her confidence. What is more, I am certain that she is giving it to Esther Mawson—who is most likely hand-in-glove with Pratt. Esther Mawson is always with her. I am almost sure that she communicates with Pratt through Esther Mawson. It is all what I say—intolerable! I had rather lose every penny that has come into my hands than have this go on."

"Answer me a plain question," said Collingwood. "Is your mother fond of money, position—all that sort of thing?"

"She is fond of power!" replied Nesta. "It pleased her greatly when we came into all this wealth to know that she was the virtual administrator. Even if she could only do it by collusion with Pratt, she would make a fight for all that she—and I—hold. It's useless to deny that. Don't forget," she added, looking appealingly at Collingwood, "don't forget that she has known what it was to be poor—and if one does come into money—I suppose one doesn't want to lose it again."

"Oh, it's natural enough!" agreed Collingwood. "But—if things are as I think, Pratt would be an incubus, a mill-stone, for ever. Anyway, I came out to tell you what I've learned, and what I have an idea may be the truth, and above all, to get your definite opinion. You want the Pratt influence out of the way—at any cost?"

"At any cost!" she affirmed. "Even if I have to go back to earning my own living! Whatever pleasure in life could there be for me, knowing that at the back of all this there is that—what?"

"Pratt!" answered Collingwood. "Pratt! He's the shadow—with his deep schemes. However, as I said—there may be—developing at this moment—another way of getting at Pratt. Gentlemen like Pratt, born schemers, invariably forget one very important factor in life—the unexpected! Even the cleverest and most subtle schemer may have his delicate machinery broken to pieces by a chance bit of mere dust getting into it at an unexpected turn of the wheels. And to turn to plainer language—I'm going back to Barford now to hear what another man has to say concerning certain of Pratt's recent movements."

Eldrick was already waiting when Collingwood reached his chambers: Byner came there a few moments later. Within half an hour the barrister had told his story of Cobcroft, and the inquiry agent his of his visit to the Green Man and the quarries. And the solicitor listened quietly and attentively to both, and in the end turned to Collingwood.

"I'll withdraw my opinion about the nature of the document which Pratt got hold of," he said. "What he's got is what you think—John Mallathorpe's will!"

"If I may venture an opinion," remarked Byner, "that's dead certain!"

"And now," continued Eldrick, "we're faced with a nice situation! Don't either of you forget this fact. Not out of willingness on her part, but because she's got to do it, Mrs. Mallathorpe and Pratt are partners in that affair. He's got the will—but she knows its contents. She'll pay any price to Pratt to keep them from ever becoming known or operative. But, as I say, don't you forget something!"

"What?" asked Collingwood.

Eldrick tapped the edge of the table, emphasizing his words as he spoke them.

"They can destroy that will whenever they like!" he said. "And once destroyed, nothing can absolutely prove that it ever existed!"

"The duplicate?" suggested Collingwood.

"Nothing to give us the faintest idea as to its existence!" said Eldrick.

"We might advertise," said Collingwood.

"Lots of advertising was done when John Mallathorpe died," replied the solicitor. "No!—if any person had had it in possession, it would have turned up then. It may be—probably is—possibly must be—somewhere—and may yet come to light. But—there's another way of getting at Pratt. Through this Parrawhite affair. Pratt most likely had not the least notion that he would ever hear of Parrawhite again. He is going to hear of Parrawhite again! I am convinced now that Parrawhite knew something about this, and that Pratt squared him and got him away. Aren't you?" he asked, turning to Byner.

But Byner smiled quietly and shook his head.

"No!" he answered. "I am not, Mr. Eldrick."

"You're not?" exclaimed Eldrick, surprised and wondering that anybody could fail to agree with him.

"Why not, then?"

"Because," replied Byner. "I am certain that Pratt murdered Parrawhite on the night of November twenty-third last. That's why. He didn't square him. He didn't get him away. He killed him!"

The effect of this straightforward pronouncement of opinion on the two men who heard it was strikingly different. Collingwood's face at once became cold and inscrutable; his lips fixed themselves sternly; his eyes looked hard into a problematic future. But Eldrick flushed as if a direct accusation had been levelled at himself, and he turned on the inquiry agent almost impatiently.

"Murder!" he exclaimed. "Oh, come! I—really, that's rather a stiff order! I dare say Pratt's been up to all sorts of trickery, and even deviltry—but murder is quite another thing. You're pretty ready to accuse him!"

Byner moved his head in Collingwood's direction—and Eldrick turned and looked anxiously at Collingwood, who, finding the eyes of both men on him, opened his hitherto tight-shut lips.

"I think it quite likely!" he said.

Byner laughed softly and looked at the solicitor.

"Just listen to me a minute or two, Mr. Eldrick," he said. "I'll sum up my own ideas on this matter, got from the various details that have been supplied to me since I came to Barford. Just consider my points one by one. Let's take them separately—and see how they fit in.

"1. Mr. Bartle is seen by his shop-boy to take a certain paper from a book which came from the late John Mallathorpe's office at Mallathorpe Mill. He puts that paper in his pocket.

"2. Immediately afterwards Mr. Bartle goes to your office. Nobody is there but Pratt—as far as Pratt knows.

"3. Bartle dies suddenly—after telling Pratt that the paper is John Mallathorpe's will. Pratt steals the will. And the probability is that Parrawhite, unknown to Pratt, was in that office, and saw him steal it. Why is that probable? Because—

"4. Next night Parrawhite, who is being pressed for money by Pickard, tells Pickard that he can get it out of Pratt, over whom he has a hold. What hold? We can imagine what hold. Anyway—

"5. Parrawhite leaves Pickard to meet Pratt. He did meet Pratt—in Stubbs' Lane. He was seen to go with Pratt into the disused quarry. And there, in my opinion, Pratt killed him—and disposed of his body.

"6. What does Pratt do next? He goes to your office first thing next morning, and removes certain moneys which you say you carelessly left in your desk the night before, and tears out certain cheque forms from your book. When Parrawhite never turns up that morning, you—and Pratt—conclude that he's the thief, and that he's run away.

"7. If you want some proof of the correctness of this last suggestion, you'll find it in the fact that no use has ever been made of those blank cheques, and that—in all probability—the stolen bank-notes have never reached the Bank of England. On that last point I'm making inquiry—but my feeling is that Pratt destroyed both cheques and bank-notes when he stole them.

"8. This man Parrawhite out of the way, Pratt has a clear field. He's got the will. He's already acquainted Mrs. Mallathorpe with that fact, and with the terms of the will—whatever they may be. We may be sure, however, that they are of such a nature as to make her willing to agree to his demands upon her—and, accidentally, to go to any lengths—upon which we needn't touch, at present—towards getting possession of the will from him.

"9. And the present situation—from Pratt's standpoint of yesterday—is this. He's so sure of his own safety that he doesn't mind revealing to the daughter that the mother's in his power. Why? Because Pratt, like most men of his sort, cannot believe that self-interest isn't paramount with everybody—it's beyond him to conceive it possible that Miss Mallathorpe would do anything that might lose her several thousands a year. He argued—'So long as I hold that will, nobody and nothing can make me give it up nor divulge its contents. But I can bind one person who benefits by it—Miss Mallathorpe, and for the mother's sake I can keep the daughter quiet!' Well—he hasn't kept the daughter quiet! She—spoke!

"10. And last—in all such schemes as Pratt's, the schemer invariably forgets something. Pratt forgot that there might arise what actually has arisen—inquiry for Parrawhite. The search for Parrawhite is afoot—and if you want to get at Pratt, it will have to be through what I firmly believe to be a fact—his murder of Parrawhite and his disposal of Parrawhite's body.

"That's all, Mr. Eldrick," concluded Byner who had spoken with much emphasis throughout. "It all seems very clear to me, and," he added, with a glance at Collingwood, "I think Mr. Collingwood is inclined to agree with most of what I've said."

"Pretty nearly all—if not all," assented Collingwood. "I think you've put into clear language precisely what I feel. I don't believe there's a shadow of doubt that Pratt killed Parrawhite! And we can—and must—get at him in that way. What do you suggest?" he continued, turning to Byner. "You have some idea, of course?"

"First of all," answered Byner, "we mustn't arouse any suspicion on Pratt's part. Let us work behind the screen. But I have an idea as to how he disposed of Parrawhite, and I'm going to follow it up this very day—my first duty, you know, is towards the people who want Parrawhite, or proof of his death. I propose to——"

Just then Collingwood's clerk came in with a telegram.

"Sent on from the Central Hotel, sir," he answered. "They said Mr. Black would be found here."

"That's mine," said the inquiry agent. "I left word at the hotel that they were to send to your chambers if any wire came for me. Allow me." He opened the telegram, looked it over, and waiting until the clerk had gone, turned to his companions. "Here's a message from my partner, Mr. Halstead," he continued. "Listen to what he wires:

"'Wire just received from Murgatroyd, shipping agent, Peel Row, Barford. He says Parrawhite left that town for America on November 24th last and offers further information. Let me know what to reply!'"

Byner laid the message before Eldrick and Collingwood without further comment.



CHAPTER XXII

THE CAT'SPAW

On the evening of the day whereon Nesta Mallathorpe had paid him the visit which had resulted in so much plain speech on both sides, Pratt employed his leisure in a calm review of the situation. He was by no means dissatisfied, it seemed to him that everything was going very well for his purposes. He was not at all sorry that Nesta had been to see him—far from it. He regretted nothing that he had said to her. In his desperate opinion, his own position was much stronger when she left him than it was when he opened his office door to her. She now knew, said Pratt, with what a strong and resourceful man she had to deal: she would respect him, and have a better idea of him, now that she was aware of his impregnable position.

Herein Pratt's innate vanity and his ignorance showed themselves. He had little knowledge of modern young women, and few ideas about them; and such ideas as he possessed were usually mistaken ones. But one was that it is always necessary to keep a firm hand on women—let them see and feel your power, said Pratt. He had been secretly delighted to acquaint Nesta Mallathorpe with his power, to drive it into her that he had the whip hand of her mother, and through her mother, of Nesta herself. He had seen that Nesta was much upset and alarmed by what he told her. And though she certainly seemed to recover her spirits at the end of the interview, and even refused to shake hands with him, he cherished the notion that in the war of words he had come off a decided victor. He did not believe that Nesta would utter to any other soul one word of what had passed between them: she would be too much afraid of calling down his vengeance on her mother. What he did believe was that as time went by, and all progressed smoothly, Nesta would come to face and accept facts: she would find him honest and hardworking in his dealings with Mrs. Mallathorpe (as he fully intended to be, from purely personal and selfish motives) and she herself would begin to tolerate and then to trust him, and eventually—well, who knew what might or might not happen? What said the great Talleyrand?—WITH TIME AND PATIENCE, THE MULBERRY LEAF IS TURNED INTO SATIN.

But Pratt's self-complacency received a shock next morning. If he had been a reader of London newspapers, it would have received a shock the day before. Pratt, however, was essentially parochial in his newspaper tastes—he never read anything but the Barford papers. And when he picked up the Barford morning journal and saw Eldrick's advertisement for Parrawhite in a prominent place, he literally started from sheer surprise—not unmingled with alarm. It was as if he were the occupant of a strong position, only fortified, who suddenly finds a shell dropped into his outworks from a totally unexpected quarter.

Parrawhite! Advertised for by Eldrick! Why? For what reason? For what purpose? With what idea? Parrawhite!—of all men in the world—Parrawhite, of whom he had never wanted to hear again! And what on earth could Eldrick want with him, or with news of him? It would be—or might be—an uncommonly awkward thing for him, Pratt, if a really exhaustive search were made for Parrawhite. For nobody knew better than himself that one little thing leads to another, and—but he forbore to follow out what might have been his train of thought. Once he was tempted to make an excuse for going round to Eldrick & Pascoe's with the idea of fishing for information—but he refrained. Let things develop—that was a safer plan. Still, he was anxious and disturbed all day. Then, towards the end of the afternoon, he bought one of the Barford evening papers—and saw, in staring letters, the advertisement which Byner had caused to be inserted only a few hours previously. And at that, Pratt became afraid.

Parrawhite wanted!—news of Parrawhite wanted!—and in two separate quarters. Wanted by Eldrick—wanted by some London people! What in the name of the devil did it mean? At any rate, he must see to himself. One thing was certain—no search for Parrawhite must be permitted in Barford.

That evening, instead of going home to dinner, Pratt remained in town, and dined at a quiet restaurant. When he dined, he thought, and planned, and schemed—and after treating himself very well in the matter of food and drink, he lighted a cigar, returned to his new offices, opened a safe which he had just set up, and took from a drawer in it a hundred pounds in bank-notes. With these in his pocket-book he went off to a quiet part of the town—the part in which James Parrawhite had lodged during his stay in Barford.

Pratt turned into a somewhat mean and shabby street—a street of small, poor-class shops. He went forward amongst them until he came to one which, if anything, was meaner and shabbier than the others and bore over its window the name Reuben Murgatroyd—Watchmaker and Jeweller. There were few signs of jewellery in Reuben Murgatroyd's window—some cheap clocks, some foreign-made watches of the five-shilling and seven-and-six variety, a selection of flashy rings and chains were spread on the shelves, equally cheap and flashy bangles, bracelets, and brooches lay in dust-covered trays on the sloping bench beneath them. At these things Pratt cast no more than a contemptuous glance. But he looked with interest at the upper part of the window, in which were displayed numerous gaily-coloured handbills and small posters relating to shipping—chiefly in the way of assisted passages to various parts of the globe. These set out that you could get an assisted passage to Canada for so much; to Australia for not much more—and if the bills and posters themselves did not tell you all you wanted to know, certain big letters at the foot of each invited you to apply for further information to Mr. R. Murgatroyd, agent, within. And Pratt pushed open the shop-door and walked inside.

An untidily dressed, careworn, anxious-looking man came forward from a parlour at the rear of his shop. At sight of Pratt—who in the course of business had once served him with a writ—his pale face flushed, and then whitened, and Pratt hastened to assure him of his peaceful errand.

"All right, Mr. Murgatroyd," he said. "Nothing to be alarmed about—I'm out of that line, now—no papers of that sort tonight. I've a bit of business I can put in your hands—profitable business. Look here!—have you got a quarter of an hour to spare?"

Murgatroyd, who looked greatly relieved to find that his visitor had neither writ nor summons for him, glanced at his parlour door.

"I was just going to put the shutters up, and sit down to a bite of supper, Mr. Pratt," he answered. "Will you come in, sir?"

"No—you come out with me," said Pratt. "Come round to the Coach and Horses, and have a drink and we can talk. You'll have a better appetite for your supper when you come back," he added, with a wink. "I've a profitable job for you."

"Glad to hear it, sir," replied Murgatroyd. "I can do with aught of that sort, I assure you!" He went into the parlour, said a word or two to some person within, and came out again. "Not much business doing at present, Mr. Pratt," he said, as he and his visitor turned into the street. "Gets slacker than ever."

"Then you'll do with a slice of good luck," remarked Pratt. "It just happens that I can put a bit in your way."

He led Murgatroyd to the end of the street, where stood a corner tavern, into a side-door of which Pratt turned as if he were well acquainted with the geography of the place. Walking down a narrow passage he conducted his companion into a small parlour, at that moment untenanted, pointed him to a seat in the corner, and rang the bell. Five minutes later, having provided Murgatroyd with rum and water and a cigar, he turned on him with a direct question.

"Look here!" he said in a low voice. "Would a hundred pounds be any use to you?"

Murgatroyd's cheeks flushed.

"It 'ud be a fortune!" he answered with fervour. "A hundred pound! Lor' bless you, Mr. Pratt, it's many a year since I saw a hundred pound—of my own—all in one lump!"

Pratt pulled out his roll of bank-notes, fluttered it in his companion's face, laid it on the table, and set an ashtray on it.

"There's a hundred pounds there!" he said, "It's yours to pick up—if you'll do a little job for me. Easy job, too!—you'll never earn a hundred pounds so easy in your life!"

Murgatroyd pricked up his ears. According to his ideas, money easily come by was seldom honestly earned. He stirred uncomfortably in his seat.

"So long as it's a straight job," he muttered. "I don't want——"

"Straight enough—as straight as it's easy," answered Pratt. "It may seem a bit mysterious, but there's reasons for that. I give you my word it's all right—all a mere bit of diplomacy—and that nobody'll ever know you're in it—that is, beyond a certain stage—and that there's no danger to you."

"What is it?" asked Murgatroyd, still uneasy and doubtful.

Pratt pulled the evening paper out of his pocket and showed Murgatroyd the advertisement signed Halstead & Byner.

"You see that?" he said. "Information wanted about Parrawhite. Do you remember Parrawhite? He once served you with some papers in that affair in which we were against you."

"I remember him," answered Murgatroyd. "I've seen him in here now and again. So he's wanted, is he? I didn't know he'd left the town."

"Left last November," said Pratt. "And—there are folks—influential folks, as you can guess, seeing that they can throw a hundred pounds away!—who don't want any inquiries made for him in Barford. They don't mind—those folks—how many inquiries and searches are made for him anywhere else, but—not here!"

"Well?" asked Murgatroyd anxiously.

"This is it," replied Pratt. "You do a bit now and then as agent for some of these shipping lines. You book passages for emigrants—and for other people, going to New Zealand or Canada or Timbuctoo—never mind where. Now then—couldn't you remember—I'm sure you could—that you booked a passage for Parrawhite to America last November? Come! It's an easy matter to remember is that—for a hundred pounds."

Murgatroyd's thin fingers trembled a little as he picked up his glass. "What do you want me to do—exactly?" he asked.

"This!" said Pratt. "I want you, tomorrow morning, early, to send a telegram to these people, Halstead & Byner, St. Martin's Chambers, London, just saying that James Parrawhite left Barford for America on November 24th last, and that you can give further information if necessary."

"And what if it is necessary?" inquired Murgatroyd.

"Then—in answer to any letter or telegram of inquiry—you'll just say that you knew Parrawhite by sight as a clerk at Eldrick & Pascoe's in this town, that on November 23rd he told you that he was going to emigrate to America, that next day you booked him his passage, for which he paid you whatever it was, and that he thereupon set off for Liverpool. See?"

"It's all lies, you know," muttered Murgatroyd.

"Nobody can find 'em out, anyway," replied Pratt. "That's the one important thing to consider. You're safe! And if you're cursed with a conscience and it's tender—well, that'll make a good plaister for it!"

He pointed to the little wad of bank-notes—and the man sitting at his side followed the pointing finger with hungry eyes. Murgatroyd wanted money badly. His business, always poor, was becoming worse: his shipping agency rarely produced any result: his rent was in arrears: he owed money to his neighbour-tradesmen: he had a wife and young children. To such a man, a hundred pounds meant relief, comfort, the lifting of pressure.

"You're sure there's naught wrong in it, Mr. Pratt," he asked abruptly and assiduously. "It 'ud be a bad job for my family if anything happened to me, you know."

"There's naught that will happen," answered Pratt confidently. "Who on earth can contradict you? Who knows what people you sell passages to—but yourself?"

"There's the folks themselves," replied Murgatroyd. "Suppose Parrawhite turns up?"

"He won't!" exclaimed Pratt.

"You know where he is?" suggested Murgatroyd.

"Not exactly," said Pratt, "But—he's left this country for another—further off than America. That's certain! And—the folks I referred to don't want any inquiry about him here."

"If I am asked questions—later—am I to say he booked in his own name?" inquired Murgatroyd.

"No—name of Parsons," responded Pratt. "Here, I'll write down for you exactly what I want you to say in the telegram to Halstead & Byner, and I'll make a few memoranda for you—to post you up in case they write for further information."

"I haven't said that I'll do it," remarked Murgatroyd. "I don't like the looks of it. It's all a pack of lies."

Pratt paid no heed to this moral reflection. He found some loose paper in his pocket and scribbled on it for a while. Then, as if accidentally, he moved the ash-tray, and the bank-notes beneath it, all new, gave forth a crisp, rustling sound.

"Here you are!" said Pratt, pushing notes and memoranda towards his companion. "Take the brass, man!—you don't get a job like that every day."

And Murgatroyd put the money in his pocket, and presently went home, persuading himself that everything would be all right.



CHAPTER XXIII

SMOOTH FACE AND ANXIOUS BRAIN

Byner watched Eldrick and Collingwood inquisitively as they bent over Halstead's telegram. He was not surprised when Collingwood merely nodded in silence—nor when Eldrick turned excitedly in his own direction.

"There!—what did I tell you?" he exclaimed. "There's been no murder! The man left the town. Probably, Pratt helped him off. Couldn't have better proof than that wire!"

"What do you take that wire to prove, then, Mr. Eldrick?" asked Byner.

"Take it to prove!" answered Eldrick. "Why, that Parrawhite booked a passage to America with this man Murgatroyd, last November. Clear enough, that!"

"What do you take it to prove, Mr. Collingwood?" continued the inquiry agent, as he turned to the barrister with a smile.

"Before I take it for anything," replied Collingwood, "I want to know who Murgatroyd is."

Byner looked at Eldrick and laughed.

"Precisely!" he said. "Who is Murgatroyd? Perhaps Mr. Eldrick knows."

"I do just know that he's a man who carries on a small watch and clock business in a poorish part of the town, and that he has some sort of a shipping agency," answered Eldrick. "But—do you mean to imply that whatever message it is that he's sent to your partner in London this morning has not been sent in good faith?"

"I don't imply anything," answered Byner. "All I say is—before I attach any value to his message I, like Collingwood, want to know something about the sender. He may have been put up to sending it. He may be in collusion with somebody. Now, Mr. Eldrick, you can come in here—strongly! I don't want to be seen in this affair—yet. Will you go and see Murgatroyd? Tell him his wire to Halstead & Byner in London has been communicated to you here. Ask him for further particulars—and then drop in on me at my hotel and tell me what you've learnt. I'll be found in the smoking-room there any time after two-thirty onward."

Eldrick's intense curiosity in what was rapidly becoming a fascinating mystery to him, led him to accept this embassy. And a little before three o'clock he walked into the smoking-room at the Central Hotel and discovered Byner in a comfortable corner.

"I've seen Murgatroyd," he whispered, as he took an adjacent chair. "Decent honest enough man—very poor, I should say. He tells a plain enough story. Parrawhite, whom he knew as one of our clerks, told him, last November 23rd——"

"He was exact about dates, then, was he?" interrupted Byner.

"He mentioned them readily enough," replied the solicitor. "But to go on—Parrawhite mentioned to him, November 23rd last, that he wanted to go to America at once, Murgatroyd told him about bookings. Parrawhite called very early next morning, paid for his passage under the name of Parsons, and went off—en route for Liverpool, of course. So—there you are!"

"That's all Murgatroyd could tell?" inquired Byner.

"That's all he knows," answered Eldrick.

"You say Murgatroyd knew Parrawhite as one of your clerks?" asked Byner after a moment's thought.

"We had some process in hand against this man last autumn," replied Eldrick. "I dare say Parrawhite served him with papers."

"Would he—Murgatroyd—be likely to know Pratt?" continued Byner.

"He might—in the same connection," admitted Eldrick.

Byner smoked in silence for a while.

"Do you know what I think, Mr. Eldrick?" he said at last. "I think Pratt put up Murgatroyd to sending that telegram to us in London this morning."

"You do!" exclaimed Eldrick.

"Surely! And now," continued the inquiry agent, "if you will, you can do more—much more—without appearing to do anything. Pratt's office is only a few minutes away. Can you drop in there, making some excuse, and while there, mention, more or less casually, that Parrawhite, or information about him, is wanted; that you and a certain Halstead & Byner are advertising for him; that you've just seen Murgatroyd in respect of a communication which he wired to Halstead's this morning, and that—most important of all—a fortune of twenty thousand pounds is awaiting Parrawhite! Don't forget the last bit of news."

"Why that particularly?" asked Eldrick.

"Because," answered Byner solemnly, "I want Pratt to know that the search for Parrawhite is going to be a thorough one!"

Eldrick went off on his second mission, promising to return in due course. Within a few minutes he was in Pratt's office, talking over some unimportant matter of business which he had invented as he went along. It was not until he was on the point of departure that he referred to the real reason of his visit.

"Did you notice that Parrawhite is being advertised for?" he asked, suddenly turning on his old clerk.

Pratt was ready for this—had been ready ever since Eldrick walked in. He affected a fine surprise.

"Parrawhite!" he exclaimed. "Why—who's advertising for him?"

"Don't you see the newspapers?" asked Eldrick, pointing to some which lay about the room. "It's in there—there's an advertisement of mine, and one of Halstead & Byner's, of London."

Pratt picked up a Barford paper and looked at the advertisements with a clever affectation of having never seen them before.

"I haven't had much time for newspaper reading this last day or two," he remarked. "Advertisements for him—from two quarters!"

"Acting together—acting together, you know!" replied Eldrick. "It's those people who really want him—Halstead & Byner, inquiry agents, working for a firm of City solicitors. I'm only local agent—as it were."

"Had any response, Mr. Eldrick?" asked Pratt, throwing aside the paper. "Any one come forward?"

"Yes," answered Eldrick, watching Pratt narrowly without seeming to do so. "This morning, a man named Murgatroyd, in Peel Row, who does a bit of shipping agency, wired to Halstead & Byner to say that he booked Parrawhite to New York last November. Of course, they at once communicated with me, and I've just been to see Murgatroyd. He's that man—watchmaker—we had some proceedings against last year."

"Oh, that man!" said Pratt. "Thought the name was familiar. I remember him. And what does he say?"

"Just about as much as—and little more than—he said in his wire to London," replied Eldrick. "Booked Parrawhite to America November 24th last, and believes he left for Liverpool there and then."

"Ah!" remarked Pratt, "That explains it, then?"

"Explains—what?" asked Eldrick.

Pratt gave his old employer a look—confidential and significant.

"Explains why he took that money out of your desk," he said. "You remember—forty odd pounds. He'd use some of that for his passage-money. America eh? Now—I suppose he's vanished for good, then—it's not very likely he'll ever be heard of from across there."

Eldrick laughed—meaningly, of set purpose.

"We don't know that he's gone there," he observed. "He mightn't get beyond Liverpool, you know. Anyhow, we're going to make a very good search for him here in Barford, first. We've nothing but Murgatroyd's word for his having set out for Liverpool."

"What's he wanted for?" asked Pratt as unconcernedly as possible. "Been up to something?"

"No," answered Eldrick, as he turned on his heel. "A relation has left him twenty thousand pounds. That's what he's wanted for—and why he must be found—or his death proved."

He gave Pratt another quick glance and went off—to return to the hotel and Byner, to whom he at once gave a faithful account of what had just taken place.

"And he didn't turn a hair," he remarked. "Cool as a cucumber, all through! If your theory is correct, Pratt's a cleverer hand than I ever took him for—and I've always said he was clever."

"Didn't show anything when you mentioned Murgatroyd?" asked Byner.

"Not a shred of a thing!" replied Eldrick.

"Nor when you spoke of the twenty thousand pounds?"

"No more than what you might call polite and interested surprise!"

Byner laughed, threw away the end of a cigar, and rose out of his lounging posture.

"Now, Mr. Eldrick," he said, leaning close to the solicitor, "between ourselves, do you know what I'm going to do—next—which means at once?"

"No," replied Eldrick.

"The police!" whispered Byner. "That's my next move. Just now! Within a few minutes. So—will you give me a couple of notes—one to the principal man here—chief constable, or police superintendent, or whatever he is; and another to the best detective there is here—in your opinion. They'll save me a lot of trouble."

"Of course—if you wish it," answered Eldrick. "But you don't mean to say you're going to have Pratt arrested—on what you know up to now?"

"Not at all!" replied Byner. "Much too soon! All I want is—detective help of the strictly professional kind. No—we'll give Mr. Pratt a little more rope yet—for another four-and-twenty-hours, say. But—it'll come! Now, who is the best local detective—a quiet, steady fellow who knows how to do his work unobtrusively?"

"Prydale's the man!" said Eldrick "Detective-Sergeant Prydale—I've had reason to employ him, more than once. I'll give you a note to him, and one to Superintendent Waterson."

He went over to a writing-table and scribbled a few lines on half-sheets of notepaper which he enclosed in envelopes and handed to Byner.

"I don't know what line you're taking," he said, "nor where it's going to end—exactly. But I do know this—Pratt never turned a hair when I let out all that to him."

But if Eldrick went away from his old clerk's fine new offices thinking that Pratt was quite unperturbed and unmoved by the news he had just acquired, he was utterly mistaken. Pratt was very much perturbed, deeply moved, not a little frightened. He had so schooled himself to keep a straight and ever blank expression of countenance in any sudden change of events that he had shown nothing to Eldrick—but he was none the less upset by the solicitor's last announcement. Twenty thousand pounds was lying to be picked up by Parrawhite—or by Parrawhite's next-of-kin! What an unhappy turn of fortune! For the next-of-kin would never rest until either Parrawhite came to light, or it was satisfactorily established that he was dead—and if search begun to be made in Barford, where might not that search end? Unmoved?—cool?—if Eldrick had turned back, he would have found that Pratt had suddenly given way to a fit of nerves.

But that soon passed, and Pratt began to think. He left his office early, and betook himself to his favourite gymnasium. Exercise did him good—he thought a lot while he was exercising. And once more, instead of going home to dinner, he dined in town, and he sat late over his dinner in a snug corner of the restaurant, and he thought and planned and schemed—and after twilight had fallen on Barford, he went out and made his way to Peel Row. He must see Murgatroyd again—at once.

Half-way along Peel Row, Pratt stopped, suddenly—and with sudden fear. Out of a side street emerged a man, a quiet ordinary-looking man whom he knew very well indeed—Detective-Sergeant Prydale. He was accompanied by a smart-looking, much younger man, whom Pratt remembered to have seen in Beck Street that afternoon—a stranger to him and to Barford. And as he watched, these two covered the narrow roadway, and walked into Murgatroyd's shop.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE BETTER HALF

Under the warming influence of two glasses of rum and water, and lulled by Pratt's assurance that all would be well, Murgatroyd had carried home his hundred pounds with pretty much the same feeling which permeates a man who, having been within measurable distance of drowning, suddenly finds a substantial piece of timber drifting his way, and takes a firm grip on it. After all, a hundred pounds was a hundred pounds. He would be able to pay his rent, and his rates, and give something to the grocer and the butcher and the baker and the milkman; the children should have some much-needed new clothes and boots—when all this was done, there would be a nice balance left over. And it was Pratt's affair, when all was said and done, and if any trouble arose, why, Pratt would have to settle it. So he ate his supper with the better appetite which Pratt had prophesied, and he slept more satisfactorily than usual, and next morning he went to the nearest telegraph office and sent off the stipulated telegram to Halstead & Byner in London, and hoped that there was the end of the matter as far as he was concerned. And then, shortly after noon, in walked Mr. Eldrick, one of the tribe which Murgatroyd dreaded, having had various dealings with solicitors, in the way of writs and summonses, and began to ask questions.

Murgatroyd emerged from that ordeal very satisfactorily. Eldrick's questions were few, elementary, and easily answered. There were no signs of suspicion about him, and Murgatroyd breathed more freely when he was gone. It seemed to him that the solicitor's visit would certainly wind things up—for him. Eldrick asked all that could be asked, as far as he could see, and he had replied: now, he would probably be bothered no more. His spirits had assumed quite a cheerful tone by evening—but they received a rude shock when, summoned from his little workshop to the front premises, he found himself confronting one man whom he certainly knew to be a detective, and another who might be one. Do what he would he could not conceal some agitation, and Detective-Sergeant Prydale, a shrewdly observant man, noticed it—and affected not to.

"Evening, Mr. Murgatroyd," he said cheerily. "We've come to see if you can give us a bit of information. You've had Mr. Eldrick, the lawyer, here today on the same business. You know—this affair of an old clerk of his—Parrawhite?"

"I told Mr. Eldrick all I know," muttered Murgatroyd.

"Very likely," replied Prydale, "but there's a few questions this gentleman and myself would like to ask. Can we come in?"

Murgatroyd fetched his wife to mind the shop, and took the callers into the parlour which she had unwillingly vacated. He knew Prydale by sight and reputation; about Byner he wondered. Finally he set him down as a detective from London—and was all the more afraid of him.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, when the three men were alone. "I don't think there's anything that I didn't tell Mr. Eldrick."

"Oh, there's a great deal that Mr. Eldrick didn't ask," said Prydale. "Mr. Eldrick sort of just skirted round things, like. We want to know a bit more. This Parrawhite's got to be found, d'ye see, Mr. Murgatroyd, and as you seem to be the last man who had aught to do with him in Barford, why, naturally, we come to you. Now, to start with, you say he came to you about getting a passage to America? Just so—now, when would that be?"

"Day before he did get it," answered Murgatroyd, rapidly thinking over the memoranda which Pratt had jotted down for his benefit.

"That," said Prydale, "would be on the 23rd?"

"Yes," replied Murgatroyd, "23rd November, of course."

"What time, now, on the 23rd?" asked the detective.

"Time?" said Murgatroyd. "Oh—in the evening."

"Bit vague," remarked Prydale. "What time in the evening?"

"As near as I can recollect," replied Murgatroyd, "it 'ud be just about half-past eight. I was thinking of closing."

"Ah!" said Prydale, with a glance at Byner, who had already told him of Parrawhite's presence at the Green Man on the other side of the town, a good two miles away, at the hour which Murgatroyd mentioned. "Ah!—he was here in your shop at half-past eight on the evening of November 23rd last? Asking about a ticket to America?"

"New York," muttered Murgatroyd.

"And he came next morning and bought one?" asked the detective.

"I told Mr. Eldrick that," said Murgatroyd, a little sullenly.

"How much did it cost?" inquired Byner.

"Eight pound ten," replied Murgatroyd. "Usual price."

"What did he pay for it in?" continued Prydale.

"He gave me a ten-pound note and I gave him thirty shillings change," answered Murgatroyd.

"Just so," assented Prydale. "Now what line might that be by?"

Murgatroyd was becoming uneasy under all these questions, and his uneasiness was deepened by the way in which both his visitors watched him. He was a man who would have been a bad witness in any case—nervous, ill at ease, suspicious, inclined to boggle—and in this instance he was being forced to invent answers.

"It was—oh, the Royal Atlantic!" he answered at last. "I've an agency for them."

"So I noticed from the bills and placards in your window," observed the detective. "And of course you issue these tickets on their paper—I've seen 'em before. You fill up particulars on a form and a counterfoil, don't you? And you send a copy of those particulars to the Royal Atlantic offices at Liverpool?"

Murgatroyd nodded silently—this was much more than he bargained for, and he did not know how much further it was going. And Prydale gave him a sudden searching look.

"Can you show us the counterfoil in this instance?" he asked.

Murgatroyd flushed. But he managed to get out a fairly quick reply. "No, I can't," he answered, "I sent that book back at the end of the year."

"Oh, well—they'll have it at Liverpool," observed Prydale. "We can get at it there. Of course, they'll have your record of the entire transaction. He'd be down on their passenger list—under the name of Parsons, I think, Mr. Murgatroyd?"

"He gave me that name," said Murgatroyd.

Prydale gave Byner a look and both rose.

"I think that's about all," said the detective. "Of course, our next inquiry will be at Liverpool—-at the Royal Atlantic. Thank you, Mr. Murgatroyd—much obliged."

Before the watchmaker could collect himself sufficiently to say or ask more, Prydale and his companion had walked out of the shop and gone away. And then Murgatroyd realized that he was in for—but he did not know what he was in for. What he did know was that if Prydale went or sent over to Liverpool the whole thing would burst like a bubble. For the Royal Atlantic people would tell the detectives at once that no passenger named Parsons had sailed under their auspices on November 24th last, and that he, Murgatroyd, had been telling a pack of lies.

Mrs. Murgatroyd, a sharp-featured woman whose wits had been sharpened by a ten years' daily acquaintance with poverty, came out of the shop into the parlour and looked searchingly at her husband.

"What did them fellows want?" she demanded. "I knew one of 'em—Prydale, the detective. Now what's up, Reuben? More trouble?"

Murgatroyd hesitated a moment. Then he told his wife the whole story concealing nothing.

"If they go to the Royal Atlantic, it'll all come out," he groaned. "I couldn't make any excuse or explanation—anyhow! What's to be done?"

"You should ha' had naught to do wi' that Pratt!" exclaimed Mrs. Murgatroyd. "A scoundrelly fellow, to come and tempt poor folk to do his dirty work! Where's the money?"

"Locked up!" answered Murgatroyd. "I haven't touched a penny of it. I thought I'd wait a bit and see if aught happened. But he assured me it was all right, and you know as well as I do that a hundred pound doesn't come our way every day. We want money!"

"Not at that price!" said his wife. "You can pay too much for money, my lad! I wish you'd told me what that Pratt was after—he should have heard a bit o' my tongue! If I'd only known——"

Just then the shop door opened, and Pratt walked in. He at once saw Murgatroyd and his wife standing between shop and parlour, and realized at a glance that his secret in this instance was his no longer.

"Well?" he said, walking up to the watchmaker. "You've had Prydale here—and you'd Eldrick this morning. Of course, you knew what to say to both?"

"I wish we'd never had you here last night, young man!" exclaimed Mrs. Murgatroyd fiercely. "What right have you to come here, making trouble for folk that's got plenty already? But at any rate, ours was honest trouble. Yours is like to land my husband in dishonesty—if it hasn't done so already! And if my husband had only spoken to me——"

"Just let your husband speak a bit now," interrupted Pratt, almost insolently. "It's you that's making all the trouble or noise, anyhow! There's naught to fuss about, missis. What's upset you, Murgatroyd?"

"They're going to the Royal Atlantic people," muttered the watchmaker. "Of course, it'll all come out, then. They know that I never booked any Parsons—nor anybody else for that matter—last November. You should ha' thought o' that!"

Pratt realized that the man was right. He had never thought of that—never anticipated that inquiry would go beyond Murgatroyd. But his keen wits at once set to work.

"What's the system?" he asked quickly. "Tell me—what's done when you book anybody like that? Come on!—explain, quick!"

Murgatroyd turned to a drawer and pulled out a book and some papers. "It's simple enough," he said. "I've this book of forms, d'ye see? I fill up this form—sort of ticket or pass for the passenger, and hand it to him—it's a receipt as well, to him. Then I enter the same particulars on that counterfoil. Then I fill up one of these papers, giving just the same particulars, and post it at once to the Company with the passage money, less my commission. When one of these books is finished, I return the counterfoils to Liverpool—they check 'em. Prydale's up to all that. He asked to see the counterfoil in this case. I had to say I hadn't got it—I'd sent it to the Company. Of course, he'll find out that I didn't."

"Lies!" said Mrs. Murgatroyd, vindictively. "And they didn't start wi' us neither!"

"Who was that other man with Prydale?" asked Pratt.

"London detective, I should say," answered the watchmaker. "And judging by the way he watched me, a sharp 'un, too!"

"What impression did you get—altogether?" demanded Pratt.

"Why!—that they're going to sift this affair—whatever it is—right down to the bottom!" exclaimed Murgatroyd. "They're either going to find Parrawhite or get to know what became of him. That's my impression. And what am I going to do, now! This'll lose me what bit of business I've done with yon shipping firm."

"Nothing of the sort!" answered Pratt scornfully. "Don't be a fool! You're all right. You listen to me. You write—straight off—to the Royal Atlantic. Tell 'em you had some inquiry made about a man named Parsons, who booked a passage with you for New York last November. Say that on looking up your books you found that you unaccountably forgot to send them the forms for him and his passage money. Make out a form for that date, and crumple it up—as if it had been left lying in a drawer. Enclose the money in it—here, I'll give you ten pounds to cover it," he went on, drawing a bank-note from his purse. "Get it off at once—you've time now—plenty—to catch the night-mail at the General. And then, d'ye see, you're all right. It's only a case then—as far as you're concerned—of forgetfulness. What's that?—we all forget something in business, now and then. They'll overlook that—when they get the money."

"Aye, but you're forgetting something now!" remarked Murgatroyd. "You're forgetting this—no such passenger ever went! They'll know that by their passenger lists."

"What the devil has that to do with it?" snarled Pratt impatiently. "What the devil do we care whether any such passenger went or not? All that you're concerned about is to prove that you issued a ticket to Parrawhite, under the name of Parsons. What's it matter to you where Parrawhite, alias Parsons, went, when he'd once left your shop? You naturally thought he'd go straight to the Lancashire and Yorkshire Station, on his way to Liverpool and New York! But, for aught you know, he may have fallen down a drain pipe in the next street! Don't you see, man? There's nothing, there's nobody, not all the detectives in London and Barford, can prove that you didn't issue a ticket to Parrawhite on that date? It isn't up to you to prove that you did!—it's up to them to prove that you didn't! And—they can't. It's impossible. You get that letter off—at once—to Liverpool, with that money inside it, and you're as safe as houses—and your hundred pounds as well. Get it done! And if those chaps come asking any more questions, tell 'em you're not going to answer a single one! Mind you!—do what I tell you, and you're safe!"

With that Pratt walked out of the shop and went off towards the centre of the town, inwardly raging and disturbed. It was very evident that these people meant to find Parrawhite, alive or dead; evident, too, that they had called in the aid of the Barford police. And in spite of all his assurances to the watchmaker and his suggestion for the next move, Pratt was far from easy about the whole matter. He would have been easier if he had known who Prydale's companion was—probably he was, as Murgatroyd had suggested, a London detective who might have been making inquiries in the town for some time and knew much more than he, Pratt, could surmise. That was the devil of the whole thing!—in Pratt's opinion. Adept himself in working underground, he feared people who adopted the same tactics. What was this stranger chap after? What did he know? What was he doing? Had he let Eldrick know anything? Was there a web of detectives already being spun around himself? Was that silly, unfortunate affair with Parrawhite being slowly brought to light—to wreck him on the very beginning of what he meant to be a brilliant career? He cursed Parrawhite again and again as he left Peel Row behind him.