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THE BOROUGH
TREASURER


THE MYSTERY STORIES OF
J. S. F L E TO H E R
“We always feel as though we were really spreading
happiness when we can announce a genuinely satisfactory
mystery story, such as J. S. Fletcher's new one.”
—N. P. D. in the New York Globe.
THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER [1918]
“Unquestionably, the detective story of the season and, there-
fore, one which no lower of detective fiction should miss.”—The
Broadside.
THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM [1920]
“A crackerjack mystery tale; the story of Linford Pratt, who
earnestly desired to get on in life, by hook or by crook—with
no objection whatever to crookedness, so long as it could be per-
formed in safety and secrecy.”—Knickerbocker Press.
THE PARADISE MYSTERY [1920]
“As a weaver of detective tales Mr. Fletcher is entitled to a
seat among the elect. His numerous followers will find his lat-
est book fully as absorbing as anything from his pen that has
previously appeared.”—New York Times.
DEAD MEN'S MONEY [1920]
“The story is one that holds the reader with more than the
mere interest of sensational events; Mr. Fletcher writes in a
notable style, and he has a knack for sketching character rap-
idly. Reminds one of Stevenson—and Mr. Fletcher sustains the
comparison well.”—Newark Evening News.
THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND [1921]
“. . . A rattling good yarn. . . . The excellence of The
Orange Yellow Diamond does not depend, however, entirely upon
#: plot. It is an uncommonly well written tale.”—New York
177tes.
THE CHESTERMARKE INSTINCT [1921]
“Mr. Fletcher is a master of plot. . ... To tell a story as
well as this is a literary achievement.”—Boston Transcript.
To be published October 1st, 1921:
THE HERAPATH PROPERTY
A most exciting and ingenuous tale of a man unknown to the
reader who murders another, dresses in his clothes, and im
personates him in his house, in order to rifle his safe in the
presence of his servants.
$2.00 met each at all booksellers or from the Publisher
ALFRED A. KNOPF, New York.


J. 8 o
- COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
* * * * ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
HARVARD
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
MAR 5 1941
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
X


II
III
IV
VI
VII
VIII
IX
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
CONTENTS
BLACKMAIL, 1
CRIME—AND SUCCESS, 11
MURDER, 21
THE PINE WOOD, 31
THE CoRD, 41
THE MAYOR, 52
NIGHT WoRK, 61
RETAINED FOR THE DEFENCE, 71
ANTECEDENTs, 82
THE HOLE IN THE THATCH, 91
CHRISTOPHER PETT, 101
PARENTAL ANXIETY, 111
THE ANoNYMoUs LETTER, 121
THE SHEET OF FIGUREs, 131
ONE THING LEADS To ANOTHER, 141
THE LONELY Moor, 149
THE MEDICAL OPINION, 159
THE SCRAP Book, 171
A TALL MAN IN GREY CLOTHES, 181
AT BAY, 191


CONTENTS
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
THE INTERRUPTED FLIGHT, 203
THE HAND IN THE DARKNESs, 211
CoMFORTABLE CAPTIVITY, 221
STRICT BUSINESS LINEs, 231
No FURTHER EVIDENCE, 242
THE VIRTUES OF SUSPICION, 251
MR. WRAYTHwaite oF WRAYE, 260
PAGES FROM THE PAST, 269
WITHOUT THOUGHT OF CONSEQUENCEs, 277
CoTHERSTONE, 283
THE BARRISTER’s FEE, 302





CELAPTER I
BLACKMAIL
Half way along the north side of the main street
of Highmarket an ancient stone gateway, imposing
enough to suggest that it was originally the entrance
to some castellated mansion or manor house, gave
access to a square yard, flanked about by equally
ancient buildings. What those buildings had been
used for in other days was not obvious to the casual
and careless observer, but to the least observant their
present use was obvious enough. Here were piles of
timber from Norway; there were stacks of slate from
Wales; here was marble from Aberdeen, and there
cement from Portland: the old chambers of the grey
buildings were filled to overflowing with all the things
that go towards making a house—ironwork, zinc, lead,
tiles, great coils of piping, stores of domestic ap-
pliances. And on a shining brass plate, set into the
wall, just within the gateway, were deeply engraven
the words: Mallalieu and Cotherstone, Builders and
Contractors.
Whoever had walked into Mallalieu & Cother-
stone's yard one October afternoon a few years ago
would have seen Mallalieu and Cotherstone in person.
The two partners had come out of their office and
gone down the yard to inspect half a dozen new carts,
just finished, and now drawn up in all the glory of
fresh paint. Mallalieu had designed those carts him-
1


2 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
self, and he was now pointing out their advantages
to Cotherstone, who was more concerned with the
book-keeping and letter-writing side of the business
than with its actual work. He was a big, fleshy man,
Mallalieu, midway between fifty and sixty, of a large,
solemn, well-satisfied countenance, small, sly eyes, and
an expression of steady watchfulness; his attire was
always of the eminently respectable sort, his linen
fresh and glossy; the thick gold chain across his
ample front, and the silk hat which he invariably wore,
gave him an unmistakable air of prosperity. He
stood now, the silk hat cocked a little to one side, one
hand hand under the tail of his broadcloth coat, a
pudgy finger of the other pointing to some new fea-
ture of the mechanism of the new carts, and he looked
the personification of self-satisfaction and smug con-
tent.
“All done in one action, d'ye see, Cotherstone?”
he was saying. “One pull at that pin releases the
entire load. We'd really ought to have a patent for
that idea.”
Cotherstone went nearer the cart which they were
examining. He was a good deal of a contrast to his
partner—a slightly built, wiry man, nervous and
quick of movement; although he was Mallalieu’s jun-
ior he looked older, and the thin hair at his temples
was already whitening. Mallalieu suggested solidity
and almost bovine sleekness; in Cotherstone, activity
of speech and gesture was marked well-nigh to an ap-
pearance of habitual anxiety. He stepped about the
cart with the quick action of an inquisitive bird or
animal examining something which it has never seen
before.


BLACKMAIL 3
“Yes, yes, yes!” he answered. “Yes, that's a
good idea. But if it’s to be patented, you know,
we ought to see to it at once, before these carts go
into use.”
“Why, there's nobody in Highmarket like to rob
us,” observed Mallalieu, good-humouredly. “You
might consider about getting—what do they call it?
—provisional protection?—for it.”
“I’ll look it up,” responded Cotherstone. “It’s
worth that, anyhow.”
“Do,” said Mallalieu. He pulled out the big gold
watch which hung from the end of his cable chain
and glanced at its jewelled dial. “Dear me!” he ex-
claimed. “Four o’clock—I’ve a meeting in the
Mayor's parlour at ten past. But I’ll look in again
before going home.”
He hurried away towards the entrance gate, and
Cotherstone, after ruminative inspection of the new
carts, glanced at some papers in his hand and went
over to a consignment of goods which required check-
ing. He was carefully ticking them off on a list when
a clerk came down the yard.
“Mr. Kitely called to pay his rent, sir,” he an-
nounced. “He asked to see you yourself.”
“Twenty-five—six—seven,” counted Cotherstone.
“Take him into the private office, Stoner,” he an-
swered. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
He continued his checking until it was finished,
entered the figures on his list, and went briskly back
to the counting-house near the gateway. There he
bustled into a room kept sacred to himself and Mal-
lalieu, with a cheery greeting to his visitor—an elderly


4. THE BOROUGH TREASURER
man who had recently rented from him a small house
on the outskirts of the town.
“Afternoon, Mr. Kitely,” he said. “Glad to see
you, sir—always glad to see anybody with a bit of
money, eh? Take a chair, sir—I hope you’re satisfied
with the little place, Mr. Kitely?”
The visitor took the offered elbow-chair, folded his
hands on the top of his old-fashioned walking-cane,
and glanced at his landlord with a half-humorous,
half-quizzical expression. He was an elderly, clean-
shaven, grey-haired man, spare of figure, dressed in
rusty black; a wisp of white neckcloth at his throat
gave him something of a clerical appearance: Coth-
erstone, who knew next to nothing about him, except
that he was able to pay his rent and taxes, had al-
ready set him down as a retired verger of some
cathedral.
“I should think you and Mr. Mallalieu are in no
need of a bit of money, Mr. Cotherstone,” he said
quietly. “Business seems to be good with you, sir.”
“Oh, so-so,” replied Cotherstone, off-handedly.
“Naught to complain of, of course. I’ll give you a
receipt, Mr. Kitely,” he went on, seating himself at
his desk and taking up a book of forms. “Let's see
—twenty-five pounds a year is six pound five a
quarter—there you are, sir. Will you have a drop
of whisky?”
Kitely laid a handful of gold and silver on the
desk, took the receipt, and nodded his head, still
watching Cotherstone with the same half-humorous
expression.
“Thank you,” he said. “I shouldn’t mind.”


BLACKMAIL 5
He watched Cotherstone produce a decanter and
glasses, watched him fetch fresh water from a filter
in the corner of the room, watched him mix the
drinks, and took his own with no more than a polite
nod of thanks. And Cotherstone, murmuring an ex-
pression of good wishes, took a drink himself, and
sat down with his desk-chair turned towards his
visitor.
“Aught you’d like doing at the house, Mr.
Kitely?” he asked.
“No,” answered Kitely, “no, I can’t say that there
is.”
There was something odd, almost taciturn, in his
manner, and Cotherstone glanced at him a little won-
deringly.
“And how do you like Highmarket, now you’ve
had a spell of it?” he inquired. “Got settled down,
I suppose, now?”
“It’s all that I expected,” replied Kitely. “Quiet
—peaceful. How do you like it?”
“Me!” exclaimed Cotherstone, surprised. “Me?—
why, I’ve had—yes, five-and-twenty years of it!”
Kitely took another sip from his glass and set it
down. He gave Cotherstone a sharp look.
“Yes,” he said, “yes—five-and-twenty years.
You and your partner, both. Yes—it’ll be just
about thirty years since I first saw you. But—you’ve
forgotten.”
Cotherstone, who had been lounging forward, warm-
ing his hands at the fire, suddenly sat straight up in
his chair. His face, always sharp seemed to grow


6 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
sharper as he turned to his visitor with a questioning
look.
“Since—what?” he demanded.
“Since I first saw you—and Mr. Mallalieu,” re-
plied Kitely. “As I say, you’ve forgotten. But—
I haven’t.’’
Cotherstone sat staring at his tenant for a full
minute of speechlessness. Then he slowly rose,
walked over to the door, looked at it to see that it
was closed, and returning to the hearth, fixed his eyes
on Kitely.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Just what I say,” answered Kitely, with a dry
laugh. “It’s thirty years since I first saw you and
Mallalieu. That's all.”
“Where?’’ demanded Cotherstone.
Ritely motioned his landlord to sit down. And
Cotherstone sat down—trembling. His arm shook
when Kitely laid a hand on it.
“Do you want to know where?” he asked, bend-
ing close to Cotherstone. “I’ll tell you. In the
dock—at Wilchester Assizes. Eh?’”
Cotherstone made no answer. He had put the tips
of his fingers together, and now he was tapping the
nails of one hand against the nails of the other. And
he stared and stared at the face so close to his own—
as if it had been the face of a man resurrected from
the grave. Within him there was a feeling of ex-
traordinary physical sickness; it was quickly followed
by one of inertia, just as extraordinary. He felt as
is he had been mesmerized; as if he could neither move
nor speak. And Kitely sat there, a hand on his vic-


BLACKMAIL 7.
tim's arm, his face sinister and purposeful, close to
his.
“Fact!” he murmured. “Absolute fact! I re-
member everything. It’s come on me bit by bit,
though. I thought I knew you when I first came
here—then I had a feeling that I knew Mallalieu.
And—in time—I remembered—everything! Of
course, when I saw you both—where I did see you
—you weren't Mallalieu & Cotherstone. You
were-”
Cotherstone suddenly made an effort, and shook
off the thin fingers which lay on his sleeve. His pale.
face grew crimson, and the veins swelled on his fore-
head.
“Confound you!” he said in a low, concentrated
voice. “Who are you?”
Kitely shook his head and smiled quietly.
“No need to grow warm,” he answered. “Of
course, it’s excusable in you. Who am I? Well, if
you really want to know, I’ve been employed in the
police line for thirty-five years—until lately.”
“A detectivel” exclaimed Cotherstone.
“Not when I was present at Wilchester—that
time,” replied Kitely. “But afterwards—in due
course. Ah!—do you know, I often was curious as
to what became of you both ! But I never dreamed
of meeting you—here. Of course, you came up
North after you’d done your time? Changed your
names, started a new life—and here you are l
Clever!”
Cotherstone was recovering his wits. He had got
out of his chair by that time, and had taken up a


BLACKMAIL 9
movement—both checked by an equally sudden
change of attitude and expression on the part of the
ex-detective. For Kitely sat straight up and looked
the junior partner squarely in the face.
“Better not, Mr. Cotherstone !” he said, with a
grin that showed his yellow teeth. - “You can’t very
well choke the life out of me in your own office, can
you? You couldn’t hide my old carcase as easily
as you and Mallalieu hid those Building Society funds,
you know. So-be calm I’m a reasonable man —
and getting an old man.”
He accompanied the last words with a meaning
smile, and Cotherstone took a turn or two about the
room, trying to steady himself. And Kitely pres-
ently went on again, in the same monotonous tones:
“Think it all out—by all means,” he said. “I
don’t suppose there’s a soul in all England but my-
self knows your secret—and Mallalieu’s. It was sheer
accident, of course, that I ever discovered it. But—
I knowl Just consider what I do know. Consider,
too, what you stand to lose. There's Mallalieu, so
much respected that he's Mayor of this ancient bor-
ough for the second time. There's you—so much
trusted that you’ve been Borough Treasurer for years.
You can’t afford to let me tell the Highmarket folk
that you two are ex-convicts | Besides, in your case
there’s another thing—there's your daughter.”
Cotherstone groaned—a deep, unmistakable groan
of sheer torture. But Kitely went on remorselessly.
“Your daughter's just about to marry the most
promising young man in the place,” he said. “A
young fellow with a career before him. Do you think


I0 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
he'd marry her if he knew that her father—even if
it is thirty years ago—had been convicted of—”
“Look you here!” interrupted Cotherstone,
through set teeth. “I’ve had enough! I've asked
you once before if you’d any more to say—now I'll
put it in another fashion. For I see what you’re
after—and it’s blackmail! How much do you want?
Come on—give it a name !”
“Name nothing, till you’ve told Mallalieu,” an-
swered Kitely. “There’s no hurry. You two can’t,
and I shan’t, run away. Time enough—I’ve the whip
hand. Tell your partner, the Mayor, all I’ve told
you—then you can put your heads together, and see
what you’re inclined to do. An annuity, now?—
that would suit me.’’
“You haven’t mentioned this to a soul?’’ asked
Cotherstone anxiously.
“Bah!” sneered Kitely. “D'ye think I’m a fool?
Not likely. Well—now you know. I’ll come in here
again tomorrow afternoon. And—you'll both be
here, and ready with a proposal.”
He picked up his glass, leisurely drank off its
remaining contents, and without a word of farewell
opened the door and went quietly away.


CHAPTER II
CRIME—AND SUCCESS
For some moments after Kitely had left him, Coth-
erstone stood vacantly staring at the chair in which
the blackmailer had sat. As yet he could not realize
things. He was only filled with a queer, vague
amazement about Kitely himself. He began to look
back on his relations with Kitely. They were recent
—very recent, only of yesterday, as you might say.
Kitely had come to him, one day about three months
previously, told him that he had come to these parts
for a bit of a holiday, taken a fancy to a cottage
which he, Cotherstone, had to let, and inquired its
rent. He had mentioned, casually, that he had just
retired from business, and wanted a quiet place
wherein to spend the rest of his days. He had taken
the cottage, and given his landlord satisfactory ref-
erences as to his ability to pay the rent—and Cother-
stone, always a busy man, had thought no more about
him. Certainly he had never anticipated such an an-
nouncement as that which Kitely had just made to
him—never dreamed that Kitely had recognized him
and Mallalieu as men he had known thirty years ago.
It had been Cotherstone's life-long endeavour to for-
get all about the event of thirty years ago, and to
11


12 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
a large extent he had succeeded in dulling his mem-
ory. But Kitely had brought it all back—and now
everything was fresh to him. His brows knitted and
his face grew dark as he thought of one thing in his
past of which Kitely had spoken so easily and glibly
—the dock. He saw himself in that dock again—and
Mallalieu standing by him. They were not called
Mallalieu and Cotherstone then, of course. He re-
membered what their real names were—he remem-
bered, too, that, until a few minutes before, he had
certainly not repeated them, even to himself, for
many a long year. Oh, yes—he remembered every-
thing—he saw it all again. The case had excited
plenty of attention in Wilchester at the time—Wil-
chester, that for thirty years had been so far away in
thought and in actual distance that it might have
been some place in the Antipodes. It was not a nice
case—even now, looking back upon it from his pres-
ent standpoint, it made him blush to think of. Two
better-class young working-men, charged with em-
bezzling the funds of a building society to which
they had acted as treasurer and secretary !—a bad
case. The Court had thought it a bad case, and
the culprits had been sentenced to two years’ impris-
onment. And now Cotherstone only remembered
that imprisonment as one remembers a particularly
bad dream. Yes—it had been real.
His eyes, moody and brooding, suddenly shifted
their gaze from the easy chair to his own hands—they
were shaking. Mechanically he took up the whisky
decanter from his desk, and poured some of its con-
tents into his glass—the rim of the glass tinkled


CRIME–AND SUCCESS 13
against the neck of the decanter. Yes—that had been
a shock, right enough, he muttered to himself, and
not all the whisky in the world would drive it out of
him. But a drink—neat and stiff—would pull his
nerves up to pitch, and so he drank, once, twice, and
sat down with the glass in his hand—to think still
In Ore.
That old Kitely was shrewd—shrewd He had at
once hit on a fact which those Wilchester folk of
thirty years ago had never suspected. It had been
said at the time that the two offenders had lost the
building society’s money in gambling and speculation,
and there had been grounds for such a belief. But
that was not so. Most of the money had been skil-
fully and carefully put where the two conspirators
could lay hands on it as soon as it was wanted, and
when the term of imprisonment was over they had
nothing to do but take possession of it for their own
purposes. They had engineered everything very
well—Cotherstone's essentially constructive mind, re-
garding their doings from the vantage ground of
thirty years’ difference, acknowledged that they had
been cute, crafty, and cautious to an admirable de-
gree of perfection. Quietly and unobtrusively they
had completely disappeared from their own district
in the extreme South of England, when their pun-
ishment was over. They had let it get abroad that
they were going to another continent, to retrieve the
past and start a new life; it was even known that they
repaired to Liverpool, to take ship for America. But
in Liverpool they had shuffled off everything of the
past—names, relations, antecedents. There was no


14 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
reason why any one should watch them out of the
country, but they had adopted precautions against
such watching. They separated, disappeared, met
again in the far North, in a sparsely-populated, lonely
country of hill and dale, led there by an advertise-
ment which they had seen in a local newspaper, met
with by sheer chance in a Liverpool hotel. There was
an old-established business to sell as a going concern,
in the dale town of Highmarket: the two ex-convicts
bought it. From that time they were Anthony Mal-
lalieu and Milford Cotherstone, and the past was
dead.
During the thirty years in which that past had
been dead, Cotherstone had often heard men remark
that this world of ours is a very small one, and he had
secretly laughed at them. To him and to his partner
the world had been wide and big enough. They were
now four hundred miles away from the scene of their
crime. There was nothing whatever to bring Wil-
chester people into that northern country, nothing to
take Highmarket folk anywhere near Wilchester
Neither he nor Mallalieu ever went far afield—Lon-
don they avoided with particular care, lest they should
meet any one there who had known them in the old
days. They had stopped at home, and minded their
business, year in and year out. Naturally, they had
prospered. They had speedily become known as hard-
working young men; then as good employers of la-
bour; finally as men of considerable standing in a
town of which there were only some five thousand
inhabitants. They had been invited to join in public
matters—Mallalieu had gone into the Town Council


CRIME–AND SUCCESS 15
first; Cotherstone had followed him later. They had
been as successful in administering the affairs of the
little town as in conducting their own, and in time
both had attained high honours: Mallalieu was now
wearing the mayoral chain for the second time; Coth-
erstone, as Borough Treasurer, had governed the
financial matters of Highmarket for several years.
And as he sat there, staring at the red embers of the
office fire, he remembered that there were no two
men in the whole town who were more trusted and re-
spected than he and his partner—his partner in
success . . . and in crime.
But that was not all. Both men had married
within a few years of their coming to Highmarket.
They had married young women of good standing
in the neighbourhood; it was perhaps well, reflected
Cotherstone, that their wives were dead, and that
Mallalieu had never been blessed with children. But
Cotherstone had a daughter, of whom he was as fond
as he was proud; for her he had toiled and contrived,
always intending her to be a rich woman. He had
seen to it that she was well educated; he had even
allowed himself to be deprived of her company for
two years while she went to an expensive school, far
away; since she had grown up, he had surrounded
her with every comfort. And now, as Kitely had re-
minded him, she was engaged to be married to the
most promising young man in Highmarket, Windle
Bent, a rich manufacturer, who had succeeded to
and greatly developed a fine business, who had already
made his mark on the Town Council, and was known
to cherish Parliamentary ambitions. Everybody


16 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
knew that Bent had a big career before him; he had
all the necessary gifts; all the proper stuff in him for
such a career. He would succeed; he would probably
win a title for himself—a baronetcy, perhaps a peer-
age. This was just the marriage which Cotherstone
desired for Lettie; he would die more than happy if
he could once hear her called Your Ladyship. And
now here was—this
Cotherstone sat there a long time, thinking, reflect-
ing, reckoning up things. The dusk had come; the
darkness followed; he made no movement towards the
gas bracket. Nothing mattered but his trouble.
That must be dealt with. At all costs, Kitely's si-
lence must be purchased—aye, even if it cost him and
Mallalieu one-half of what they had. And, of course,
Mallalieu must be told—at once.
A tap of somebody’s knuckles on the door of the
pivate room roused him at last, and he sprang up and
seized a box of matches as he bade the person without
to enter. The clerk came in, carrying a sheaf of
papers, and Cotherstone bustled to the gas.
“Dear me!” he exclaimed. “I’ve dropped off
into a nod over this warm fire, Stoner. What's that
—letters?”
“There's all these letters to sign, Mr. Cotherstone,
and these three contracts to go through,” answered
the clerk. “And there are those specifications to ex-
amine, as well.”
“Mr. Mallalieu’ll have to see those,” said Cother-
stone. He lighted the gas above his desk, put the
decanter and the glasses aside, and took the letters.
“I’ll sign these, anyhow,” he said, “and then you


CRIME–AND SUCCESS 17
can post 'em as you go home. The other papers’ll
do tomorrow morning.”
The clerk stood slightly behind his master as Coth-
erstone signed one letter after the other, glancing
quickly through each. He was a young man of
twenty-two or three, with quick, observant manners,
a keen eye, and a not handsome face, and as he stood
there the face was bent on Cotherstone with a surmis-
ing look. Stoner had noticed his employer's thought-
ful attitude, the gloom in which Cotherstone sat, the
decanter on the table, the glass in Cotherstone's hand,
and he knew that Cotherstone was telling a fib when
he said he had been asleep. He noticed, too, the six
sovereigns and the two or three silver coins lying on
the desk, and he wondered what had made his master
so abstracted that he had forgotten to pocket them.
For he knew Cotherstone well, and Cotherstone was
so particular about money that he never allowed even
a penny to lie out of place.
“There!” said Cotherstone, handing back the batch
of letters. “You’ll be going now, I suppose. Put
those in the post. I’m not going just yet, so I’ll
lock up the office. Leave the outer door open—Mr.
Mallalieu’s coming back.”
He pulled down the blinds of the private room
when Stoner had gone, and that done he fell to walk-
ing up and own, awaiting his partner. And pres-
ently Mallalieu came, smoking a cigar, and evidently
in as good humour as usual.
“Oh, you’re still here?” he said as he entered.
“I—what's up?”
He had come to a sudden halt close to his partner,


18 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
and he now stood staring at him. And Cotherstone,
glancing past Mallalieu’s broad shoulder at a mirror,
saw that he himself had become startlingly pale and
haggard. He looked twenty years older than he had
looked when he shaved himself that morning.
“Aren’t you well?” demanded Mallalieu. “What
is it?”
Cotherstone made no answer. He walked past Mal-
lalieu and looked into the outer office. The clerk had
gone, and the place was only half-lighted. But Coth-
erstone closed the door with great care, and when he
went back to Mallalieu he sank his voice to a whisper.
“Bad news!” he said. “Bad—bad news!”
“What about 3'' asked Mallalieu. “Private?
Business?”
Cotherstone put his lips almost close to Mallalieu’s
ear.
“That man Kitely—my new tenant,” he whispered.
“He’s met us—you and me—before!”
Mallalieu’s rosy cheeks paled, and he turned
sharply on his companion.
‘‘Met—us !” he exclaimed. “Him! Where?—
when ''
Cotherstone got his lips still closer.
“Wilchester!” he answered. “Thirty years ago.
He—knows!”
Mallalieu dropped into the nearest chair: dropped
as if he had been shot. His face, full of colour from
the keen air outside, became as pale as his partner's;
his jaw fell, his mouth opened; a strained look came
into his small eyes.


CRIME–AND SUCCESS 19
“Gad!” he muttered hoarsely. “You—you don't
say sol”
“It’s a fact,” answered Cotherstone. “He knows
everything. He's an ex-detective. He was there—
that day.”
“Tracked us down?” asked Mallalieu. “That it?”
“No,” said Cotherstone. “Sheer chance—pure ac-
cident. Recognized us—after he came here. Aye—
after all these years! Thirty years!”
Mallalieu’s eyes, roving about the room, fell on
the decanter. He pulled himself out of his chair,
found a clean glass, and took a stiff drink. And
his partner, watching him, saw that his hands, too,
were shaking.
‘‘That’s a facer l’’ said Mallalieu. His voice had
grown stronger, and the colour came back to his
cheeks. “A real facer | As you say—after thirty
years! It's hard—it’s blessed hard ' And—what
does he want? What's he going to do?”
“Wants to blackmail us, of course,” replied Coth-
erstone, with a mirthless laugh. “What else should
he do? What could he do? Why, he could tell
all Highmarket who we are, and—”
“Aye, aye!—but the thing is here,” interrupted
Mallalieu.
“Supposing we do square him?—is there any re-
liance to be placed on him then? It 'ud only be the
old game—he'd only want more.”
“He said an annuity,” remarked Cotherstone,
thoughtfully. “And he added significantly, that he
was getting an old man.”


20 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“How old?” demanded Mallalieu.
“Between sixty and seventy,” said Cotherstone.
“I’m under the impression that he could be squared,
could be satisfied. He'll have to be We can’t let
it get out—I can’t, any way. There’s my daughter
to think of.”
“D’ye think I'd let it get out?” asked Mallalieu.
“No l—all I’m thinking of is if we really can silence
him. I’ve heard of cases where a man's paid black-
mail for years and years, and been no better for it in
the end.”
“Well—he's coming here tomorrow afternoon some
time,” said Cotherstone. “We’d better see him—
together. After all, a hundred a year—a couple of
hundred a year—’ud be better than—exposure.”
Mallalieu drank off his whisky and pushed the
glass aside.
“I’ll consider it,” he remarked. “What’s certain
sure is that he’ll have to be quietened. I must go—
I’ve an appointment. Are you coming out?”
“Not yet,” replied Cotherstone. “I’ve all these
papers to go through. Well, think it well over.
He’s a man to be feared.”
Mallalieu made no answer. He, like Kitely, went
off without a word of farewell, and Cotherstone was
Once more left alone.


CELAPTER III
MURDER.
When Mallalieu had gone, Cotherstone gathered up
the papers which his clerk had brought in, and sitting
down at his desk tried to give his attention to them.
The effort was not altogether a success. He had
hoped that the sharing of the bad news with his part-
ner would bring some relief to him, but his anxieties
were still there. He was always seeing that queer,
sinister look in Kitely’s knowing eyes: it suggested
that as long as Kitely lived there would be no safety.
Even if Kitely kept his word, kept any compact made
with him, he would always have the two partners
under his thumb. And for thirty years Cotherstone
had been under no man’s thumb, and the fear of
having a master was hateful to him. He heartily
wished that Kitely was dead—dead and buried, and
his secret with him; he wished that it had been any-
wise possible to have crushed the life out of him
where he sat in that easy chair as soon as he had
shown himself the reptile that he was. A man might
kill any poisonous insect, any noxious reptile at pleas-
ure—why not a human blood-sucker like that?
He sat there a long time, striving to give his at-
tention to his papers, and making a poor show of
21


22 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
it. The figures danced about before him; he could
make neither head nor tail of the technicalities in
the specifications and estimates; every now and then
fits of abstraction came over him, and he sat drum-
ming the tips of his fingers on his blotting-pad, star-
ing vacantly at the shadows in the far depths of
the room, and always thinking—thinking of the ter-
rible danger of revelation. And always, as an un-
der-current, he was saying that for himself he cared
naught—Kitely could do what he liked, or would have
done what he liked, had there only been himself to
think for. But—Lettie! All his life was now cen-
tred in her, and in her happiness, and Lettie’s hap-
piness, he knew, was centred in the man she was go-
ing to marry. And Cotherstone, though he believed
that he knew men pretty well, was not sure that he
knew Windle Bent sufficiently to feel sure that he
would endure a stiff test. Bent was ambitious—he
was resolved on a career. Was he the sort of man
to stand the knowledge which Kitely might give him?
For there was always the risk that whatever he and
Mallalieu might do, Kitely, while there was breath
in him, might split.
A sudden ringing at the bell of the telephone in
the outer office made Cotherstone jump in his chair
as if the arresting hand of justice had suddenly been
laid on him. In spite of himself he rose trembling,
and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead
as he walked across the room.
“Nerves!” he muttered to himself. “I must be
in a queer way to be taken like that. It won’t do!—


MURDER 23
especially at this turn. What is it?” he demanded,
going to the telephone. “Who is that?”
His daughter's voice, surprised and admonitory,
came to him along the wire.
“Is that you, father?” she exclaimed. “What are
you doing? Don’t you remember you asked Windle,
and his friend Mr. Brereton, to supper at eight
o'clock. It’s a quarter to eight now. Do come home !”
Cotherstone let out an exclamation which signified
annoyance. The event of the late afternoon had com-
pletely driven it out of his recollection that Windle
Bent had an old school-friend, a young barrister from
London, staying with him, and that both had been
asked to supper that evening at Cotherstone's house.
But Cotherstone's annoyance was not because of his
own forgetfulness, but because his present abstraction
made him dislike the notion of company.
‘‘I’d forgotten—for the moment,” he called.
“I’ve been very busy. All right, Lettie—I’m coming
on at once. Shan’t be long.”
But when he had left the telephone he made no
haste. He lingered by his desk; he was slow in turn-
ing out the gas; slow in quitting and locking up his
office; he went slowly away through the town. Noth-
ing could have been further from his wishes than
a desire to entertain company that night—and es-
pecially a stranger. His footsteps dragged as he
passed through the market-place and turned into the
outskirts beyond. -
Some years previously to this, when they had both
married and made money, the two partners had built


24 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
new houses for themselves. Outside Highmarket, on
its western boundary, rose a long, low hill called
Highmarket Shawl; the slope which overhung the
town was thickly covered with fir and pine, amidst
which great masses of limestone crag jutted out here
and there. At the foot of this hill, certain plots of
building land had been sold, and Mallalieu had bought
one and Cotherstone another, and on these they had
erected two solid stone houses, fitted up with all the
latest improvements known to the building trade.
Each was proud of his house; each delighted in wel-
coming friends and acquaintances there—this was
the first night Cotherstone could remember on which
it was hateful to him to cross his own threshold. The
lighted windows, the smell of good things cooked for
supper, brought him no sense of satisfaction; he had
to make a distinct effort to enter and to present a
face of welcome to his two guests, who were already
there, awaiting him.
“Couldn't get in earlier,” he said, replying
to Lettie’s half-anxious, half-playful scoldings.
“There was some awkward business turned up this
evening—and as it is, I shall have to run away for
an hour after supper—can’t be helped. How do you
do, sir?’’ he went on, giving his hand to the stranger.
“Glad to see you in these parts—you’ll find this a
cold climate after London, I'm afraid.”
He took a careful look at Bent's friend as they all
sat down to supper—out of sheer habit of inspect-
ing any man who was new to him. And after a
glance or two he said to himself that this young limb
of the law was a sharp chap—a keen-eyed, alert, no-


MURDER 25
ticeable fellow, whose every action and tone denoted
great mental activity. He was sharper than Bent,
said Cotherstone, and in his opinion, that was saying
a good deal. Bent’s ability was on the surface; he
was an excellent specimen of the business man of
action, who had ideas out of the common but was
not so much given to deep and quiet thinking as to
prompt doing of things quickly decided on. He
glanced from one to the other, mentally comparing
them. Bent was a tall, handsome man, blonde, blue-
eyed, ready of word and laugh; Brereton, a medium-
sized, compact fellow, dark of hair and eye, with an
olive complexion that almost suggested foreign origin:
the sort, decided Cotherstone, that thought a lot and
said little. And forcing himself to talk he tried to
draw the stranger out, watching him, too, to see if
he admired Lettie. For it was one of Cotherstone's
greatest joys in life to bring folk to his house and
watch the effect which his pretty daughter had on
them, and he was rewarded now in seeing that the
young man from London evidently applauded his
friend’s choice and paid polite tribute to Lettie's
charm.
“And what might you have been doing with Mr.
Brereton since he got down yesterday?” asked Coth-
erstone. “Showing him round, of course?”
“I’ve been tormenting him chiefly with family his-
tory,” answered Bent, with a laughing glance at his
sweetheart. “You didn’t know I was raking up
everything I could get hold of about my forbears, did
you? Oh, I’ve been busy at that innocent amuse-
ment for a month past—old Kitely put me up to it.”


26 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Cotherstone could barely repress an inclination to
start in his chair; he himself was not sure that he
did not show undue surprise.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Kitely My tenant?
What does he know about your family? A
stranger!”
“Mºuch more than I do,” replied Bent. “The old
chap's nothing to do, you know, and since he took
up his abode here he’s been spending all his time
digging up local records—he's a good bit of an an-
tiquary, and that sort of thing. The Town Clerk
tells me Kitely’s been through nearly all the old town
documents—chests full of them And Kitely told
me one day that if I liked he’d trace our pedigree
back to I don’t know when, and as he seemed keen,
I told him to go ahead. He's found out a lot of in-
teresting things in the borough records that I never
heard of.”
Cotherstone had kept his eyes on his plate while
Bent was talking; he spoke now without looking up.
“Oh!” he said, trying to speak unconcernedly.
“Ah!—then you’ll have been seeing a good deal of
Kitely lately?”
“Not so much,” replied Bent. “He’s brought me
the result of his work now and then—things he's
copied out of old registers, and so on.’’
“And what good might it all amount to?” asked
Cotherstone, more for the sake of talking than for
any interest he felt. “Will it come to aught?”
“Bent wants to trace his family history back to
the Conquest,” observed Brereton, slyly. “He thinks
the original Bent came over with the Conqueror.


MURDER 27
But his old man hasn’t got beyond the Tudor period
yet.”
“Never mind!” said Bent. “There were Bents in
Highmarket in Henry the Seventh’s time, anyhow.
And if one has a pedigree, why not have it properly
searched out? He's a keen old hand at that sort of
thing, Kitely. The Town Clerk says he cash read
some of our borough charters of six hundred years
ago as if they were newspaper articles.”
Cotherstone made no remark on that. He was
thinking. So Kitely was in close communication with
Bent, was he?—constantly seeing him, being employed
by him? Well, that cut two ways. It showed that
up to now he had taken no advantage of his secret
knowledge and might therefore be considered as likely
to play straight if he were squared by the two part-
ners. But it also proved that Bent would probably
believe anything that Kitely might tell him. Cer-
tainly Kitely must be dealt with at once. He knew
too much, and was obviously too clever, to be allowed
to go about unfettered. Cost what it might, he must
be attached to the Mallalieu-Cotherstone interest.
And what Cotherstone was concentrating on just then,
as he ate and drank, was—how to make that attach-
ment in such a fashion that Kitely would have no
option but to keep silence. If only he and Mallalieu
could get a hold on Kitely, such as that which he had
on them
“Well,” he said as supper came to an end, “I’m
sorry, but I’m forced to leave you gentlemen for an
hour, at any rate—can’t be helped. Lettie, you must
try to amuse 'em until I come back. Sing Mr. Brere.


28 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
ton some of your new songs. Bent—you know where
the whisky and the cigars are—help yourselves—
make yourselves at home.”
“You won’t be more than an hour, father?’’ asked
Lettie.
“An hour’ll finish what I’ve got to do,” replied
Cotherstone, “maybe less—I'll be as quick as I can,
anyway, my lass.”
He hurried off without further ceremony; a mo-
ment later and he had exchanged the warmth and
brightness of his comfortable dining-room for the chill
night and the darkness. And as he turned out of his
garden he was thinking still further and harder. So
Windle Bent was one of those chaps who have what
folk call family pride, was he? Actually proud of
the fact that he had a pedigree, and could say who
his grandfather and grandmother were?—things on
which most people were as hazy as they were indiffer-
ent. In that case, if he was really family-proud, all
the more reason why Kitely should be made to keep his
tongue still. For if Windle Bent was going on the
game of making out that he was a man of family, he
certainly would not relish the prospect of uniting his
ancient blood with that of a man who had seen
the inside of a prison. Kitely l—promptly and
definitely—and for goodſ—that was the ticket.
Cotherstone went off into the shadows of the night
—and a good hour had passed when he returned to
his house. It was then ten o'clock; he afterwards
remembered that he glanced at the old grandfather
clock in his hall when he let himself in. All was very
quiet in there; he opened the drawing-room door to


MURDER 29
find the two young men and Lettie sitting over a
bright fire, and Brereton evidently telling the other
two some story, which he was just bringing to a con-
clusion.
“. . . . for it’s a fact, in criminal practice,”
Brereton was saying, “that there are no end of un-
discovered crimes—there are any amount of guilty
men going about free as the air, and—”
“Hope you’ve been enjoying yourselves,” said
Cotherstone, going forward to the group. “I’ve been
as quick as I could.”
“Mr. Brereton has been telling us most interesting
stories about criminals,” said Lettie. “Facts—much
stranger than fiction l’’
“Then I'm sure it’s time he’d something to re-
fresh himself with,” said Cotherstone hospitably.
“Come away, gentlemen, and we’ll see if we can’t
find a drop to drink and a cigar to smoke.”
He led the way to the dining-room and busied
himself in bringing out some boxes of cigars from a
cupboard while Lettie produced decanters and glasses
from the sideboard.
“So you’re interested in criminal matters, sir?”
observed Cotherstone as he offered Brereton a cigar.
“Going in for that line, eh?”
“What practice I’ve had has been in that line,”
answered Brereton, with a quiet laugh. “One sort of
gets pitchforked into these things, you know,
so—”
“What's that?” exclaimed Lettie, who was just
then handing the young barrister a tumbler of whisky
and soda which Bent had mixed for him. “Some-


30 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
body running hurriedly up the drive—as if something
had happened Surely you’re not going to be fetched
out again, father?”
A loud ringing of the bell prefaced the entrance of
some visitor, whose voice was heard in eager conver-
sation with a parlourmaid in the hall.
“That's your neighbour—Mr. Garthwaite,” said
Bent.
Cotherstone set down the cigars and opened the din-
ing-room door. A youngish, fresh-coloured man, who
looked upset and startled, came out of the hall, glanc-
ing round him inquiringly.
“Sorry to intrude, Mr. Cotherstone,” he said. “I
Say!—that old gentleman you let the cottage to—
Kitely, you know.”
“What of him?” demanded Cotherstone sharply.
“He’s lying there in the coppice above your house
—I stumbled over him coming through there just
now,” replied Garthwaite. “He—don't be fright-
ened, Miss Cotherstone—he's—well, there’s no doubt
of it—he's dead! And—”
“And—what?” asked Cotherstone. “What, man?
Out with it !”
“And I should say, murdered l’” said Garthwaite.
“I—yes, I just saw enough to say that. Murdered.
—without a doubt l”


CHAPTER IV
THE PINE WOOD
Brereton, standing back in the room, the cigar
which Cotherstone had just given him unlighted in
One hand, the glass which Lettie had presented to him
in the other, was keenly watching the man who had
just spoken and the man to whom he spoke. But all
his attention was quickly concentrated on Cother-
stone. For despite a strong effort to control himself,
Cotherstone swayed a little, and instinctively put out
a hand and clutched Bent’s arm. He paled, too—the
sudden spasm of pallor was almost instantly succeeded
by a quick flush of colour. He made another effort—
and tried to laugh.
“Nonsense, man!” he said thickly and hoarsely.
“Murder? Who should want to kill an old chap
like that? It's—here, give me a drink, one of you
—that's—a bit startling!”
Bent seized a tumbler which he himself had just
mixed, and Cotherstone gulped off half its contents.
He looked round apologetically.
“I—I think I’m not as strong as I was,” he mut-
tered. “Overwork, likely—I’ve been a bit shaky of
late. A shock like that—”
“I’m sorry,” said Garthwaite, who looked sur-
,- 31


32 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
prised at the effect of his news. “I ought to have
known better. But you see, yours is the nearest
house—”
“Quite right, my lad, quite right,” exclaimed
Cotherstone. “You did the right thing. Here!—
we'd better go up. Have you called the police?”
“I sent the man from the cottage at the foot of
your garden,” answered Garthwaite. “He was just
locking up as I passed, so I told him, and sent him
off.”
“We’ll go,” said Cotherstone. He looked round
at his guests. “You’ll come?” he asked.
“Don’t you go, father,” urged Lettie, “if you're
not feeling well.”
“I’m all right,” insisted Cotherstone. “A mere
bit of weakness—that’s all. Now that I know what’s
to be faced—” he twisted suddenly on Garthwaite—
“what makes you think it's murder?” he demanded.
“Murder! That's a big word.”
Garthwaite glanced at Lettie, who was whispering
to Bent, and shook his head.
“Tell you'when we get outside,” he said. “I don't
want to frighten your daughter.”
“Come on, then,” said Cotherstone. He hurried
into the hall and snatched up an overcoat. “Fetch
me that lantern out of the kitchen,” he called to the
parlourmaid. “Light it! Don't you be afraid, Let-
tie,” he went on, turning to his daughter. “There's
naught to be afraid of—now. You gentlemen com-
ing with us?”
Bent and Brereton had already got into their coats:
when the maid came with the lantern, all four men


THE PINE WOOD 33
went out. And as soon as they were in the garden
Cotherstone turned on Garthwaite.
“How do you know he's murdered?” he asked.
“How could you tell ?”
“I’ll tell you all about it, now we’re outside,”
answered Garthwaite. “I’d been over to Spenni-
garth, to see Hollings. I came back over the Shawl,
and made a short cut through the wood. And I
struck my foot against something—something soft,
you know—I don’t like thinking of that And so I
struck a match, and looked, and saw this old fellow
—don’t like thinking of that, either. He was laid
there, a few yards out of the path that runs across
the Shawl at that point. I saw he was dead—and
as for his being murdered, well, all I can say is, he's
been strangled ! That’s flat.”
“Strangled !” exclaimed Bent.
“Aye, without doubt,” replied Garthwaite.
“There’s a bit of rope round his neck that tight that
I couldn’t put my little finger between it and him
But you’ll see for yourselves—it's not far up the
Shawl. You never heard anything, Mr. Cother-
Stone?
“No, we heard naught,” answered Cotherstone.
“If it’s as you say, there'd be naught to hear.”
He had led them out of his grounds by a side-gate,
and they were now in the thick of the firs and pines
which grew along the steep, somewhat rugged slope
of the Shawl. He put the lantern into Garthwaite's
hand.
“Here—you show the way,” he said. “I don't
know where it is, of course.”


34 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“You were going straight to it,” remarked Garth-
waite. He turned to Brereton, who was walking at
his side. “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I heard that Mr. Bent had a lawyer friend stopping
with him just now—we hear all the bits of news in a
little place like Highmarket. Well — you'll under-
stand, likely—it hadn’t been long done!”
“You noticed that?’” said Brereton.
“I touched him,” replied Garthwaite. “His hand
and cheek were—just warm. He couldn’t have been
dead so very long—as I judged matters. And—here
he is l’’
He twisted sharply round the corner of one of the
great masses of limestone which cropped out amongst
the trees, and turned the light of the lantern on the
dead man.
“There !” he said in a hushed voice. “There!”
The four men came to a halt, each gazing steadily
at the sight they had come to see. It needed no
more than a glance to assure each that he was looking
on death: there was that in Kitely's attitude which
forbade any other possibility.
“He’s just as I found him,” whispered Garthwaite.
“I came round this rock from there, d'ye see, and
my foot knocked against his shoulder. But, you
know, he's been dragged here ! Look at that l”
Brereton, after a glance at the body, had looked
round at its surroundings. The wood thereabouts
was carpeted—thickly carpeted—with pine needles;
they lay several inches thick beneath the trunks of
the trees; they stretched right up to the edge of
the rock. And now, as Garthwaite turned the lan-


$6 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
flung at the foot of the mass of rock some hand had
disarranged his clothing. His overcoat and under
coat had been torn open, hastily, if not with absolute
violence; the lining of one trousers pocket was pulled
out; there were evidences that his waistcoat had been
unbuttoned and its inside searched: everything seemed
to indicate that the murderer had also been a robber.
“He’s not been dead very long,” said the doctor,
looking up. “Certainly not more than three-quarters
of an hour. Strangled? Yes!—and by somebody
who has more than ordinary knowledge of how quickly
a man may be killed in that way! Look how this cord
is tied—no amateur did that.”
He turned back the neckcloth from the dead man’s
throat, and showed the others how the cord had been
slipped round the neck in a running-knot and fastened
tightly with a cunning twist.
“Whoever did this had done the same thing before
—probably more than once,” he continued. “No
man with that cord round his neck, tightly knotted
like that, would have a chance—however free his
hands might be. He’d be dead before he could strug-
gle. Does no one know anything about this? No
more than that?” he went on, when he had heard
what Garthwaite could tell. “Well, this is murder,
anyway! Are there no signs of anything about
here?”
“Don’t you think his clothing looks as if he had
been robbed?” said Brereton, pointing to the obvious
signs. “That should be noted before he's moved.”
"I've noted that, sir,” said the police-sergeant,
who had bent over the body while the doctor was


THE PINE WOOD 37
examining it. “There's one of his pockets turned
inside out, and all his clothing's been torn open.
Robbery, of course—that's what it's been—murder
for the sake of robbery!”
One of the policemen, having satisfied his curiosity
stepped back and began to search the surroundings
with the aid of his lamp. He suddenly uttered a
sharp exclamation.
“Here's something!” he said, stooping to the foot
of a pine-tree and picking up a dark object. “An
old pocket-book—nothing in it, though.”
“That was his,” remarked Cotherstone. “I’ve
seen it before. He used to carry it in an inner pocket.
Empty, do you say?—no papers?”
“Not a scrap of anything,” answered the police-
man, handing the book over to his sergeant, and pro-
ceeding to search further. “We’d best to see
if there’s any footprints about.”
“You’d better examine that path, then,” said
Garthwaite. “You’ll find no prints on all this pine-
needle stuff—naught to go by, anyway—it's too thick
and soft. But he must have come along that path,
one way or another—I’ve met him walking in here
of an evening, more than once.”
The doctor, who had exchanged a word or two with
the sergeant, turned to Cotherstone.
“Wasn’t he a tenant of yours?” he asked. “Had
the cottage at the top of the Shawl here. Well, we’d
better have the body removed there, and some one
should go up and warn his family.”
“There's no family,” answered Cotherstone.
“He’d naught but a housekeeper—Miss Pett. She’s


38 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
an elderly woman—and not likely to be startled,
from what I’ve seen of her.’’
“I’ll go,” said Bent. “I know the housekeeper.”
He touched Brereton's elbow, and led him away
amongst the trees and up the wood. “This is a
strange affair!” he continued when they were clear
of the others. “Did you hear what Dr. Rockcliffe
said —that whoever had done it was familiar with
that sort of thing !”
“I saw for myself,” replied Brereton. “I noticed
that cord, and the knot on it, at once. A man whose
neck was tied up like that could be thrown down,
thrown anywhere, left to stand up, if you like, and
he’d be literally helpless, even if, as the doctor said,
he had the use of his hands. He’d be unconscious
almost at once—dead very soon afterwards. Murder?
—I should think so l—and a particularly brutal and
determined one. Bent —whoever killed that poor
old fellow was a man of great strength and of—knowl-
edge Knowledge, mind you!—he knew the trick.
You haven’t any doubtful character in Highmarket
who has ever lived in India, have you?”
“India! Why India?” asked Bent.
“Because I should say that the man who did
that job has learned some of the Indian tricks with
cords and knots,” answered Brereton. “That mur-
der's suggestive of Thuggeeism in some respects.
That the cottage?” he went on, pointing to a dim
light ahead of him. “This housekeeper, now?—is she
the sort who'll take it quietly?”
“She’s as queer a character as the old fellow him-
self was,” replied Bent, as they cleared the wood and


THE PINE WOOD 39
entered a hedge-enclosed garden at the end of which
stood an old-fashioned cottage. “I’ve talked to her
now and then when calling here—I should say she's
a woman of nerve.”
Brereton looked narrowly at Miss Pett when she
opened the door. She carried a tallow candle in one
hand and held it high above her head to throw a light
on the callers; its dim rays fell more on herself than
on them. A tall, gaunt, elderly woman, almost flesh-
less of face, and with a skin the colour of old parch-
ment, out of which shone a pair of bright black eyes;
the oddity of her appearance was heightened by her
head-dress—a glaring red and yellow handkerchief
tightly folded in such a fashion as to cover any vestige
of hair. Her arms, bare to the elbow, and her hands
were as gaunt as her face, but Brereton was quick
to recognize the suggestion of physical strength in
the muscles and sinews under the parchment-like skin.
A strange, odd-looking woman altogether, he thought,
and not improved by the fact that she appeared to
have lost all her teeth, and that a long, sharp nose
and prominent chin almost met before her sunken lips.
“Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Bent?” she said, before
either of the young men could speak. “Mr. Kitely's
gone out for his regular bedtime constitution—he
will have that, wet or fine, every night. But he's
much longer than usual, and—”
She stopped suddenly, seeing some news in Bent’s
face, and her own contracted to a questioning look.
‘‘Is there aught amiss?” she asked. “Has some-
thing happened him? Aught that’s serious? You
needn’t be afraid to speak, Mr. Bent—there's naught


40 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
can upset or frighten me, let me tell you—I’m past
all that l’’
“I’m afraid Mr. Kitely's past everything, too,
then,” said Bent. He looked steadily at her for a
moment, and seeing that she understood, went on.
“They’re bringing him up, Miss Pett—you'd better
make ready. You won't be alarmed—I don't think
there's any doubt that he's been murdered.”
The woman gazed silently at her visitors; then,
nodding her turbaned head, she drew back into the
cottage.
“It’s what I expected,” she muttered. “I warned
him—more than once. Well—let them bring him,
then.’’
She vanished into a side-room, and Bent and Brere-
ton went down the garden and met the others, carry-
ing the dead man. Cotherstone followed behind the
police, and as he approached Bent he pulled him by
the sleeve and drew him aside.
“There’s a clue !” he whispered. “A clue, d'ye
hear—a strong clue !”


CELAPTER V
THE CORD
Ever since they had left the house at the foot of
the pine wood, Brereton had been conscious of a cu-
rious psychological atmosphere, centring in Cother-
stone. It had grown stronger as events had de-
veloped; it was still stronger now as they stood out-
side the dead man's cottage, the light from the open
door and the white-curtained window falling on Coth-
erstone’s excited face. Cotherstone, it seemed to Bre-
reton, was unduly eager about something—he might
almost be said to be elated. All of his behaviour was
odd. He had certainly been shocked when Garth-
waite burst in with the news—but this shock did not
seem to be of the ordinary sort. He had looked like
fainting—but when he recovered himself his whole at-
titude (so, at any rate, it had seemed to Brereton) had
been that of a man who has just undergone a great
relief. To put the whole thing into a narrow com-
pass, it seemed as if Cotherstone appeared to be pos-
itively pleased to hear—and to find beyond doubt—
that Kitely was dead. And now, as he stood glancing
from one young man to the other, his eyes glittered as
if he were absolutely enjoying the affair: he re-
minded Brereton of that type of theatre-goer who
41


42 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
will insist on pointing out stage effects as they occur
before his eyes, forcing his own appreciation of them
upon fellow-watchers whose eyes are as keen as his
OWn.
“A strong clue !” repeated Cotherstone, and said it
yet again. “A good 'un And if it’s right, it’ll clear
matters up.”
“What is it?” asked Bent. He, too, seemed to be
conscious that there was something odd about his pro-
spective father-in-law, and he was gazing speculatively
at him as if in wonder. “What sort of a clue?”
“It’s a wonder it didn’t strike me—and you, too
—at first,” said Cotherstone, with a queer sound that
was half a chuckle. “But as long as it’s struck some-
body, eh? One's as good as another. You can’t
think of what it is, now?”
“I don’t know what you're thinking about,” re-
plied Bent, half impatiently.
Cotherstone gave vent to an unmistakable chuckle
at that, and he motioned them to follow him into the
cottage.
“Come and see for yourselves, then,” he said.
“You’ll spot it. But, anyway—Mr. Brereton, being
a stranger, can’t be expected to.”
The three men walked into the living-room of the
cottage—a good-sized, open-raftered, old-fashioned
place, wherein burnt a bright fire, at either side of
which stood two comfortable armchairs. Before one
of these chairs, their toes pointing upwards against
the fender, were a pair of slippers; on a table close
by stood an old lead tobacco-box, flanked by a church-
warden pipe, a spirit decanter, a glass, and a plate


44 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
significant in itself, a mere piece of strongly spun
and twisted hemp, it was yet singularly suggestive—
one man, at any rate, amongst those who stood look-
ing at it, was reminded by it that the murderer who
had used it must even now have the fear of another
and a stronger cord before him.
“Find who that cord belongs to, and you may get
at something,” suddenly observed the doctor, glanc-
ing at the policemen. “You say it’s a butcher's
cord?”
The man who had just whispered to Cotherstone
nodded.
“It’s a pig-killer's cord, sir,” he answered. “It’s
what a pig-killer fastens the pig down with—on the
cratch.”
“A cratch?—what's that?” asked Brereton, who
had gone close to the table to examine the cord, and
had seen that, though slender, it was exceedingly
strong, and of closely wrought fibre. “Is it a sort
of hurdle?”
“That's it, sir,” assented the policeman. “It is
a sort of hurdle—on four legs. They lay the pig on
it, don’t you see, and tie it down with a cord of this
sort—this cord's been used for that—it's greasy with
long use.”
“And it has been cut off a longer piece, of course,”
said the doctor. “These cords are of considerable
length, aren't they?”
“Good length, sir—there's a regular coil, like,”
said the man. He, too, bent down and looked at the
length before him. “This has been cut off what you
might call recent,” he went on, pointing to one end.


46 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
at somebody's hands, and there's no doubt he's been
robbed, too. Do you happen to know what he had on
him º'?
The housekeeper, who had her arms full of linen,
set her burden down on a clothes-horse in front of
the fire before she replied. She seemed to be think-
ing deeply, and when she turned round again, it
was to shake her queerly ornamented head.
“Well, I couldn’t say exactly,” she answered.
“But I shouldn’t wonder if it was a good deal—for
such as him, you know. He did carry money on
him—he was never short of money ever since I knew
him, and sometimes he’d a fair amount in his pockets
—I know, of course, because he’d pull it out, loose
gold, and silver, and copper, and I’ve seen him take
bank-notes out of his pocket-book. But he’d be very
like to have a good deal more than usual on him
tonight.”
“Why?” asked the sergeant.
“Because he’d been to the bank this morning to
draw his pension money,” replied Miss Pett. “I
don’t know how much that would be, any more than
I know where it came from. He was a close man—
he'd never tell anybody more than he liked, and he
never told me aught about that. But I do know
it was what you’d call a fair amount—for a man that
lives in a cottage. He went to the bank this noon—
he always went once a quarter—and he said this
afternoon that he’d go and pay his rent to Mr. Coth-
erstone there—”
“As he did,” muttered Cotherstone, “yes—he did
that.”


48 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
ask. “You seemed to suggest that, when we came.”
“Well, he was a bit longer,” admitted Miss Pett.
“Of course, he varied. But an hour was about his
time. Up and down and about the hill-side he'd go—
in and out of the coppices. I’ve warned him more
than once.”
“But why?” asked Brereton, whose curiosity was
impelling him to take a part in this drama. “What
reason had you for warning him?”
Miss Pett turned and looked scrutinizingly at her
last questioner. She took a calm and close observa-
tion of him and her curious face relaxed into some-
thing like a smile.
“I can tell what you are, mister,” she said. “A
law gentleman' I've seen your sort many a time.
And you’re a sharp 'un, too! Well — you're young,
but you’re old enough to have heard a thing or two.
Did you never hear that women have got what men
haven't—instinct?”
“Do you really tell me that the only reason you
had for warning him against going out late at night
was instinct?” asked Brereton. “Come, now !”
“Mostly instinct, anyhow,” she answered.
“Women have a sort of feeling about things that men
haven't—leastways, no men that I’ve ever met had
it. But of course, I'd more than that. Mr. Kitely,
now, he was a townsman—a London man. I’m
a countrywoman. He didn’t understand—you
couldn’t get him to understand—that it’s not safe
to go walking in lonely places in country districts
like this late at night. When I’d got to know his
habits, I expostulated with him more than once. I


THE CORD 49
pointed out to him that in spots like this, where there's
naught nearer than them houses at the foot of the
hill one way, and Harborough's cottage another way,
and both of 'em a good quarter of a mile off, and
where there's all these coverts and coppices and rocks,
it was not safe for an elderly man who sported a fine
gold watch and chain to go wandering about in the
darkness. There's always plenty of bad characters in
country places who'd knock the King himself on the
head for the sake of as much as Mr. Kitely had on
him, even if it was no more than the chain which
every Tom and Dick could see . And it’s turned out
just as I prophesied. He's come to it!”
“But you said just now that he must have been
murdered for something else than his valuables,” said
Brereton.
“I said that if his papers were gone, somebody
must have wanted them bad,” retorted Miss Pett.
“Anyway, what's happened is just what I felt might
happen, and there he is—dead. And I should be
obliged to some of you if you’d send up a woman or
two to help me lay him out, for I can’t be expected
to do everything by myself, nor to stop in this cottage
alone, neither!”
Leaving the doctor and a couple of policemen to ar-
range matters with the housekeeper, the sergeant went
outside, followed by the others. He turned to Coth-
erstone.
“I’m going down to Harborough's cottage, at the
other end of the Shawl,” he said. “I don’t expect
to learn aught much there—yet—but I can see if he’s


50 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
at home, anyway. If any of you gentlemen like to
come down 2 x
Bent laid a hand on Cotherstone's arm and turned
him in the direction of his house.
“Brereton and I’ll go with the sergeant,” he said.
“You must go home—Lettie’ll be anxious about
things. Go down with him, Mr. Garthwaite—you’ll
both hear more later.’’
To Brereton's great surprise, Cotherstone made no
objection to this summary dismissal. He and Garth-
waite went off in one direction; the others, led by the
observant policeman who had found the empty pocket-
book and recognized the peculiar properties of the
cord, turned away in another.
“Where's this we’re going now?” asked Brereton
as he and Bent followed their leaders through the
trees and down the slopes of the Shawl.
“To John Harborough's cottage—at the other end
of the hill,” answered Bent. “He’s the man they
spoke of in there. He’s a queer character—a pro-
fessional pig-killer, who has other trades as well. He
does a bit of rat-catching, and a bit of mole-catching—
and a good deal of poaching. In fact, he’s an odd
person altogether, not only in character but in ap-
pearance. And the curious thing is that he's got an
exceedingly good-looking and accomplished daughter,
a really superior girl who's been well educated and
earns her living as a governess in the town. Queer
pair they make if you ever see them together!”
“Does she live with him?” asked Brereton.
“Oh yes, she lives with him l’’ replied Bent.
“And I believe that they’re very devoted to each


THE CORD 51
other, though everybody marvels that such a man
should have such a daughter. There's a mystery
about that man—odd character that he is, he's been
well bred, and the folk hereabouts call him Gentle-
man Jack.”
“Won’t all this give the girl a fright?” suggested
Brereton. “Wouldn’t it be better if somebody went
quietly to the man’s cottage?”
But when they came to Harborough's cottage, at
the far end of the Shawl, it was all in darkness.
“Still, they aren't gone to bed,” suddenly ob-
served the policeman who had a faculty for seeing
things. “There’s a good fire burning in the kitchen
grate, and they wouldn’t leave that. Must be out,
both of ‘em.”
“Go in and knock quietly,” counselled the sergeant.
He followed the policeman up the flagged walk to
the cottage door, and the other two presently went
after them. In the starlight Brereton looked round
at these new surroundings—an old, thatched cottage,
set in a garden amongst trees and shrubs, with a
lean-to shed at one end of it, and over everything an
atmosphere of silence.
The silence was suddenly broken. A quick, light
step sounded on the flagged path behind them, and
the policemen turned their lamps in its direction.
And Brereton, looking sharply round, became aware
of the presence of a girl, who looked at these visitors
wonderingly out of a pair of beautiful grey eyes.


CEIAPTER VI
THE MAYOR
Here, then, thought Brereton, was Gentleman
Jack's daughter—the girl of whom Bent had just
been telling him. He looked at her narrowly as she
stood confronting the strange group. A self-pos-
sessed young woman, he said to himself—beyond a
little heightening of colour, a little questioning look
about eyes and lips she showed no trace of undue
surprise or fear. Decidedly a good-looking young
woman, too, and not at all the sort of daughter that
a man of queer character would be supposed to have
—refined features, an air of breeding, a suggestion of
culture. And he noticed that as he and Bent raised
their hats, the two policemen touched their helmets—
they were evidently well acquainted with the girl,
and eyed her with some misgiving as well as respect.
“Beg pardon, miss,” said the sergeant, who was
obviously anything but pleased with his task. “But
it's like this, d'you see?—your father, now, does he
happen to be at home?”
“What is it you want?” she asked. And begin-
ning a glance of inquiry at the sergeant she finished
it at Bent. “Has something happened, Mr. Bent?”
she went on. “If you want my father, and he's not
52


THE MAYOR 53
in, then I don’t know where he is—he went out early
in the evening, and he hadn’t returned when I left the
house an hour ago.”
“I daresay it's nothing,” replied Bent. “But the
fact is that something has happened. Your neigh-
bour at the other end of the wood—old Mr. Kitely,
you know—he's been found dead.”
Brereton, closely watching the girl, saw that this
conveyed nothing to her, beyond the mere announce-
ment. She moved towards the door of the cottage,
taking a key from her muff.
“Yes?” she said. “And—I suppose you want my
father to help? He may be in—he may have gone
to bed.”
She unlocked the door, walked into the open liv-
ing-room, and turning up a lamp which stood on the
table, glanced around her.
“No,” she continued. “He’s not come in—
SO 7 y
“Better tell her, Mr. Bent,” whispered the ser-
geant. “No use keeping it back, sir—she’ll have to
know.”
“The fact is,” said Bent, “Mr. Kitely—we're
afraid—has been murdered.”
The girl turned sharply at that; her eyes dilated,
and a brighter tinge of colour came into her cheeks.
“Murdered 1” she exclaimed. “Shot?”
Her eyes went past Bent to a corner of the room,
and Brereton, following them, saw that there stood
a gun, placed amongst a pile of fishing-rods and


54 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
similar sporting implements. Her glance rested on
it for only the fraction of a second; then it went back
to Bent’s face.
“I’d better tell you everything,” said Bent quietly.
“Mr. Kitely has been strangled. And the piece of
cord with which it was done is—so the police here
say—just such a piece as might have been cut off one
of the cords which your father uses in his trade, you
know.’’
“We aren't suggesting aught, you know, Miss
Avice,” remarked the sergeant. “Don’t go for to
think that—at present. But, you see, Harborough,
he might have one o’ those cords hanging about some-
where, and—do you understand?”
The girl had become very quiet, looking steadily
from one man to the other. Once more her eyes
settled on Bent.
“Do you know why Kitely was killed?” she asked
suddenly. “Have you seen any reason for it?”
“He had been robbed, after his death,” answered
Bent. “That seems absolutely certain.”
“Whatever you may say, you’ve got some suspicion
about my father,” she remarked after a pause.
“Well—all I can say is, my father has no need to rob
anybody—far from it, if you want the truth. But
what do you want?” she continued, a little impa-
tiently. “My father isn’t in, and I don’t know
where he is—often he is out all night.”
“If we could just look round his shed, now?”
said the sergeant. “Just to see if aught's missing,
like, you know. You see, miss—”
"You can look round the shed—and round any-


THE MAYOR 55
where else,” said Avice. “Though what good that
will do—well, you know where the shed is.”
She turned away and began taking off her hat and
coat, and the four men went out into the garden and
turned to the lean-to shed at the end of the cottage.
A tiled verandah ran along the front of cottage and
shed, and the door of the shed was at its further end.
But as the sergeant was about to open it, the police-
man of the observant nature made his third discov-
ery. He had been flashing the light of his bull's-eye
lamp over his surroundings, and he now turned it on
a coil of rope which hung from a nail in the boarded
wall of the shed, between the door and the window.
“There you are, gentlemen!” he said, lifting the
lamp in one hand and pointing triumphantly to a
definite point of the coiled cord with the index finger
of the other. “There ! Cut clean, too—just like the
bit up yonder!”
Brereton pressed forward and looked narrowly at
what the man was indicating. There was no doubt
that a length of cord had been freshly cut off the
coil, and cut, too, with an unusually sharp, keen-
bladed knife; the edges of the severance were clean
and distinct, the separated strands were fresh and
unsoiled. It was obvious that a piece of that cord
had been cut from the rest within a very short time,
and the sergeant shook his head gravely as he took
the coil down from its nail.
“I don’t think there’s any need to look round
much further, Mr. Bent,” he said. “Of course, I
shall take this away with me, and compare it with
the shorter piece. But we'll just peep into this shed,


56 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
so as to make his daughter believe that was what we
wanted: I don’t want to frighten her more than we
have done. Naught there, you see,” he went on, open-
ing the shed door and revealing a whitewashed in-
terior furnished with fittings and articles of its own-
er's trade. “Well, we’ll away—with what we’ve
got.”
He went back to the door of the cottage and put-
ting his head inside called gently to its occupant.
“Well?” demanded Avice.
“All right, miss—we're going,” said the sergeant.
“But if your father comes in, just ask him to step
down to the police-station, d'you see?—I should like
to have a word or two with him.”
The girl made no answer to this gentle request, and
when the sergeant had joined the others, she shut
the door of the cottage, and Brereton heard it locked
and bolted.
“That’s about the strangest thing of all !” he said
as he and Bent left the policemen and turned down
a by-lane which led towards the town. “I haven’t a
doubt that the piece of cord with which Kitely was
strangled was cut off that coil! Now what does it
mean? Of course, to me it’s the very surest proof
that this man Harborough had nothing to do with the
murder.’’ -
“Why?” asked Bent.
“Why? My dear fellow !” exclaimed Brereton.
“Do you really think that any man who was in pos-
Hession of his senses would do such a thing? Take a
piece of cord from a coil—leave the coil where any-
body could find it—strangle a man with the severed
2


THE MAYOR 57
piece and leave it round the victim’s neck? Absurdl
No—a thousand times no l’’
“Well—and what then?” asked Bent.
“Ah! Somebody cut that piece off—for the use
it was put to,” answered Brereton. “But—who?”
Bent made no reply for a while. Then, as they
reached the outskirts of the town, he clapped a hand
On his companion’s arm.
“You’re forgetting something—in spite of your
legal mind,” he said. “The murderer may have
been interrupted before he could remove it. And in
that case—”
He stopped suddenly as a gate opened in the wall
of a garden which they were just passing, and a tall
man emerged. In the light of the adjacent lamp
Bent recognized Mallalieu. Mallalieu, too, recog--
nized him, and stopped.
“Oh, that you, Mr. Mayor l’’ exclaimed Bent. “I
was just wondering whether to drop in on you as I
passed. Have you heard what’s happened tonight?”
“Heard naught,” replied Mallalieu. “I’ve just
been having a hand at whist with Councillor North-
rop and his wife and daughter. What has happened,
then?”
They were all three walking towards the town by
that time, and Bent slipped between Brereton and
Mallalieu and took the Mayor's arm.
“Murder's happened,” he said. “That's the
plain truth of it. You know old Kitely—your part-
ner's tenant? Well, somebody’s killed him.”
The effect of this announcement on Mallalieu was
extraordinary. Bent felt the arm into which he had


58 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
just slipped his own literally quiver with a spasmodic
response to the astonished brain; the pipe which Mal-
lalieu was smoking fell from his lips; out of his lips
came something very like a cry of dismay.
“God bless me!” he exclaimed. “You don’t say
So?”
“It’s a fact,” said Bent. He stopped and picked
up the fallen pipe. “Sorry I let it out so clumsily—
I didn't think it would affect you like that. But
there it is—Kitely's been murdered. Strangled !”
“Strangled!” echoed Mallalieu. “Dear—dear—
dear! When was this, now?”
“Within the hour,” replied Bent. “Mr. Brereton
here—a friend of mine from London—and I were
spending the evening at your partner's, when that
neighbour of his, Garthwaite, came running in to
tell Mr. Cotherstone that Kitely was lying dead on
the Shawl. Of course we all went up.”
“Then—you’ve seen him?” demanded Mallalieu.
“There’s no doubt about it?”
“Doubt l’’ exclaimed Bent. “I should think there
is no doubt As determined a murder as ever I heard
of. No-there's no doubt.”
Mallalieu paused—at the gate of his own house.
“Come in, gentlemen,” he said. “Come in just
a minute, anyway. I—egad it's struck me all of a
heap, has that news! Murder?—there hasn’t been
such a thing in these parts ever since I came here,
near thirty years ago. Come in and tell me a bit
more about it.”
He led the way up a gravelled drive, admitted him-
self and his visitors to the house with a latchkey, and


60 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
would take all in and give little out. And he waited
expectantly to hear what Mallalieu would say when
he had heard everything.
Mallalieu turned to him when Bent had finished.
“I agree with you, sir,” he said. “Nobody but a
fool would have cut that piece of cord off, left it round
the man's neck, and left the coil hanging where any-
body could find it. And that man Harborough's no
fool! This isn't his job, Bent. No!”
“Whose, then?” asked Bent.
Mallalieu suddenly drank off the contents of his
glass and rose.
“As I’m chief magistrate, I’d better go down to
see the police,” he said. “There's been a queer char-
acter or two hanging about the town of late. I’d bet-
ter stir 'em up. You won’t come down, I suppose?”
he continued when they left the house togther.
“No-we can do no good,” answered Bent.
His own house was just across the road from Mal-
lalieu's, and he and Brereton said goodnight and
turned towards it as the Mayor strode quickly off
in the direction of the police-station.


CHAPTER VII
NIGHT WORK
From the little colony of new houses at the foot
of the Shawl to the police station at the end of the
High Street was only a few minutes' walk. Mal-
lalieu was a quick walker, and he covered this dis-
tance at his top speed. But during those few min-
utes he came to a conclusion, for he was as quick of
thought as in the use of his feet.
Of course, Cotherstone had killed Kitely. That
was certain. He had begun to suspect that as soon
as he heard of the murder; he became convinced of
it as soon as young Bent mentioned that Cotherstone
had left his guests for an hour after supper. With-
out a doubt Cotherstone had lost his head and done
this foolish thing! And now Cotherstone must be
protected, safe-guarded; heaven and earth must be
moved lest suspicion should fall on him. For noth-
ing could be done to Cotherstone without effect upon
himself—and of himself—and of himself Mallalieu
meant to take very good care. Never mind what in-
nocent person suffered, Cotherstone must go free. <
And the first thing to do was to assume direction
of the police, to pull strings, to engineer matters.
No matter how much he believed in Harborough's in-
61


62 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
nocence, Harborough was the man to go for—at pres-
ent. Attention must be concentrated on him, and on
him only. Anything—anything, at whatever cost of
morals and honesty to divert suspicion from that fool
of a Cotherstone !—if it were not already too late.
It was the desire to make sure that it was not too late,
the desire to be beforehand, that made Mallalieu
hasten to the police. He knew his own power, he had
a supreme confidence in his ability to manage things,
and he was determined to give up the night to the
scheme already seething in his fertile brain rather
than that justice should enter upon what he would
consider a wrong course.
While he sat silently and intently listening to
Bent's story of the crime, Mallalieu, who could think
and listen and give full attention to both mental
processes without letting either suffer at the expense
of the other, had reconstructed the murder. He knew
Cotherstone—nobody knew him half as well. Cother-
stone was what Mallalieu called deep—he was ingen-
ious, resourceful, inventive. Cotherstone, in the early
hours of the evening, had doubtless thought the whole
thing out. He would be well acquainted with his pro-
spective victim's habits. He would know exactly
when and where to waylay Kitely. The filching of
the piece of cord from the wall of Harborough's shed
was a clever thing—infernally clever, thought Mal-
lalieu, who had a designing man's whole-hearted ad-
miration for any sort of cleverness in his own par-
ticular line. It would be an easy thing to do—and
what a splendidly important thing! Of course Coth-
erstone knew all about Harborough's arrangements


NIGHT WORK 63
—he would often pass the pig-killer's house—from
the hedge of the garden he would have seen the coils
of greased rope hanging from their nails under the
verandah roof, aye, a thousand times. Nothing easier
than to slip into Harborough's garden from the adja-
cent wood, cut off a length of the cord, use it—and
leave it as a first bit of evidence against a man whose
public record was uncertain. Oh, very clever indeed!
—if only Cotherstone could carry things off, and not
allow his conscience to write marks on his face. And
he must help—and innocent as he felt Harborough to
be, he must set things going against Harborough—his
life was as naught, against the Mallalieu-Cotherstone
safety.
Mallalieu walked into the police-station, to find the
sergeant just returned and in consultation with the
superintendent, whom he had summoned to hear his
report. Both turned inquiringly on the Mayor.
“I’ve heard all about it,” said Mallalieu, bustling
forward. “Mr. Bent told me. Now then, where's
that cord they talk about?” -
The sergeant pointed to the coil and the severed
piece, which lay on a large sheet of brown paper on a
side-table, preparatory to being sealed up. Malla-
lieu crossed over and made a short examination of
these exhibits; then he turned to the superintendent
with an air of decision.
“Aught been done?” he demanded.
“Not yet, Mr. Mayor,” answered the superintend-
ent. “We were just consulting as to what's best to
be done.”
“I should think that's obvious,” replied Mallalieu.


64 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“You must get to work! Two things you want to
do just now. Ring up Norcaster for one thing, and
High Gill Junction for another. Give 'em a descrip-
tion of Harborough—he’ll probably have made for
one place or another, to get away by train. And ask
'em at Norcaster to lend you a few plain-clothes
men, and to send 'em along here at once by motor—
there’s no train till morning. Then, get all your own
men out—now !—and keep folk off the paths in that
wood, and put a watch on Harborough's house, in
case he should put a bold face on it and come back—
he’s impudence enough—and of course, if he comes,
they’ll take him. Get to all that now—at once!”
“You think it's Harborough, then?” said the su-
perintendent.
‘‘I think there’s what the law folks call a prymer
facy case against him,” replied Mallalieu. “It’s
your duty to get him, anyway, and if he can clear
himself, why, let him. Get busy with that telephone,
and be particular about help from Norcaster—we're
under-staffed here as it is.”
The superintendent hurried out of his office and
Mallalieu turned to the sergeant.
‘‘I understood from Mr. Bent,” he said, “that that
housekeeper of Kitely’s said the old fellow had been
to the bank at noon today, to draw some money?
That So?”
“So she said, your Worship,” answered the
Sergeant. “Some allowance, or something of that
sort, that he drew once a quarter. She didn’t know
how much.”
“But she thought he’d have it on him when he was


NIGHT WORK 65
attacked?” asked Mallalieu.
“She said he was a man for carrying his money on
him always,” replied the sergeant. “We under-
stood from her it was his habit. She says he always
had a good bit on him—as a rule. And of course,
if he’d drawn more today, why, he might have a
fair lot.”
“We’ll soon find that out,” remarked Mallalieu.
“I’ll step round to the bank manager and rouse
him. Now you get your men together—this is no
time for sleeping. You ought to have men up at the
Shawl now.”
“I’ve left one man at Kitely's cottage, sir, and
another about Harborough's—in case Harborough
should come back during the night,” said the
sergeant. “We’ve two more constables close by the
station. I’ll get them up.”
“Do it just now,” commanded Mallalieu. “I’ll be
back in a while.”
He hurried out again and went rapidly down the
High Street to the old-fashioned building near the
Town Hall in which the one bank of the little town
did its business, and in which the bank manager
lived. There was not a soul about in the street,
and the ringing of the bell at the bank-house door,
and the loud knock which Mallalieu gave in supple-
ment to it, seemed to wake innumerable echoes. And
proof as he believed himself to be against such slight
things, the sudden opening of a window above his
head made him jump.
The startled bank-manager, hurrying down to his
midnight visitor in his dressing-gown and slippers,


66 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
stood aghast when he had taken the Mayor within
and learned his errand.
“Certainly 1” he said. “Kitely was in the bank
today, about noon—I attended to him myself. That's
the second time he's been here since he came to the
town. He called here a day or two after he first
took that house from Mr. Cotherstone—to cash a
draft for his quarter's pension. He told me then
who he was. Do you know?”
“Not in the least,” replied Mallalieu, telling the
lie all the more readily because he had been fully
prepared for the question to which it was an answer.
“I knew naught about him.”
“He was an ex-detective,” said the bank-manager.
“Pensioned off, of course: a nice pension. He told
me he’d had—I believe it was getting on to forty
years’ service in the police force. Dear, dear, this is
a sad business—and I’m afraid I can tell you a bit
more about it.” /
“What?” demanded Mallalieu, showing surprise in
spite of himself.
“You mentioned Harborough,” said the bank-man-
ager, shaking his head.
“Well?” said Mallalieu. “What then?”
“Harborough was at the counter when Kitely took
his money,” answered the bank-manager. “He had
called in to change a five-pound note.”
The two men looked at each other in silence for a
time. Then the bank-manager shook his head again.
“You wouldn’t think that a man who has a five-
pound note of his own to change would be likely, to
murder another man for what he could get,” he went


NIGHT WORK 67
on. “But Kitely had a nice bit of money to carry
away, and he wore a very valuable gold watch and
chain, which he was rather fond of showing in the
town, and eh'?
“It’s a suspicious business,” said Mallalieu.
“You say Harborough saw Kitely take his money?”
“Couldn't fail,” replied the bank-manager. “He
was standing by him. The old man put it—notes
and gold—in a pocket that he had inside his waist-
coat.”
Mallalieu lingered, as if in thought, rubbing his
chin and staring at the carpet. “Well, that’s a sort
of additional clue,” he remarked at last. “It looks
very black against Harborough.”
“We’ve the numbers of the notes that I handed
to Kitely,” observed the bank-manager. “They may
be useful if there’s any attempt to change any note,
you know.”
Mallalieu shook his head.
“Aye, just so,” he answered. “But I should say
there won’t be—just yet. It’s a queer business, isn't
it—but, as I say, there's evidence against this fellow,
and we must try to get him.” *
He went out then and crossed the street to the
doctor's house—while he was about it, he wanted
to know all he could. And with the doctor he stopped
much longer than he had stopped at the bank, and
when he left him he was puzzled. For the doctor
said to him what he had said to Cotherstone and to
Bent and to the rest of the group in the wood—that
whoever had strangled Kitely had had experience in
that sort of grim work before—or else he was a sailor-


68 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
man who had expert knowledge of tying knots. Now
Mallalieu was by that time more certain than ever
that Cotherstone was the murderer, and he felt sure
that Cotherstone had no experience of that sort of
thing.
“Done with a single twist and a turn 1 '' he mut-
tered to himself as he walked back to the police-
station. “Aye—aye l—that seems to show knowledge.
But it’s not my business to follow that up just now—
I know what my business is—nobody better.’’
The superintendent and the sergeant were giving
orders to two sleepy-eyed policemen when Mallalieu
rejoined them. He waited until the policemen had
gone away to patrol the Shawl and then took the
superintendent aside.
“I’ve heard a bit more incriminatory news against
Harborough,” he said. “He was in the bank this
morning—or yesterday morning, as it now is—when
Kitely drew his money. There may be naught in
that—and there may be a lot. Anyway, he knew the
old man had a goodish bit on him.”
The superintendent nodded, but his manner was
doubtful.
“Well, of course, that’s evidence—considering
things,” he said, “but you know as well as I do, Mr.
Mayor, that Harborough's not a man that's ever
been in want of money. It’s the belief of a good
many folks in the town that he has money of his
own: he's always been a bit of a mystery ever since
I can remember. He could afford to give that daugh-
ter of his a good education—good as a young lady
gets—and he spends plenty, and I never heard of


70 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
they stood in a vacant space outside the office.
“Well?”
“Well?” responded Mallalieu.
Cotherstone began to fidget with some account books
and papers that he had brought from his house. He
eyed his partner with furtive glances; Mallalieu eyed
him with steady and watchful ones.
“I suppose you’ve heard all about it?” said Coth-
erstone, after an awkward silence.
“Aye!” replied Mallalieu, drily. “Aye, I’ve
heard.”
Cotherstone looked round. There was no one near
him, but he dropped his voice to a whisper.
“So long as nobody but him knew,” he muttered,
giving Mallalieu another side glance, ‘‘so long as he
hadn't said aught to anybody—and I don’t think he
had—we're—safe.”
Mallalieu was still staring quietly at Cotherstone.
And Cotherstone began to grow restless under that
steady, questioning look.
“Oh?” observed Mallalieu, at last. “Aye? You
think so? Ah !”
“Good God—don't you!” exclaimed Cotherstone,
roused to a sudden anger. “ 2 7
But just then a policeman came out of the High
Street into the yard, caught sight of the two part-
ners, and came over to them, touching his helmet.
“Can your Worship step across the way?” he asked.
“They’ve brought Harborough down, and the Super
wants a word with you.”


CHAPTER VIII
RETAINED FOR THE DEFENCE
Instead of replying to the policeman by word or
movement, Mallalieu glanced at Cotherstone.
There was a curious suggestion in that glance which
Cotherstone did not like. He was already angry;
Mallalieu’s inquiring look made him still angrier.
“Like to come?” asked Mallalieu, laconically.
“No!” answered Cotherstone, turning towards the
office. “It’s naught to me.”
He disappeared within doors, and Mallalieu walked
out of the yard into the High Street—to run against
Bent and Brereton, who were hurrying in the direc-
tion of the police-station, in company with another
constable.
“Ah!” said Mallalieu as they met. “So you’ve
heard, too, I suppose? Heard that Harborough's
been taken, I mean. Now, how was he taken?” he
went on, turning to the policeman who had summoned
him. “And when, and where?—let’s be knowing
about it.”
“He wasn’t taken, your Worship,” replied the man.
“Leastways, not in what you’d call the proper way.
He came back to his house half an hour or so ago—
when it was just getting nicely light—and two of
71


72 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
our men that were there told him what was going on,
and he appeared to come straight down with them.
He says he knows naught, your Worship.”
“That’s what you’d expect,” remarked Mallalieu,
drily. “He’d be a fool if he said aught else.”
He put his thumbs in the armholes of his waist-
coat, and, followed by the others, strolled into the
police-station as if he were dropping in on business
of trifling importance. And there was nothing to
be seen there which betokened that a drama of life
and death was being constructed in that formal-
looking place of neutral-coloured walls, precise furni-
ture, and atmosphere of repression. Three or four
men stood near the superintendent's desk; a police-
man was writing slowly and laboriously on a big sheet
of blue paper at a side-table, a woman was coaxing a
sluggish fire to burn.
“The whole thing’s ridiculous!” said a man’s scorn-
ful voice. “It shouldn’t take five seconds to see that.”
Brereton instinctively picked out the speaker.
That was Harborough, of course—the tall man who
stood facing the others and looking at them as if he
wondered how they could be as foolish as he evi-
dently considered them to be. He looked at this
man with great curiosity. There was certainly
something noticeable about him, he decided. A wiry,
alert, keen-eyed man, with good, somewhat gipsy-like
features, much tanned by the weather, as if he were
perpetually exposed to sun and wind, rain and hail;
sharp of movement, evidently of more than ordinary
intelligence, and, in spite of his rough garments and


'74 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
do—in such cases. But—what else? Say aught you
like—it’s all informal, this.”
“Very well,” continued Harborough. “They tell
me the old man was strangled by a piece of cord that
was evidently cut off one of my coils. Now, is there
any man in his common senses would believe that if I
did that job, I should leave such a bit of clear evi-
dence behind me? I’m not a fool!”
“You might ha” been interrupted before you could
take that cord off his neck,” suggested Mallalieu.
“Aye—but you’d have to reckon up the average
chances of that l” exclaimed Harborough, with a sharp
glance at the bystanders. “And the chances are in
my favour. No, sir!—whoever did this job, cut that
length of cord off my coil, which anybody could get
at, and used it to throw suspicion on me! That's the
truth—and you’ll find it out some day, whatever hap-
pens now.”
Mallalieu exchanged glances with the superintend-
ent and then faced Harborough squarely, with an air
of inviting confidence.
“Now, my lad!” he said, almost coaxingly.
“There's a very simple thing to do, and it’ll clear
this up as far as you’re concerned. Just answer a
plain question. Where ha’ you been all night?”
A tense silence fell—broken by the crackling of the
wood in the grate, which the charwoman had at last
succeeded in stirring into a blaze, and by the rattling
of the fire-irons which she now arranged in the fender.
Everybody was watching the suspected man, and no-
body as keenly as Brereton. And Brereton saw that
a deadlock was at hand. A strange look of obstinacy


RETAINED FOR THE DEFENCE 75
and hardness came into Harborough's eyes, and he
shook his head.
“No !” he answered. “I shan’t say! The truth’ll
come out in good time without that. It’s not neces-
sary for me to say. Where I was during the night
is my business—nobody else’s.”
“You’ll not tell?” asked Mallalieu.
“I shan’t tell,” replied Harborough.
“You’re in danger, you know,” said Mallalieu.
“In your opinion,” responded Harborough, dog-
gedly. “Not in mine ! There’s law in this country.
You can arrest me, if you like—but you’ll have your
work set to prove that I killed yon old man. No, sir!
But—” here he paused, and looking round him,
laughed almost maliciously “—but I’ll tell you what
I’ll do,” he went on. “I’ll tell you this, if it’ll do you
any good—if I liked to say the word, I could prove
my innocence down to the ground ! There!”
“And you won’t say that word?” asked Mallalieu.
“I shan't! Why? Because it's not necessary.
Why l’’ demanded Harborough, laughing with an
expresssion of genuine contempt. “What is there
against me? Naught ! As I say, there’s law in
this country—there's such a thing as a jury. Do
you believe that any jury would convict a man on
what you’ve got? It's utter nonsense !”
The constable who had come down from the Shawl
with Bent and Brereton had for some time been en-
deavouring to catch the eye of the superintendent.
Succeeding in his attempts at last, he beckoned that
official into a quiet corner of the room, and turning
his back on the group near the fireplace, pulled some-


76 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
thing out of his pocket. The two men bent over it,
and the constable began to talk in whispers.
Mallalieu meanwhile was eyeing Harborough in his
stealthy, steady fashion. He looked as if he was reck-
oning him up.
“Well, my lad,” he observed at last. “You’re
making a mistake. If you can’t or won’t tell what
you’ve been doing with yourself between eight last
night and six this morning, why, then—”
The superintendent came back, holding something
in his hand. He, too, looked at Harborough.
“Will you hold up your left foot?—turn the sole
up,” he asked. “Just to see—something.”
Harborough complied, readily, but with obvious
scornful impatience. And when he had shown the
sole of the left foot, the superintendent opened his
hand and revealed a small crescent-shaped bit of
bright steel.
“That's off the toe of your boot, Harborough,” he
said. “You know it is And it’s been picked up—
just now, as it .were—where this affair happened.
You must have lost it there during the last few hours,
because it’s quite bright—not a speck of rust on it,
you see. What do you say to that, now?”
“Naught !” retorted Harborough, defiantly. “It is
mine, of course—I noticed it was working loose yes-
terday. And if it was picked up in that wood, what
then 7 I passed through there last night on my way
to—where I was going. God—you don’t mean to say
you'd set a man's life on bits o'things like that l”
Mallalieu beckoned the superintendent aside and
talked with him. Almost at once he himself turned


RETAINED FOR THE DEFENCE 77
away and left the room, and the superintendent came
back to the group by the fireplace.
“Well, there's no help for it, Harborough,” he
said. “We shall have to detain you—and I shall
have to charge you, presently. It can’t be helped—
and I hope you’ll be able to clear yourself.”
“I expected nothing else,” replied Harborough.
“I’m not blaming you—nor anybody. Mr. Bent,” he
continued, turning to where Bent and Brereton stood
a little apart. “I’d be obliged to you if you’d do
something for me. Go and tell my daughter about
this, if you please! You see, I came straight down
here—I didn’t go into my house when I got back.
If you’d just step up and tell her—and bid her not
be afraid—there’s naught to be afraid of, as she’ll
find—as everybody’ll find.”
“Certainly,” said Bent. “I’ll go at once.” He
tapped Brereton on the arm, and led him out into the
street. “Well?” he asked, when they were outside.
“What do you think of that, now?”
“That man gives one all the suggestion of inno-
cence,” remarked Brereton, thoughtfully, “and from
a merely superficial observation of him, I, personally,
should say he is innocent. But then, you know, I’ve
known the most hardened and crafty criminals as-
sume an air of innocence, and keep it up, to the very
end. However, we aren’t concerned about that just
now—the critical point here, for Harborough, at any
rate, is the evidence against him.”
“And what do you think of that?” asked Bent.
“There's enough to warrant his arrest,” answered
Brereton, “and he’ll be committed on it, and he’ll go


78 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
for trial. All that's certain—unless he's a sensible
man, and tells what he was doing with himself between
eight and ten o’clock last night.”
“Ah, and why doesn’t he?” said Bent. “He must
have some good reason. I wonder if his daughter
can persuade him?”
“Isn’t that his daughter coming towards us?” in-
quired Brereton.
Bent glanced along the road and saw Avice Har-
borough at a little distance, hastening in their direc-
tion and talking earnestly to a middle-aged man who
was evidently listening with grave concern to what
she said.
“Yes, that’s she,” he replied, “and that's North-
rop with her—the man that Mallalieu was playing
cards with last night. She's governess to Northrop's
two younger children—I expect she's heard about her
father, and has been to get Northrop to come down
with her—he's a magistrate.”
Avice listened with ill-concealed impatience while
Bent delivered his message. He twice repeated Har-
borough's injunction that she was not to be afraid,
and her impatience increased.
“I’m not afraid,” she answered. “That is, afraid
of nothing but my father's obstinacy I know him.
And I know that if he's said he won’t tell anything
about his whereabouts last night, he won’t And if
you want to help him—as you seem to do—you must
recognize that.”
“Wouldn’t he tell you?” suggested Brereton.
The girl shook her head.
“Once or twice a year,”
she answered, “he goes


RETAINED FOR THE DEFENCE 79
away for a night, like that, and I never know—
never have known—where he goes. There's some
mystery about it—I know there is. He won’t tell—
he'll let things go to the last, and even then he won’t
tell. You won’t be able to help him that way—
there's only one way you can help.”
“What way?” asked Bent.
“Find the murderer!” exclaimed Avice with a
quick flash of her eyes in Brereton's direction. “My
father is as innocent as I am—find the man who did
it and clear him that way. Don’t wait for what these
police people do—they’ll waste time over my father.
Do something! They’re all on the wrong track—let
somebody get on the right one!”
“She’s right !” said Northrop, a shrewd-faced little
man, who looked genuinely disturbed. “You know
what police are, Mr. Bent—if they get hold of one
notion they’re deaf to all others. While they’re con-
centrating on Harborough, you know, the real man’ll
be going free—laughing in his sleeve, very like.”
“But—what are we to do?” asked Bent. “What
are we to start on?”
“Find out about Kitely himself!” exclaimed Avice.
“Who knows anything about him? He may have
had enemies—he may have been tracked here. Find
out if there was any motivel” She paused and looked
half appealingly, half-searchingly at Brereton. “I
heard you’re a barrister—a clever one,” she went on,
hesitating a little. “Can't—can't you suggest any-
thing?”
“There's something I’ll suggest at once,” re-
sponded Brereton impulsively. “Whatever else is


RETAINED FOR THE DEFENCE 81
and find out who did,” observed Brereton. “There
is as much mystery about that as about Harborough.”
“All mystery, sir!” agreed Northrop. “It’s odd–
I came through them woods on the Shawl there about
a quarter to ten last night: I’d been across to the
other side to see a man of mine that’s poorly in bed.
Now, I never heard aught, never saw aught—but then,
it's true I was hurrying—I’d made an appointment
for a hand at whist with the Mayor at my house at
ten o’clock, and I thought I was late. I never heard
a Sound—not so much as a dead twig Snap! But then,
it would ha’ been before that—at some time.”
“Yes, at some time,” agreed Brereton. “Well,—
I'll see you in court, no doubt.”
He turned back, and followed Bent and Avice at
a distance, watching them thoughtfully.
“At some time?” he mused. “Um Well, I'm
now conversant with the movements of two inhabitants
of Highmarket at a critical period of last night. Mal-
lalieu didn’t go to cards with Northrop until ten
o'clock, and at ten o’clock Cotherstone returned to
his house after being absent—one hour.”


CHAPTER IX
ANTECEDENTS
During the interval which elapsed between these
early morning proceedings and the bringing up of
Harborough before the borough magistrates in a
densely-packed court, Brereton made up his mind as
to what he would do. He would act on Avice Har-
borough's suggestion, and, while watching the trend
of affairs on behalf of the suspected man, would find
out all he could about the murdered one. At that
moment—so far as Brereton knew—there was only
one person in Highmarket who was likely to know
anything about Kitely: that person, of course, was
the queer-looking housekeeper. He accordingly de-
termined, even at that early stage of the proceedings,
to have Miss Pett in the witness-box.
Harborough, who had been formally arrested and
charged by the police after the conversation at the
police-station, was not produced in court until eleven
o'clock, by which time the whole town and neighbour-
hood were astir with excitement. Somewhat to Brere-
ton's surprise, the prosecuting counsel, who had been
hastily fetched from Norcaster and instructed on the
way, went more fully into the case than was usual.
Brereton had expected that the police would ask for
82


ANTECEDENTS 83
an adjournment after the usual evidence of the su-
perficial facts, and of the prisoner's arrest, had been
offered; instead of that, the prosecution brought for-
ward several witnesses, and amongst them the bank-
manager, who said that when he cashed Kitely's draft
for him the previous morning, in Harborough's pres-
ence, he gave Kitely the one half of the money in gold.
The significance of this evidence immediately tran-
spired: a constable succeeded the bank-manager and
testified that after searching the prisoner after his
arrest he found on him over twenty pounds in sov-
ereigns and half-sovereigns, placed in a wash-leather
bag.
Brereton immediately recognized the impression
which this evidence made. He saw that it weighed
with the half-dozen solid and slow-thinking men who
sat on one side or the other of Mallalieu on the mag-
isterial bench; he felt the atmosphere of suspicion
which it engendered in the court. But he did noth-
ing: he had already learned sufficient from Avice in a
Consultation with her and Bent's solicitor to know
that it would be very easy to prove to a jury that it
was no unusual thing for Harborough to carry twenty
or thirty pounds in gold on him. Of all these wit-
nesses Brereton asked scarcely anything—but he made
it clear that when Harborough was met near his cot-
tage at daybreak that morning by two constables who
informed him of what had happened, he expressed
great astonishment, jeered at the notion that he had
had anything to do with the murder, and, without
going on to his own door, offered voluntarily to walk
straight to the police-station.


ANTECEDENTS 85
“Still, you knew him for ten years. Now,” con-
tinued Brereton, concentrating his gaze on Miss Pett's
curious features, “who and what was Mr. Kitely?”
Miss Pett drummed her black-gloved fingers on
the edge of the witness-box and shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I never have
known.”
“But you must have some idea, some notion—after
ten years’ acquaintanceship ! Come now. What
did he do with himself in London? Had he no
business?”
“He had business,” said Miss Pett. “He was out
most of the day at it. I don’t know what it was.”
“Never mentioned it to you?”
“Never in his life.”
“Did you gain no idea of it? For instance, did
it take him out at regular hours?”
“No, it didn't. Sometimes he'd go out very early
—sometimes late—some days he never went out at
all. And sometimes he’d be out at night—and away
for days together. I never asked him anything, of
course.”
“Whatever it was, he retired from it eventually?”
“Yes—just before we came here.”
“Do you know why Mr. Kitely came here?”
“Well,” said Miss Pett, “he’d always said he
wanted a nice little place in the country, and pref-
erably in the North. He came up this way for a
holiday some months since, and when he got back
he said he'd found just the house and neighbourhood
to suit him, so, of course, we removed here.”


ANTECEDENTS 87
}:
|
“Do you know the contents of that will?”
“No!” said Miss Pett. “I do not—so there!”
“Did you witness it?”
“No, I didn't.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Where is it?”
“My nephew has it,” replied Miss Pett. “He’s
a solicitor, and he made it.”
“What is your nephew’s name and address?”
asked Brereton.
“Mr. Christopher Pett, 23B Cursitor Street,”
answered Miss Pett, readily enough.
“Have you let him know of Mr. Kitely's death?”
“Yes. I sent him a telegram first thing this morn-
ing.”
“Asking him to bring the will?”
“No, I did not!” exclaimed Miss Pett, indignantly.
“I never mentioned the will. Mr. Kitely was very
fond of my nephew—he considered him a very clever
young man.”
“We shall, no doubt, have the pleasure of seeing
your nephew,” remarked Brereton. “Well, now, I
want to ask you a question or two about yourself.
What had you been before you became housekeeper
to Mr. Kitely?”
“Housekeeper to another gentleman l’’ replied Miss
Pett, acidly.
“Who was he?”
“Well, if you want to know, he was a Major Stil-
man, a retired officer—though what that has 3 y
“Where did Major Stilman live?” asked Brereton.


88 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“He lived at Kandahar Cottage, Woking,” replied
Miss Pett, who was now showing signs of rising anger.
“But—”
“Answer my questions, if you please, and don’t
make remarks,” said Brereton. “Is Major Stilman
alive?”
“No, he isn't—he's dead this ten years,” answered
Miss Pett. “And if you're going to ask me any more
questions about who and what I am, young man, I'll
save you the trouble. I was with Major Stilman a
many years, and before that I was store-keeper at one
London hotel, and linen-keeper at another, and before
that I lived at home with my father, who was a re-
spectable farmer in Sussex. And what all this has to
do with what we’re here for, I should like—”
“Just give me the names of the two hotels you were
at in London, will you?” asked Brereton.
“One was the Royal Belvedere in Bayswater, and
the other the Mervyn Crescent in Kensington,” re-
plied Miss Pett. “Highly respectable, both of ‘em.”
“And you come originally from—where in Sus-
Sex?’’
“Oakbarrow Farm, near Horsham. Do you want
to know any 2 x
“I shan’t trouble you much longer,” said Brere-
ton suavely. “But you might just tell me this—
has Mr. Kitely ever had any visitors since he came
to Highmarket?”
“Only one,” answered Miss Pett. “And it was my
nephew, who came up for a week-end to see him on
business. Of course, I don’t know what the business
y


ANTECEDENTS 89
was. Mr. Kitely had property in London; house-
property, and—”
“And your nephew, as his solicitor, no doubt came
to see him about it,” interrupted Brereton. “Thank
you, Miss Pett—I don’t want to trouble you any
more.’’
He sat down as the housekeeper left the witness-
box—confident that he had succeeded in introducing
a new atmosphere into the case. Already there were
whisperings going on in the crowded court; he felt
that these country folk, always quick to form sus-
picions, were beginning to ask themselves if there was
not something dark and sinister behind the mystery
of Kitely's murder, and he was callous enough—from
a purely professional standpoint—to care nothing if
they began to form ideas about Miss Pett. For Brere-
ton knew that nothing is so useful in the breaking-
down of one prejudice as to set up another, and his
great object just then was to divert primary preju-
dice away from his client. Nevertheless, nothing, he
knew well, could at that stage prevent Harborough's
ultimate committal—unless Harborough himself chose
to prove the alibi of which he had boasted. But Har-
borough refused to do anything towards that, and
when the case had been adjourned for a week, and the
prisoner removed to a cell pending his removal to
Norcaster gaol, a visit from Brereton and Avice in
company failed to move him.
“It’s no good, my girl; it's no good, sir,” he said,
when both had pleaded with him to speak. “I’m de-
termined I shall not say where I was last night.”


90 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Tell me—in secret—and then leave me to make use
of the knowledge, also in secret,” urged Brereton.
“No, sir—once for all, no!” answered Harborough.
“There’s no necessity. I may be kept locked up
for a bit, but the truth about this matter’ll come out
before ever I’m brought to trial—or ought to be.
Leave me alone—I’m all right. All that bothers me
now, my girl, is—you!”
“Then don’t bother,” said Avice. “I’m going to
stay with Mrs. Northrop. They’ve insisted on it.”
Brereton was going out of the cell, leaving father
and daughter together, when he suddenly turned
back.
“You’re a man of sense, Harborough,” he said.
“Come, now—have you got anything to suggest as to
how you can be helped ?”
Harborough smiled and gave his counsel a know-
ing look.
“Aye, sir!” he answered. “The best suggestion
you could get. If you want to find out who killed
Kitely—go back! Go back, sir—go inch by inch,
through Kitely's life!”


CEIAPTER X
THE HOLE IN THE THATCH
Bent, taking his guest home to dinner after the
police-court proceedings, showed a strong and encour-
aging curiosity. He, in common with all the rest of
the townsfolk who had contrived to squeeze into the
old court-house, had been immensely interested in Bre-
reton's examination of Miss Pett. Now he wanted to
know what it meant, what it signified, what was its
true relation to the case?
“You don’t mean to say that you suspect that queer
old atomy of a woman l’’ he exclaimed incredulously
as they sat down to Bent’s bachelor table. “And
yet—you really looked as if you did—and contrived
to throw something very like it into your voice, too !
Man, alive!—half the Highmarket wiseacres’ll be sit-
ting down to their roast mutton at this minute in the
full belief that Miss Pett strangled her master '''
“Well, and why not?” asked Brereton, coolly.
“Surely, if you face facts, there's just as much reason
to suspect Miss Pett as there is to suspect Harborough.
They’re both as innocent as you are, in all probability.
Granted there’s some nasty evidence against Harbor-
ough, there's also the presumption—founded on words
from her own lips—that Miss Pett expects to benefit
91


92 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
by this old man's death. She's a strong and wiry
woman, and you tell me Kitely was getting some-
what enfeebled—she might have killed him, you know,
Murders, my dear fellow, are committed by the most
unlikely people, and for curious reasons: they have
been committed by quite respectable females—like
Miss Pett—for nothing but a mere whim.”
“Do you really suspect her?” demanded Bent.
“That’s what I want to know.”
“That's what I shan’t tell you,” replied Brereton,
with a good-humoured laugh. “All I shall tell you is
that I believe this murder to be either an exceedingly
simple affair, or a very intricate affair. Wait a little
—wait, for instance, until Mr. Christopher Pett ar-
rives with that will. Then we shall advance a con-
siderable stage.”
“I’m sorry for Avice Harborough, anyway,” re-
marked Bent, ‘‘and it's utterly beyond me to imagine
why her father can’t say where he was last night.
I suppose there'd be an end of the case if he’d prove
where he was, eh?”
“He’d have to account for every minute between
nine and ten o’clock,” answered Brereton. “It
would be no good, for instance, if we proved to a jury
that from say ten o’clock until five o’clock next morn-
ing, Harborough was at—shall we say your county
town, Norcaster. You may say it would take Har-
borough an hour to get from here to Norcaster, and
an hour to return, and that would account for his
whereabouts between nine and ten last night, and
between five and six this morning. That wouldn’t
do—because, according to the evidence, Kitely left his


THE HOLE IN THE THATCH 93
house just before nine o’clock, and he may have been
killed immediately. Supposing Harborough killed
him at nine o’clock precisely, Harborough would even
then be able to arrive in Norcaster by ten. What we
want to know, in order to fully establish Harbor-
ough's innocence is—where was he, what was he do-
ing, from the moment he left his cottage last night
until say a quarter past nine, the latest moment at
which, according to what the doctor said, the murder
could have been committed ?”
“Off on one of his poaching expeditions, I sup-
pose,” said Bent.
“No–that's not at all likely,” answered Brere-
ton. “There's some very strange mystery about that
man, and I’ll have to get at the truth of it—in spite
of his determined reticence Bent —I’m going to
see this thing right through The Norcaster Assizes
will be on next month, and of course Harborough will
be brought up then. I shall stop in this neighbour-
hood and work out the case—it’ll do me a lot of good
in all sorts of ways—experience—work—the interest
in it—and the kudos I shall win if I get my man off—
as I will ! So I shall unashamedly ask you to give
me house-room for that time.”
“Of course,” replied Bent. “The house is yours
—only too glad, old chap. But what a queer case
it is! I'd give something, you know, to know what
you really think about it.”
“I’ve not yet settled in my own mind what I do
think about it,” said Brereton. “But I’ll suggest a
few things to you which you can think over at your
leisure. What motive could Harborough have had


94 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
for killing Kitely? There's abundant testimony in
the town—from his daughter, from neighbours, from
tradesmen—that Harborough was never short of
money—he's always had more money than most men
in his position are supposed to have. Do you think
it likely that he’d have killed Kitely for thirty
pounds? Again—does anybody of sense believe that
a man of Harborough's evident ability would have
murdered his victim so clumsily as to leave a direct
clue behind him? Now turn to another side. Is it
not evident that if Miss Pett wanted to murder Kitely
she’d excellent chances of not only doing so, but of
directing suspicion to another person? She knew her
master's habits—she knew the surroundings—she
knew where Harborough kept that cord—she is the
sort of person who could steal about as quietly as a
cat. If–as may be established by the will which
her nephew has, and of which, in spite of all she af-
firmed, or, rather, swore, she may have accurate
knowledge—she benefits by Kitely's death, is there not
motive there? Clearly, Miss Pett is to be suspected l’’
“Do you mean to tell me that she'd kill old Kitely
just to get possession of the bit he had to leave?”
asked Bent incredulously. “Come, now, that’s a
stiff proposition.”
“Not to me,” replied Brereton. “I’ve known of
a case in which a young wife carefully murdered an
old husband because she was so eager to get out of
the dull life she led with him that she couldn’t wait
a year or two for his natural decease; I’ve heard of a
case in which an elderly woman poisoned her twin-
sister, so that she could inherit her share of an estate


THE HOLE IN THE THATCH 95
and go to live in style at Brighton. I don’t want to
do Miss Pett any injustice, but I say that there are
grounds for suspecting her—and they may be wi-
dened.”
“Then it comes to this,” said Bent. “There are
two people under suspicion: Harborough's suspected
by the police—Miss Pett's suspected by you. And
it may be, and probably is, the truth that both are
entirely innocent. In that case, who's the guilty
person?”
“Ah, who indeed?” assented Brereton, half care-
lessly. “That is a question. But my duty is to
prove that my client is not guilty. And as you’re
going to attend to your business this afternoon, I'll
do a little attending to mine by thinking things over.”
When Bent had gone away to the town, Brereton
lighted a cigar, stretched himself in an easy chair in
front of a warm fire in his host’s smoking-room, and
tried to think clearly. He had said to Bent all that
was in his mind about Harborough and about Miss
Pett—but he had said nothing, had been determined
to say nothing, about a curious thought, an unformed,
vague suspicion which was there. It was that as yet
formless suspicion which occupied all his mental pow-
ers now—he put Harborough and Miss Pett clean
away from him.
And as he sat there, he asked himself first of all
—why had this curious doubt about two apparently
highly-respectable men of this little, out-of-the-world
town come into his mind? He traced it back to its
first source—Cotherstone. Brereton was a close ob-
server of men; it was his natural instinct to observe,


96 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
and he was always giving it a further training and
development. He had felt certain as he sat at Supper
with him, the night before, that Cotherstone had
something in his thoughts which was not of his guests,
his daughter, or himself. His whole behaviour sug-
gested pre-occupation, occasional absent-mindedness:
once or twice he obviously did not hear the remarks
which were addressed to him. He had certainly be-
trayed some curious sort of confusion when Kitely's
name was mentioned. And he had manifested great
astonishment, been much upset, when Garthwaite
came in with the news of Kitely's death.
Now here came in what Brereton felt to be the
all-important, the critical point of this, his first at-
tempt to think things out. He was not at all sure
that Cotherstone's astonishment on hearing Garth-
waite’s announcement was not feigned, was not a
piece of pure acting. Why? He smiled cynically
as he answered his own question. The answer was
—Because when Cotherstone, Garthwaite, Bent, and
Brereton set out from Cotherstone’s house to look at
the dead man’s body, Cotherstone led the way straight
to it. -
How did Cotherstone know exactly where, in that
half-mile of wooded hill-side, the murder had been
committed of which he had only heard five minutes
before. Yet, he led them all to within a few yards
of the dead man, until he suddenly checked himself,
thrust the lantern into Garthwaite's hands and said
that of course he didn’t know where the body was
Now might not that really mean, when fully analyzed,
that even if Cotherstone did not kill Kitely himself


THE HOLE IN THE THATCH 97
during the full hour in which he was absent from his
house, he knew that Kitely had been killed, and
where—and possibly by whom?
Anyway, here were certain facts—and they had to
be reckoned with. Kitely was murdered about a
quarter-past nine o'clock. Cotherstone was out of his
house from ten minutes to nine o’clock until five min-
utes to ten. He was clearly excited when he re-
turned: he was more excited when he went with the
rest of them up the wood. Was it not probable that
under the stress of that excitement he forgot his pres-
ence of mind, and mechanically went straight to the
all-important spot?
So much for that. But there was something more.
Mallalieu was Cotherstone's partner. Mallalieu went
to Northrop's house to play cards at ten o’clock. It
might be well to find out, quietly, what Mallalieu was
doing with himself up to ten o'clock. But the main
thing was—what was Cotherstone doing during that
hour of absence? And—had Cotherstone any reason
—of his own, or shared with his partner—for wishing
to get rid of Kitely?
Brereton sat thinking all these things over until
he had finished his cigar; he then left Bent's house
and strolled up into the woods of the Shawl. He
wanted to have a quiet look round the scene of the
murder. He had not been up there since the previous
evening; it now occurred to him that it would be
well to see how the place looked by daylight. There
was no difficulty about finding the exact spot, even
in those close coverts of fir and pine; a thin line of
inquisitive sightseers was threading its way up the


98 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Shawl in front of him, each of its units agog to see
the place where a fellow-being had been done to death.
But no one could get at the precise scene of the
murder. The police had roped a portion of the cop-
pice off from the rest, and two or three constables in
uniform were acting as guards over this enclosed
space, while a couple of men in plain clothes, whom
Brereton by that time knew to be detectives from Nor-
caster, were inside it, evidently searching the ground
with great care. Round and about the fenced-in por-
tion stood townsfolk, young and old, talking, specu-
lating, keenly alive to the goings-on, hoping that the
searchers would find something just then, so that they
themselves could carry some sensational news back to
the town and their own comfortable tea-tables. Most
of them had been in or outside the Court House that
morning and recognized Brereton and made way for
him as he advanced to the ropes. One of the detec-
tives recognized him, too, and invited him to step
inside.
“Found anything?” asked Brereton, who was se-
cretly wondering why the police should be so foolish
as to waste time in a search which was almost certain
to be non-productive.
“No, sir—we’ve been chiefly making out for cer-
tain where the actual murder took place before the
dead man was dragged behind that rock,” answered
the detective. “As far as we can reckon from the
disturbance of these pine needles, the murderer must
have sprung on Kitely from behind that clump of
gorse—there where it's grown to such a height—and
then dragged him here, away from that bit of a path.


THE HOLE IN THE THATCH 99
No—we've found nothing. But I suppose you’ve
heard of the find at Harborough's cottage?”
“No l’’ exclaimed Brereton, startled out of his
habitual composure. “What find?”
“Some of our people made a search there as soon
as the police-court proceedings were over,” replied the
detective. “It was the first chance they’d had of
doing anything systematically. They found the
bank-notes which Kitely got at the Bank yesterday
evening, and a quantity of letters and papers that we
presume had been in that empty pocketbook. They
were all hidden in a hole in the thatch of Harbor-
ough's shed.”
“Where are they?” asked Brereton.
“Down at the police-station—the superintendent
has them,” answered the detective. “He’d show you
them, sir, if you care to go down.”
Brereton went off to the police-station at once and
was shown into the superintendent's office without
delay. That official immediately drew open a drawer
of his desk and produced a packet folded in brown
paper.
‘‘I suppose this is what you want to see, Mr. Brere-
ton,” he said. “I guess you’ve heard about the dis-
covery? Shoved away in a rat-hole in the thatch of
Harborough's shed these were, sir—upon my honour,
I don’t know what to make of it! You’d have
thought that a man of Harborough's sense and clever-
ness would never have put these things there, where
they were certain to be found.”
“I don’t believe Harborough did put them there,”
said Brereton. “But what are they?”


100 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
The superintendent motioned his visitor to sit by
him and then opened the papers out on his desk.
“Not so much,” he answered. “Three five-pound
notes—I’ve proved that they’re those which poor
Kitely got at the bank yesterday. A number of let-
ters—chiefly about old books, antiquarian matters, and
so forth—some scraps of newspaper cuttings, of the
same nature. And this bit of a memorandum book,
that fits that empty pocketbook we found, with pencil
entries in it—naught of any importance. Look 'em
over, if you like, Mr. Brereton. I make nothing out
of ‘em.”
Brereton made nothing out either, at first glance.
The papers were just what the superintendent de-
scribed them to be, and he went rapidly through them
without finding anything particularly worthy of
notice. But to the little memorandum book he gave
more attention, especially to the recent entries. And
one of these, made within the last three months, struck
him as soon as he looked at it, insignificant as it
seemed to be. It was only of one line, and the one
line was only of a few initials, an abbreviation or two,
and a date: M. dº C. v. S. B. cir. 81. And why this
apparently innocent entry struck Brereton was be-
cause he was still thinking as an under-current to all
this, of Mallalieu and Cotherstone—and M. and C.
were certainly the initials of those not too common
IlanleS.


CHAPTER XI -
CHRISTOPHER PETT
The two men sat staring silently at the paper-strewn
desk for several moments; each occupied with his own
thoughts. At last the superintendent began to put
the several exhibits together, and he turned to Brere-
ton with a gesture which suggested a certain amount
of mental impatience.
“There’s one thing in all this that I can’t under-
stand, sir,” he said. “And it’s this—it's very evi-
dent that whoever killed Kitely wanted the papers
that Kitely carried in that pocket-book. Why did
he take 'em out of the pocket-book and throw the
pocket-book away? I don’t know how that strikes
you—but it licks me, altogether!”
“Yes,’’ agreed Brereton, “it’s puzzling—certainly.
You'd think that the murderer would have carried off
the pocket-book, there and then. That he took the
papers from it, threw the pocket-book itself away,
and then placed the papers—or some of them—where
your people have just found them—in Harborough's
shed—seems to me to argue something which is even
more puzzling. I daresay you see what I mean?”
“Can't say that I do, sir,” answered the super-
intendent. “I haven’t had much experience in this
IOI


102 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
sort of work, you know, Mr. Brereton—it’s a good
bit off our usual line. What do you mean, then?”
“Why,” replied Brereton, laughing a little, “I
mean this—it looks as if the murderer had taken his
time about his proceedings!—after Kitely was killed.
The pocket-book, as you know, was picked up close
to the body. It was empty—as we all saw. Now
what can we infer from that but that the murderer
actually stopped by his victim to examine the papers?
And in that case he must have had a light. He may
have carried an electric torch. Let’s try and recon-
struct the affair. We’ll suppose that the murderer,
whoever he was, was so anxious to find some paper
that he wanted, and that he believed Kitely to have
on him, that he immediately examined the contents
of the pocket-book. He turned on his electric torch
and took all the papers out of the pocket-book, laying
the pocket-book aside. He was looking through the
papers when he heard a sound in the neighbouring
coppices or bushes. He immediately turned off his
light, made off with the papers, and left the empty
case—possibly completely forgetting its existence for
the moment. How does that strike you—as a
theory?”
“Very good, sir,” replied the superintendent.
“Very good—but it is only a theory, you know, Mr.
Brereton.’’
Brereton rose, with another laugh.
“Just so, he said. “But suppose you try to re-
duce it to practice? In this way—you no doubt have
tradesmen in this town who deal in such things as
electric torches. Find out—in absolute secrecy—if


CHRISTOPHER PETT 103
any of them have sold electric torches of late to any
one in the town, and if so, to whom. For I’m cer-
tain of this—that pocket-book and its contents was
examined on the spot, and that examination could
only have been made with a light, and an electric
torch would be the handiest means of providing that
light. And so—so you see how even a little clue like
that might help, eh?”
“I’ll see to it,” assented the superintendent.
“Well, it’s all very queer, sir, and I’m getting more
than ever convinced that we’ve laid hands on the
wrong man. And yet—what could, and what can we
do?”
“Oh, nothing, at present,” replied Brereton.
‘‘Let matters develop. They’re only beginning.”
He went away then, not to think about the last
subject of conversation, but to take out his own pocket-
book as soon as he was clear of the police-station,
and to write down that entry which he had seen in
Ritely's memoranda:-M. dº C. v. S. B. cir. 81. And
again he was struck by the fact that the initials were
those of Mallalieu and Cotherstone, and again he won-
dered what they meant. They might have no refer-
ence whatever to the Mayor and his partner—but un-
der the circumstances it was at any rate a curious co-
incidence, and he had an overwhelming intuition that
something lay behind that entry. But—what?
That evening, as Bent and his guest were lighting
their cigars after dinner, Bent's parlour-maid came
into the smoking-room with a card. Bent glanced
from it to Brereton with a look of surprise.
“Mr. Christopher Pett!” he exclaimed. “What on


104 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
earth does he want me for? Bring Mr. Pett in here,
anyway,” he continued, turning to the parlour-maid.
“Is he alone?—or is Miss Pett with him?”
“The police-superintendent’s with him, sir,” an-
swered the girl. “They said—could they see you
and Mr. Brereton for half an hour, on business?”
“Bring them both in, then,” said Bent. He looked
at Brereton again, with more interrogation. “Fresh
stuff, eh?” he went on. “Mr. Christopher Pett's the
old dragon's nephew, I suppose. But what can he
want with—oh, well, I guess he wants you—I’m the
audience.”
Brereton made no reply. He was watching the
door. And through it presently came a figure and
face which he at once recognized as those of an under-
sized, common-looking, sly-faced little man whom he
had often seen about the Law Courts in London, and
had taken for a solicitor's clerk. He looked just as
common and sly as ever as he sidled into the smoking-
room, removing his silk hat with one hand and de-
positing a brief bag on the table with the other, and
he favoured Brereton with a sickly grin of recogni-
tion after he had made a bow to the master of the
house. That done he rubbed together two long and
very thin white hands and smiled at Brereton once
more.
“Good-evening, Mr. Brereton,” he said in a thin,
wheedling voice. “I’ve no doubt you’ve seen me be-
fore, sir?—I’ve seen you often—round about the
Courts, Mr. Brereton—though I’ve never had the
pleasure of putting business in your way—as yet, Mr.
Brereton, as yet, sir! But 2 3


CHRISTOPHER PETT 105
Brereton, to whom Bent had transferred Mr. Chris-
topher Pett's card, glanced again at it, and from it to
its owner.
“I see your address is that of Messrs. Popham &
Pilboody in Cursitor Street, Mr. Pett,” he observed
frigidly. “Any connection with that well-known
firm 2'.”
Mr. Pett rubbed his hands, and taking the chair
which Bent silently indicated, sat down and pulled
his trousers up about a pair of bony knees. He smiled
widely, showing a set of curiously shaped teeth.
“Mr. Popham, sir,” he answered softly, “has al-
ways been my very good friend. I entered Mr. Pop-
ham's service, sir, at an early age. Mr. Popham, sir,
acted very handsomely by me. He gave me my ar-
ticles, sir. And when I was admitted—two years
ago, Mr. Brereton—Messrs. Popham & Pilboody gave
me—very generously—an office in their suite, so that
I could have my name up, and do a bit on my own,
sir. Oh yes!—I’m connected—intimately—with that
famous firm, Mr. Brereton l’’
There was an assurance about Mr. Pett, a cock-
sureness of demeanour, a cheerful confidence in him-
self, which made Brereton long to kick him; but he
restrained his feelings and said coldly that he sup-
posed Mr. Pett wished to speak to Mr. Bent and him-
self on business.
“Not on my own business, sir,” replied Pett, lay-
ing his queer-looking white fingers on his brief bag.
“On the business of my esteemed feminine relative,
Miss Pett. I am informed, Mr. Brereton—no offence,
sir, oh, none whatever!—that you put some—no doubt


106 THE BOROUGH THEASURER
necessary—questions to Miss Pett at the court this
morning which had the effect of prejudicing her in
the eyes—or shall we say ears?—of those who were
present. Miss Pett accordingly desires that I, as her
legal representative, should lose no time in putting
before you the true state of the case as regards her
relations with Kitely, deceased, and I accordingly, sir,
in the presence of our friend, the superintendent,
whom I have already spoken to outside, desire to tell
you what the truth is. Informally, you understand,
Mr. Brereton, informally 1”
“Just as you please,” answered Brereton. “All
this is, as you say, informal.”
“Quite informal, sir,” agreed Pett, who gained in
cheerfulness with every word. “Oh, absolutely so.
Between ourselves, of course. But it’ll be all the
pleasanter if you know. My aunt, Miss Pett, natu-
rally does not wish, Mr. Brereton, that any person—
hereabouts or elsewhere—should entertain such sus-
picions of her as you seemed—I speak, sir, from in-
formation furnished—to suggest, in your examina-
tion of her today. And so, sir, I wish to tell you
this. I acted as legal adviser to the late Mr. Kitely.
I made his will. I have that will in this bag. And
—to put matters in a nutshell, Mr. Brereton—there
is not a living soul in this world who knows the con-
tents of that will but—your humble and obedient!”
“Do you propose to communicate the contents of
the late Mr. Kitely's will to us?” asked Brereton,
drily.
“I do, sir,” replied Mr. Pett. “And for this rea-
son, My relative—Miss Pett—does not know what


CHRISTOPHER PETT 107
Mr. Kitely’s profession had been, nor what Mr.
Ritely died possessed of. She does not know—any-
thing! And she will not know until I read this will
to her after I have communicated the gist of it to you.
And I will do that in a few words. The late Mr.
Kitely, sir, was an ex-member of the detective police
force. By dint of economy and thrift he had got to-
gether a nice little property—house-property, in Lon-
don—Brixton, to be exact. It is worth about one hun-
dred and fifty pounds per annum. And—to cut mat-
ters short—he has left it absolutely to Miss Pett. I
myself, Mr. Brereton, am sole executor. If you desire
to see the will, sir, you, or Mr. Bent, or the superin-
tendent, are at liberty to inspect it.”
Brereton waved the proffered document aside and
got up from his chair.
“No, thank you, Mr. Pett,” he said. “I’ve no de-
sire to see Mr. Kitely's will. I quite accept all that
you say about it. You, as a lawyer, know very well
that whatever I asked Miss Pett this morning was
asked in the interests of my client. No-you can
put the will away as far as I’m concerned. You've
assured me that Miss Pett is as yet in ignorance of
its contents, and—I take your word. I think, how-
ever, that Miss Pett won’t be exactly surprised.”
“Oh, I daresay my aunt has a pretty good idea,
Mr. Brereton,” agreed Pett, who having offered the
will to both Bent and the superintendent, only to meet
with a polite refusal from each, now put it back in
his bag. “We all of us have some little idea which
quarter the wind's in, you know, sir, in these cases.
Of course, Kitely, deceased, had no relatives, Mr.


108 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Brereton: in fact, so far as Miss Pett and self are
aware, beyond ourselves, he'd no friends.”
“I was going to ask you a somewhat pertinent ques-
tion, Mr. Pett,” said Brereton. “Quite an informal
one, you know. Do you think he had any enemies?”
Pett put his long white fingers together and in-
clined his head to one side. His slit of a mouth op-
ened slightly, and his queer teeth showed themselves
in a sly grin.
“Just sol” he said. “Of course, I take your
meaning, Mr. Brereton. Naturally, you'd think that
a man of his profession would make enemies. No
doubt there must be a good many persons who’d
have been glad—had he still been alive—to have had
their knives into him. Oh, yes! But—unfortu-
nately, I don’t know of 'em, sir.”
“Never heard him speak of anybody who was likely
to cherish revenge, eh?” asked Brereton.
“Never, sir! Kitely, deceased,” remarked Pett,
meditatively, “was not given to talking of his pro-
fessional achievements. I happen to know that he
was concerned in some important cases in his time—
but he rarely, if ever, mentioned them to me. In fact,
I may say, gentlemen,” he continued in a palpable
burst of confidence, “I may say, between ourselves,
that I’d had the honour of Mr. K.’s acquaintance for
some time before ever I knew what his line of business
had been 1 Fact l’’
“A close man, eh?” asked Brereton.
“One of the very closest,” replied Pett. “Yes,
you may say that, sir.”


CHRISTOPHER PETT 109
“Not likely to let things out, I suppose?” con-
tinued Brereton.
“Not hel He was a regular old steel trap, Kitely
was shut tight !” said Pett.
“And—I suppose you’ve no theory, no idea of
your own about his murder?’’ asked Brereton, who
was watching the little man closely. “Have you
formed any ideas or theories?”
Pett half-closed his eyes as he turned them on his
questioner.
“Too early 1” he replied, with a shake of his head.
“Much too early. I shall—in due course. Meantime,
there’s another little commission I have to discharge,
and I may as well do it at once. There are two or
three trifling bequests in this will, gentlemen—one
of 'em's to you, Mr. Bent. It wasn’t in the original
will—that was made before Kitely came to these parts.
It’s in a codicil—made when I came down here a few
weeks ago, on the only visit I ever paid to the old
gentleman. He desired, in case of his death, to leave
you something—said you’d been very friendly to
him.”
“Very good of him, I’m sure,” said Bent with a
glance of surprise. “I’m rather astonished to hear
of it, though.”
“Oh, it's nothing much,” remarked Pett, with a
laugh as he drew from the brief bag what looked like
an old quarto account book, fastened by a brass clasp.
“It’s a scrap-book that the old man kept—a sort of
album in which he pasted up all sorts of odds and
ends. He thought you'd find 'em interesting. And


110 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
knowing of this bequest, sir, I thought I’d bring the
book down. You might just give me a formal receipt
for its delivery, Mr. Bent.”
Bent took his curious legacy and led Mr. Pett away
to a writing-desk to dictate a former of receipt. And
as they turned away, the superintendent signed to
Brereton to step into a corner of the room with him.
“You know what you said about that electric torch
notion this afternoon, sir?” he whispered. “Well,
after you left me, F just made an inquiry—absolutely
secret, you know—myself. I went to Rellit, the iron-
monger—I knew that if such things had ever come
into the town, it 'ud be through him, for he's the only
man that’s at all up-to-date. And—I heard more
than I expected to hear!”
“What?” asked Brereton.
“I think there may be something in what you
said,” answered the superintendent. “But, listen
here—Rellit says he'd swear a solemn oath that no-
body but himself ever sold an electric torch in High-
market. And he’s only sold to three persons—to the
Vicar's son; to Mr. Mallalieu; and to Jack Har-
borough 1”


CHAPTER XII
PARENTAL ANXIETY
For a moment Brereton and the superintendent
looked at each other in silence. Then Bent got up
from his desk at the other side of the room, and he
and the little solicitor came towards them.
“Keep that to yourself, then,” muttered Brereton.
“We’ll talk of it later. It may be of importance.”
“Well, there's this much to bear in mind,” whis-
pered the superintendent, drawing back a little with
an eye on the others. “Nothing of that sort was
found on your client And he’d been out all night.
That’s worth considering—from his standpoint, Mr.
Brereton.’’
Brereton nodded his assent and turned away with
another warning glance. And presently Pett and the
superintendent went off, and Bent dropped into his
easy chair with a laugh.
“Queer sort of unexpected legacy l’’ he said. “I
wonder if the old man really thought I should be in-
terested in his scrap-book?”
“There may be a great deal that's interesting in
it,” remarked Brereton, with a glance at the book,
which Bent had laid aside on top of a book-case.
111


112 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Take care of it. Well, what did you think of Mr.
Christopher Pett?” -
“Cool hand, I should say,” answered Bent. “But
—what did you think of him?”
“Oh, I’ve met Mr. Christopher Pett's sort before,”
said Brereton, drily. “The Dodson & Fogg type of
legal practitioner is by no means extinct. I should
much like to know a good deal more about his various
dealings with Kitely. We shall see and hear more
about them, however—later on. For the present
there are—other matters.”
He changed the subject then—to something utterly
apart from the murder and its mystery. For the one
topic which filled his own mind was also the very
one which he could not discuss with Bent. Had Coth-
erstone, had Mallalieu anything to do with Kitely’s
death? That question was beginning to engross all
his attention: he thought more about it than about
his schemes for a successful defence of Harborough,
well knowing that his best way of proving Harbor-
ough's innocence lay in establishing another man’s
guilt.
“One would give a good deal,” he said to himself,
as he went to bed that night, “if one could get a
moment's look into Cotherstone’s mind—or into Mal-
lalieu’s either For I’ll swear that these two know
Something—possibly congratulating themselves that it
will never be known to anybody else !”
If Brereton could have looked into the minds of
either of the partners at this particular juncture he
would have found much opportunity for thought and
reflection, of a curious nature. For both were keep-


PARENTAL ANXIETY 113
ing a double watch—on the course of events on one
hand; on each other, on the other hand. They
watched the police-court proceedings against Harbor-
ough and saw, with infinite relief, that nothing tran-
spired which seemed inimical to themselves. They
watched the proceedings at the inquest held on Kitely;
they, too, yielded nothing that could attract attention
in the way they dreaded. When several days had
gone by and the police investigations seemed to have
settled down into a concentrated purpose against the
suspected man, both Mallalieu and Cotherstone be-
lieved themselves safe from discovery—their joint
secret appeared to be well buried with the old detec-
tive. But the secret was keenly and vividly alive in
their own hearts, and when Mallalieu faced the truth
he knew that he suspected Cotherstone, and when
Cotherstone put things squarely to himself he knew
that he suspected Mallalieu. And the two men got
to eyeing each other furtively, and to addressing each
other curtly, and when they happened to be alone
there was a heavy atmosphere of mutual dislike and
suspicion between them.
It was a strange psychological fact that though
these men had been partners for a period covering
the most important part of their lives, they had next
to nothing in common. They were excellent partners
in business matters; Mallalieu knew Cotherstone, and
Cotherstone knew Mallalieu in all things relating to
the making of money. But in taste, temperament,
character, understanding, they were as far apart as
the poles. This aloofness when tested further by the
recent discomposing events manifested itself in a dis-


114 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
inclination to conſidence. Mallalieu, whatever he
thought, knew very well that he would never say what
he thought to Cotherstone; Cotherstone knew precisely
the same thing with regard to Mallalieu. But this
silence bred irritation, and as the days went by the
irritation became more than Cotherstone could bear.
He was a highly-strung, nervous man, quick to feel
and to appreciate, and the averted looks and monosyl-
labic remarks and replies of a man into whose com-
pany he could not avoid being thrown began to sting
him to something like madness. And one day, left
alone in the office with Mallalieu when Stoner the
clerk had gone to get his dinner, the irritation be-
came unbearable, and he turned on his partner in a
sudden white heat of ungovernable and impotent
anger.
“Hang you!” he hissed between his set teeth. “I
believe you think I did that job And if you do,
blast you, why don’t you say so, and be done with it?”
Mallalieu, who was standing on the hearth, warm-
ing his broad back at the fire, thrust his hands deeply
into his pockets and looked half-sneeringly at his part-
ner out of his screwed-up eyes.
“I should advise you to keep yourself cool,” he
said with affected quietness. “There’s more than
me’ll think a good deal if you chance to let yourself
out like that.”
“You do think it !” reiterated Cotherstone passion-
ately. “Damn it, d'ye think I haven’t noticed it?
Always looking at me as if—as i y 2
“Now then, keep yourself calm,” interrupted Mal-
lalieu. “I can look at you or at any other, in any


PARENTAL ANXIETY 115
way I like, can't I? There's no need to distress your-
Self—I shan’t give aught away. If you took it in
your head to settle matters—as they were settled—
well, I shan’t say a word. That is unless—you un-
derstand?”
“Understand what?” screamed Cotherstone.
“Unless I’m obliged to,” answered Mallalieu. “I
should have to make it clear that I’d naught to do
with that particular matter, d'ye see? Every man
for himself's a sound principle. But—I see no need.
I don’t believe there’ll be any need. And it doesn’t
matter the value of that pen that’s shaking so in your
hand to me if an innocent man suffers—if he's inno-
cent o’ that, he’s guilty o’ something else. You’re
safe with me.’’
Cotherstone flung the pen on the floor and stamped
On it. And Mallalieu laughed cynically and walked
slowly across to the door.
“You’re a fool, Cotherstone,” he said. “Go on a
bit more like that, and you’ll let it all out to some-
body 'at 'll not keep secrets as I can. Cool yourself,
man, cool yourself!”
“Hang you!” shouted Cotherstone. “Mind I
don’t let something out about you! Where were you
that night, I should like to know? Or, rather, I do
know! You're no safer than I am! And if I told
what I do know 2 3
Mallalieu, with his hand on the latch, turned and
looked his partner in the face—without furtiveness,
for once.
“And if you told aught that you do, or fancy you
know,” he said quietly, “there'd be ruin in your


116 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
home, you soft fool! I thought you wanted things
kept quiet for your lass's sake? Pshaw!—you're tak-
ing leave o’ your senses!”
He walked out at that, and Cotherstone, shaking
with anger, relapsed into a chair and cursed his fate.
And after a time he recovered himself and began to
think, and his thoughts turned instinctively to Lettie.
Mallalieu was right—of course, he was right! Any-
thing that he, Cotherstone, could say or do in the
way of bringing up the things that must be sup-
pressed would ruin Lettie's chances. So, at any rate,
it seemed to him. For Cotherstone’s mind was es-
sentially a worldly one, and it was beyond him to
believe that an ambitious young man like Windle
Bent would care to ally himself with the daughter of
an ex-convict. Bent would have the best of excuses
for breaking off all relations with the Cotherstone
family if the unpleasant truth came out. No!—what-
ever else he did, he must keep his secret safe until
Bent and Lettie were safely married. That once ac-
complished, Cotherstone cared little about the future:
Bent could not go back on his wife. And so Cother-
stone endeavoured to calm himself, so that he could
scheme and plot, and before night came he paid a
visit to his doctor, and when he went home that even-
ing, he had his plans laid.
Bent was with Lettie when Cotherstone got home,
and Cotherstone presently got the two of them into
a little snuggery which he kept sacred to himself as
a rule. He sat down in his easy chair, and signed to
them to sit near him.
“I’m glad I found you together,” he said.


PARENTAL ANXIETY 117
“There’s something I want to say. There’s no call
for you to be frightened, Lettie—but what I’ve got
to say is serious. And I’ll put it straight—Bent’ll
understand. Now, you’d arranged to get married
next spring—six months hence. I want you to change
your minds, and to let it be as soon as you can.”
He looked with a certain eager wistfulness at Lettie,
expecting to see her start with surprise. But fond as
he was of her, Cotherstone had so far failed to grasp
the later developments of his daughter's character.
Lettie Cotherstone was not the sort of young woman
who allows herself to be surprised by anything. She
was remarkably level-headed, cool of thought, well
able to take care of herself in every way, and fully
alive to the possibilities of her union with the rising
young manufacturer. ...And instead of showing any
astonishment, she quietly asked her father what he
meant.
“I’ll tell you,” answered Cotherstone, greatly re-
lieved to find that both seemed inclined to talk mat-
ters quietly over. “It’s this—I’ve not been feeling as
well as I ought to feel, lately. The fact is, Bent,
I’ve done too much in my time. A man can work
too hard, you know—and it tells on him in the end.
So the doctor says, anyhow.” f -
“The doctor!’” exclaimed Lettie. “You haven’t
been to him?”
“Seen him this afternoon,” replied Cotherstone.
“Don’t alarm yourself. But that’s what he says—
naught wrong, all sound, but—it's time I rested.
Rest and change—complete change. And I’ve made
up my mind—I’m going to retire from business.


118 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Why not? I’m a well-to-do man—better off than
most folks 'ud think. I shall tell Mallalieu tomorrow.
Yes—I’m resolved on it. And that done, I shall go
and travel for a year or two—I’ve always wanted to
go round the world. I’ll go—that for a start, any-
way. And the sooner the better, says the doctor.
And—” here he looked searchingly at his listen-
ers—“I’d like to see you settled before I go. What?”
Lettie's calm and judicial character came out in
the first words she spoke. She had listened care-
fully to Cotherstone; now she turned to Bent.
“Windle,” she said, as quietly as if she were ask-
ing the most casual of questions, “wouldn’t it upset
all your arrangements for next year? You see, fa-
ther,” she went on, turning to Cotherstone, “Windle
had arranged everything. He was going to have the
whole of the spring and summer away from business;
we were going on the Continent for six months. And
that would have to be entirely altered and y 2
“We could alter it,” interrupted Bent. He was
watching Cotherstone closely, and fancying that he
saw a strained and eager look in his face, he decided
that Cotherstone was keeping something back, and
had not told them the full truth about his health.
“It’s all a matter of arrangement. I could ar-
range to go away during the winter, Lettie.”
“But I don’t want to travel in winter,” objected
Lettie. “Besides—I’ve made all my arrangements
about my gowns and things.”
“That can be arranged, too,” said Bent. “The
dressmaker can work overtime.”
“That'll mean that everything will be hurried—


120 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“It’s my heart!” he answered. “Over-strained—
much over-strained, the doctor says. Rest and change
—imperative But—not a word to Lettie, Bent.
Talk her round—get it arranged. I shall feel safer
—you understand?’’.
Bent was full of good nature, and though he un-
derstood to the full—it was a natural thing, this
anxiety of a father for his only child. He promised
to talk seriously to Lettie at once about an early wed-
ding. And that night he told Brereton of what had
happened, and asked him if he knew how special
licences can be got, and Brereton informed him of all
he knew on that point—and kept silence about one
which to him was becoming deeply and seriously im-
portant.


CEIAPTER XIII
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER
Within a week of that night Brereton was able to
sum things up, to take stock, to put clearly before him-
self the position of affairs as they related to his mys-
terious client. They had by that time come to a clear
issue: a straight course lay ahead with its ultimate
stages veiled in obscurity. Harborough had again
been brought up before the Highmarket magistrates,
had stubbornly refused to give any definite informa-
tion about his exact doings on the night of Kitely's
murder, and had been duly committed for trial on the
capital charge. On the same day the coroner, after
holding an inquest extending over two sittings, had
similarly committed him. There was now nothing to
do but to wait until the case came on at Norcaster
Assizes. Fortunately, the assizes were fixed for the
middle of the ensuing month: Brereton accordingly
had three weeks wherein to prepare his defence—or
(which would be an eminently satisfactory equivalent)
to definitely fix the guilt on some other person.
Christopher Pett, as legal adviser to the murdered
man, had felt it his duty to remain in Highmarket
until the police proceedings and the coroner's inquest
were over. He had made himself conspicuous at both
121


122 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
police-court and coroner's court, putting himself for-
ward wherever he could, asking questions wherever
opportunity offered. Brereton’s dislike of him in-
creased the more he saw of him; he specially resented
Pett's familiarity. But Pett was one of those per-
sons who know how to combine familiarity with po-
liteness and even servility; to watch or hear him talk
to any one whom he button-holed was to gain a notion
of his veneration for them. He might have been wor-
shipping Brereton when he buttoned-holed the young
barrister after Harborough had been finally com-
mitted to take his trial.
“Ah, he's a lucky man, that, Mr. Brereton" ob-
served Pett, collaring Brereton in a corridor outside
the crowded court. “Very fortunate man indeed, sir,
to have you take so much interest in him. Fancy you
—with all your opportunities in town, Mr. Brereton 1
—stopping down here, just to defend that fellow out
of-what shall we call it?—pure and simple Quixot-
ism" Quixotism —I believe that’s the correct term,
Mr. Brereton. Oh, yes—for the man's as good as done
for. Not a cat’s chance! He'll swing, sir, will your
client l’’
“Your simile is not a good one, Mr. Pett,” retorted
Brereton. “Cats are said to have nine lives.”
“Cat, rat, mouse, dog—no chance whatever, sir,”
said Pett, cheerfully. “I know what a country
jury’ll say. If I were a betting man, Mr. Brereton
—which I ain’t, being a regular church attendant—
I’d lay you ten to one the jury'll never leave the
box, sir!”


THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 123
“No-I don’t think they will—when the right man
is put in the dock, Mr. Pett,” replied Brereton.
Pett drew back and looked the young barrister in
the face with an expression that was half quizzical
and half serious.
“You don’t mean to say that you really believe this
fellow to be innocent, Mr. Brereton?” he exclaimed.
“You!—with your knowledge of criminal proceed-
ings! Oh, come now, Mr. Brereton—it’s very kind of
you, very Quixotic, as I call it, but—”
“You shall see,” said Brereton and turned off.
He had no mind to be more than civil to Pett, and
he frowned when Pett, in his eagerness, laid a detain-
ing hand on his gown. “I’m not going to discuss it,
Mr. Pett,” he added, a little warmly. “I’ve my own
view of the case.”
“But, but, Mr. Brereton—a moment!” urged Pett.
“Just between ourselves as-well, not as lawyers but
as—as one gentleman to another. Do you think it
possible it was some other person? Do you now,
really?”
“Didn’t your estimable female relative, as you call
her, say that I suggested she might be the guilty
person?” demanded Brereton, maliciously. “Come,
now, Mr. Pettl You don’t know all that I know !”
Pett fell back, staring doubtfully at Brereton's
curled lip, and wondering whether to take him se-
riously or not. And Brereton laughed and went off—
to reflect, five minutes later, that this was no laughing
matter for Harborough and his daughter, and to
plunge again into the maze of thought dut of which


124 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
it was so difficult to drag anything that seemed likely
to be helpful.
He interviewed Harborough again before he was
taken back to Norcaster, and again he pressed him
to speak, and again Harborough gave him a point-
blank refusal.
“Not unless it comes to the very worst, sir,” he
said firmly, “and only then if I see there's no other
way—and even then it would only be for my daugh-
ter's sake. But it won't come to that! There's three
weeks yet—good—and if somebody can’t find out the
truth in three weeks—”
“Man alive!” exclaimed Brereton. “Your own
common-sense ought to tell you that in cases like this
three years isn’t enough to get at the truth! What
can I do in three weeks?”
“There's not only you, sir,” replied Harborough.
“There's the police—there's the detectives—
there's—”
“The police and the detectives are all doing their
best to fasten the crime on you!” retorted Brereton.
“Of course they are I That's their way. When,
they’ve safely got one man, do you think they’re
going to look for another? If you won’t tell me what
you were doing, and where you were that night, well,
I'll have to find out for myself.”
Harborough gave his counsel a peculiar look which
Brereton could not understand.
“Oh, well!” he said. “If you found it out—”
He broke off at that, and would say no more, and
Brereton presently left him and walked thought-


THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 125
fully homeward, reflecting on the prisoner's last
words.
“He admits there is something to be found out,”
he mused. “And by that very admission he implies
that it could be found out. Now—how? Egad!—
I’d give something for even the least notion l’’
Bent’s parlour-maid, opening the door to Brereton,
turned to a locked drawer in the old-fashioned clothes-
press which stood in Bent's hall, and took from it a
registered letter.
“For you, sir,” she said, handing it to Brereton.
“‘Came by the noon post, sir. The housekeeper signed
for it.”
Brereton took the letter into the smoking-room and
looked at it with a sudden surmise that it might have
something to do with the matter which was uppermost
in his thoughts. He had had no expectation of any
registered letter, no idea of anything that could cause
any correspondent of his to send him any communica-
tion by registered post. There was no possibility of
recognizing the handwriting of the sender, for there
was no handwriting to recognize: the address was
typewritten. And the postmark was London.
Brereton carefully cut open the flap of the envelope
and drew out the enclosure—a square sheet of type-
writing paper folded about a thin wad of Bank of
England notes. He detached these at once and
glanced quickly at them. There were six of them:
all new and crisp—and each was for a hundred and
fifty pounds.
Brereton laid this money aside and opened the
letter. This, too, was typewritten: a mere glance at
2


126 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
its termination showed that it was anonymous. He
sat down at Bent's desk and carefully read it
through.
There was no address: there was nothing beyond
the postmark on the envelope to show where the letter
came from ; there was absolutely nothing in the con-
tents to give any clue to the sender. But the word-
ing was clear and plain.
2.
“MR. GIFFORD BRERETON,+Having learnt from the
newspapers that you are acting as counsel for John
Harborough, charged with the murder of a man
named Kitely at Highmarket, I send you the en-
closed £900 to be used in furthering Harborough's
defence. You will use it precisely as you think fit.
You are not to spare it nor any endeavour to prove
Harborough's innocence—which is known to the
sender. Whenever further funds are needed, all you
need do is to insert an advertisement in the personal
column of The Times newspaper in these words:
Highmarket Eacchequer needs replenishing, with your
initials added. Allow me to suggest that you should
at once offer a reward of £500 to whoever gives in-
formation which will lead to the capture and convic-
tion of the real murderer or murderers. If this of-
fer fails to bring information speedily, double it. I
repeat that no pains must be spared in this matter,
and that money to any amount is no object. The
sender of this letter will keep well informed of the
progress of events as narrated in the newspapers, to
which you will please to afford all proper informa-
tion.”


THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 127
Brereton read this extraordinary communication
through three times; then he replaced letter and bank-
notes in the envelope, put the envelope in an inner
pocket, left the house, and walking across to the
Northrop villa, asked to see Avice Harborough.
Avice came to him in Mrs. Northrop's drawing-
room, and Brereton glancing keenly at her as she
entered saw that she was looking worn and pale. He
put the letter into her hands with a mere word.
“Your father has a powerful friend—somewhere,”
he said.
To his astonishment the girl showed no very great
surprise. She started a little at the sight of the
money; she flushed at one or two expressions in the
letter. But she read the letter through without com-
ment and handed it beck to him with a look of
inquiry,
“You don’t seem surprised l’’ said Brereton.
“There has always been so much mystery to me
about my father that I’m not surprised,” she replied.
“No l—I’m just thankful! For this man—whoever
he is—says that my father's innocence is known to
him. And that's—just think what it means—to
me!”
“Why doesn’t he come forward and prove it,
then º’’ demanded Brereton.
Avice shook her head.
“He-they—want it to be proved without that,”
she answered. “But—don’t you think that if all else
fails the man who wrote this would come forward?
Oh, surely 1”
Brereton stood silently looking at her for a full


128 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
minute. From the first time of meeting with her he
had felt strangely and strongly attracted to his client's
daughter, and as he looked at her now he began to
realize that he was perhaps more deeply interested in
her than he knew.
“It’s all the most extraordinary mystery—this
about your father—that ever I came across '' he ex-
claimed suddenly. Then he looked still more closely
at her. “You’ve been worrying !” he said impetu-
ously. “Don’t I beg you not to. I’ll move heaven
and earth—because I, personally, am absolutely con-
vinced of your father's innocence. And—here’s pow-
erful help.”
“You’ll do what’s suggested here?” she asked.
“Certainly! It's a capital idea,” he answered.
‘‘I’d have done it myself if I’d been a rich man—but
I’m not. Cheer up, now !—we're getting on splen-
didly. Look here—ask Mrs. Northrop to let you come
out with me. We’ll go to the solicitor—together—
and see about that reward at once.”
As they presently walked down to the town Brere-
ton gave Avice another of his critical looks of in-
spection.
“You’re feeling better,” he said in his somewhat
brusque fashion. “Is it this bit of good news?”
“That—and the sense of doing something,” she
answered. “If I wasn’t looking well when you came
in just now, it was because this inaction is bad for
me. I want to do something !—something to help. If
I could only be stirring—moving about. You under-
stand '’
“Quite l’’ responded Brereton. “And there is


130 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Your father,” he observed to Avice, “is the most
mysterious man I ever heard of ! The Kitely mys-
tery, in my opinion, is nothing to the Harborough
mystery. Do you really mean to tell me that you
haven’t an idea of what all this means?”
“Not an idea!” replied Avice. “Not the ghost of
one.’’
“Well—we'll get these posters and handbills out,
anyway, Mr. Brereton,” said the solicitor. “Five
hundred pounds is a good figure. Lord bless you!—
some of these Highmarket folk would sell their moth-
ers for half that The whole population will be
turned into amateur detectives. Now let’s draft the
exact wording, and then we’ll see the printer.’’
Next day the bill-poster placarded Highmarket with
the reward bills, and distributed them broadcast in
shops and offices, and one of the first persons to lay
hands on one was Mallalieu & Cotherstone's clerk,
Herbert Stoner.


CEIAPTER XIV
THE SHEET OF FIGURES
At that time Stoner had been in the employment
of Mallalieu and Cotherstone for some five or six
years. He was then twenty-seven years of age. He
was a young man of some ability—sharp, alert, quick
at figures, good at correspondence, punctual, willing:
he could run the business in the absence of its owners.
The two partners appreciated Stoner, and they had
gradually increased his salary until it reached the
sum of two pounds twelve shillings and sixpence per
week. In their opinion a young single man ought to
have done very well on that: Mallalieu and Cother-
stone had both done very well on less when they were
clerks in that long vanished past of which they did not
care to think. But Stoner was a syoung man of
tastes. He liked to dress well. He liked to play
cards and billiards. He liked to take a drink or two
at the Highmarket taverns of an evening, and to be
able to give his favourite barmaids boxes of chocolate
or pairs of gloves now and then—judiciously. And
he found his salary not at all too great, and he was
always on the look-out for a chance of increasing it.
Stoner emerged from Mallalieu & Cotherstone's of.
131


THE SHEET OF FIGURES 133
re-read the handbill, two or three men of the town
had come in, and he saw that each carried a copy.
One of them, a small tradesman whose shop was in
the centre of the Market Square, leaned against the
bar and read the terms of the reward aloud.
“And whose money might that be?” he asked, half-
sneeringly. “Who’s throwing brass round in that
free-handed fashion? I should want to know if the
money's safe before I wasted my time in trying to get
it.”
“Money’ll be all right,” observed one of the speak-
er’s companions. “There's Lawyer Tallington's
name at the foot o' that bill. He wouldn’t put his
name to no offer o’ that sort if he hadn’t the brass in
hand.”
“Whose money is it, then?” demanded the first
speaker. “It’s not a Government reward. They say
that Kitely had no relatives, so it can’t be them. And
it can’t be that old housekeeper of his, because they
say she's satisfied enough that Jack Harborough's the
man, and they’ve got him. Queer do altogether, I call
it l”
“It’s done in Harborough's interest,” said a third
man. Either that, or there's something very deep
in it. Somebody’s not satisfied and somebody's going
to have a flutter with his brass over it.” He turned
and glanced at Stoner, who had come to the bar for
his customary half-pint of ale. “Your folks aught to
do with this?” he asked. “Kitely was Mr. Cother-
stone's tenant, of course.”
Stoner laughed scornfully as he picked up his
tankard.


134 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Yes, I don’t think!” he sneered. “Catch either
of my governors wasting five hundred pence, or five
pence, in that way! Not likely!”
“Well, there's Tallington's name to back it,” said
one of the men. “We all know Tallington. What
he says, he does. The money'll be there—if it's
earned.”
Then they all looked at each other silently, surmise
and speculation in the eyes of each.
“Tell you what!” suddenly observed the little
tradesman, as if struck with a clever idea. “It might
be young Bent! Five hundred pound is naught to
him. This here young London barrister that’s de-
fending Harborough is stopping with Bent—they’re
old schoolmates. Happen he’s persuaded Bent to do
the handsome : they say that this barrister chap's right
down convinced that Harborough's innocent. It must
be Bent’s brass 1’’
“What's Popsie say?” asked one of the younger
members of the party, winking at the barmaid, who,
having supplied her customers’ needs, was leaning .
over a copy of the handbill which somebody had laid
on the bar. “Whose brass can it be, Popsie?”
The barmaid stood up, seized a glass and a cloth,
and began to polish the glass with vigor.
“What's Popsie say?” she repeated. “Why, what
she says is that you’re a lot of donkeys for wasting
your time in wondering whose brass it is. What does
it matter whose brass it is, so long as it's safe? What
you want to do is to try and earn it. You don’t pick
up five hundred pounds every day!”
“She’s right !” said some man of the group.


136 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
what a looker-on might not have known, but what
Stoner knew very well—the figures were all of Coth-
erstone's making—clear, plain, well-formed figures.
And amongst them, and on the margins of the half-
sheet, and scrawled here and there, as if purposelessly
and carelessly, was one word in Cotherstone's hand-
writing, repeated over and over again. That word
was Wilchester.
Stoner knew how that half-sheet of foolscap had
come into his possession. It was a half-sheet which
he had found on Cotherstone’s desk when he went
into the partners’ private room to tidy things up on
the morning after the murder of Kitely. It lay there,
carelessly tossed aside amongst other papers of clearer
meaning, and Stoner, after one glance at it, had care-
fully folded it, placed it in his pocket, taken it home,
and locked it up, to be inspected at leisure.
He had had his reasons, of course, for this abstrac-
tion of a paper which rightfully belonged to Cother-
stone. Those reasons were a little difficult to explain
to himself in one way; easy enough to explain, in an-
other. As regards the difficulty, Stoner had somehow
or other got a vague idea, that evening of the murder,
that something was wrong with Cotherstone. He had
noticed, or thought he noticed, a queer look on old
Kitely’s face when the ex-detective left the private
room—it was a look of quiet satisfaction, or triumph,
or malice; any way, said Stoner, it was something.
Then there was the fact of Cotherstone’s curious ab-
straction when he, Stoner, entered and found his em-
ployer sitting in the darkness, long after Kitely had
gone–Cotherstone had said he was asleep, but Stoner


THE SHEET OF FIGURES 137
knew that to be a fib. Altogether, Stoner had gained
a vague feeling, a curious intuition, that there was
something queer, not unconnected with the visit of
Cotherstone’s new tenant, and when he heard, next
morning, of what had befallen Kitely, all his suspi-
cions were renewed. *.
So much for the difficult reasons which had made
him appropriate the half-sheet of foolscap. But there
was a reason which was not difficult. It lay in the
presence of that word Wilchester. If not of the finest
degree of intellect, Stoner was far from being a fool,
and it had not taken him very long to explain to him-
self why Cotherstone had scribbled the name of that
far-off south-country town all over that sheet of paper,
aimlessly, apparently without reason, amidst his figur-
ings. It was uppermost in his thoughts at the time—
and as he sat there, pen in hand, he had written
it down, half-unconsciously, over and over again. . . .
There it was—Wilchester—Wilchester—Wilchester.
The reiteration had a peculiar interest for Stoner.
He had never heard Cotherstone nor Mallalieu men-
tion Wilchester at any time since his first coming
into their office. The firm had no dealings with any
firm at Wilchester. Stoner, who dealt with all the
Mallalieu & Cotherstone correspondence, knew that
during his five and a half years’ clerkship, he had
never addressed a single letter to any one at Wil-
chester, never received a single letter bearing the
Wilchester post-mark. Wilchester was four hundred
miles away, far off in the south; ninety-nine out of
every hundred persons in Highmarket had never


138 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
heard the name of Wilchester. But Stoner had—
Quite apart from the history books, and the geog-
raphy books, and map of England. Stoner him-
self was a Darlington man. He had a close friend,
a bosom friend, at Darlington, named Myler—David
Myler. Now David Myler was a commercial traveller
—a smart fellow of Stoner's age. He was in the
service of a Darlington firm of agricultural implement
makers, and his particular round lay in the market-
towns of the south and south-west of England. He
spent a considerable part of the year in those districts,
and Wilchester was one of his principal headquarters:
Stoner had many a dozen letters of Myler's, which
Myler had written to him from Wilchester. And only
a year before all this, Myler had brought home a bride
in the person of a Wilchester girl, the daughter of a
Wilchester tradesman.
So the name of Wilchester was familiar enough to
Stoner. And now he wanted to know what—what
—what made it so familiar to Cotherstone that Coth-
erstone absent-mindedly scribbled it all over a half-
sheet of foolscap paper?
But the figures? Had they any connexion with
the word? This was the question which Stoner put
to himself when he sat down that night in his parlour
to seriously consider if he had any chance of winning
that five hundred pounds reward. He looked at the
figures again—more carefully. The truth was that
until that evening he had never given much attention
to those figures: it was the word Wilchester that
had fascinated him. But now, summoning all his by
no means small arithmetical knowledge to his aid,


THE SHEET OF FIGURES 139
Stoner concentrated himself on an effort to discover
what those figures meant. That they were a calcula-
tion of some sort he had always known—now he
wanted to know of what.
The solution of the problem came to him all of a
sudden—as the solution of arithmetical problems often
does come. He saw the whole thing quite plainly and
wondered that he had not seen it at a first glance.
The figures represented nothing whatever but three
plain and common sums—in compound arithmetic.
Cotherstone, for some reason of his own, had taken the
sum of two thousand pounds as a foundation, and had
calculated (1st) what thirty years’ interest on that
sum at three and a half per cent. would come to ;
and (2nd) what thirty years’ interest at five per cent.
would come to; and (3rd) what the compound inter-
est on two thousand pounds would come to-capital
and compound interest—in the same period. The last
reckoning—the compound interest one—had been
crossed over and out with vigorous dashes of the pen,
as if the calculator had been appalled on discovering
what an original sum of two thousand pounds, left at
compound interest for thirty years, would be trans-
formed into in that time.
All this was so much Greek to Stoner. But he knew
there was something in it—something behind those
figures. They might refer to some Corporation finan-
cial business—Cotherstone being Borough Treasurer.
But—they might not. And why were they mixed up
with Wilchester?
For once in a way, Stoner took no walk abroad
that night. Usually, even when he stopped in of an


140 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
evening, he had a brief stroll to the Grey Mare and
back last thing before going to bed. But on this oc-
casion he forgot all about the Grey Mare, and Popsie
the barmaid did not come into his mind for even a
second. He sat at home, his feet on the fender, his
eyes fixed on the dying coals in the grate. He thought
—thought so hard that he forgot that his pipe had
gone out. The fire had gone out, too, when he finally
rose and retired. And he went on thinking for a long
time after his head had sought his pillow.
“Well, it’s Saturday tomorrow, anyway!” he
mused at last. “Which is lucky.” -
Next day—being Saturday and half-holiday—
Stoner attired himself in his best garments, and, in
the middle of the afternoon, took train for Darlington.


CHAPTER XV
ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER
Although Stoner hailed from Darlington, he had no
folk of his own left there—they were all dead and
gone. Accordingly he put himself up at a cheap
hotel, and when he had taken what its proprietors
called a meat tea, he strolled out and made for that
part of the town in which his friend Myler had set
up housekeeping in a small establishment wherein
there was just room for a couple of people to turn
round. Its accommodation, indeed, was severely
taxed just then, for Myler's father and mother-in-law
had come to visit him and their daughter, and when
Stoner walked in on the scene and added a fifth the
tiny parlour was filled to its full extent.
“Who’d ha’ thought of seeing you, Stoner!” ex-
claimed Myler joyously, when he had welcomed his
old chum, and had introduced him to the family circle.
“And what brings you here, anyway? Business?”
“Just a bit of business,” answered Stoner.
“Nothing much, though—only a call to make, later
on. I’m stopping the night, though.”
“Wish we could ha’ put you up here, old sport l”
said Myler, ruefully. “But we don’t live in a castle,
yet. All full here !—unless you’d like a shakedown
I4I


144 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Oh, indeed, sir?” he said. “The poor man that
was murdered? You knew him?”
“I remember him very well indeed,” assented Mr.
Pursey. “Yes, although I only met him once, I’ve
a very complete recollection of the man. I spent a
very pleasant evening with him and one or two more
of his profession—better sort of police and detectives,
you know—at a friend’s of mine, who was one of our
Wilchester police officials—oh, it’s—yes—it must be
thirty years since. They’d come from London, of
course, on some criminal business. Deary me!—the
tales them fellows could tell!”
“Thirty years is a long time, sir,” observed Stoner
politely.
“Aye, but I remember it quite well,” said Mr.
Pursey, with a confident nod. “I know it was thirty
years ago, 'cause it was the Wilchester Assizes at
which the Mallows & Chidforth case was tried. Yes
—thirty years. Eighteen hundred and eighty-one
was the year. Mallows & Chidforth—aye!”
“Famous case that, sir?’’ asked Stoner. He was
almost bursting with excitement by that time, and
he took a big gulp of whisky and water to calm him-
self. “Something special, sir? Murder, eh?”
“No-fraud, embezzlement, defalcation—I forget
what the proper legal term 'ud be,” replied Mr. Pur-
sey. “But it was a bad case—a real bad 'un. We’d
a working men's building society in Wilchester in
those days—it's there now for that matter, but under
another name—and there were two better-class young
workmen, smart fellows, that acted one as secretary
and t'other as treasurer to it. They’d full control,


ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 145
those two had, and they were trusted, aye, as if they’d
been the Bank of England And all of a sudden,
something came out, and it was found that these two,
Mallows, treasurer, Chidforth, secretary, had made
away with two thousand pounds of the society’s
money. Two thousand pounds !”
“Two thousand pounds?” exclaimed Stoner, whose
thoughts went like lightning to the half-sheet of fools-
cap. “You don’t say!”
“Yes—well, it might ha” been a pound or two
more or less,” said the old man, “but two thousand
was what they called it. And of course Mallows and
Chidworth were prosecuted—and they got two years.
Oh, yes, we remember that case very well indeed in
Wilchester, don’t we, Maria?”
“And good reason l’’ agreed Mrs. Pursey warmly.
“There were a lot of poor people nearly ruined by
them bad young men.”
“There were !” affirmed Mr. Pursey. “Yes—oh,
yes! Aye—I’ve often wondered what became of 'em
—Mallows and Chidforth, I mean. For from the time
they got out of prison they’ve never been heard of in
our parts. Not a word —they disappeared com-
pletely. Some say, of course, that they had that
money safely planted, and went to it. I don’t know.
But—off they went.”
“Pooh!” said Myler. “That's an easy one. Went
off to some colony or other, of course. Common oc-
currence, father-in-law. Bert, old sport, what say if
we rise on our pins and have a hundred at billiards at
the Stag and Hunter—good table there.”


146 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Stoner followed his friend out of the little house,
and once outside took him by the arm.
“Confound the billards, Dave, old man!” he said,
almost trembling with suppressed excitement. “Look
here !—d you know a real quiet corner in the Stag
where we can have an hour's serious consultation.
You do?—then come on, and I'll tell you the most
wonderful story you ever heard since your ears were
opened '''
Myler, immediately impressed, led the way into a
small and vacant parlour in the rear of a neighbour-
ing hostelry, ordered refreshments, bade the girl who
brought them to leave him and his friend alone, and
took the liberty of locking the door on their privacy.
And that done he showed himself such a perfect lis-
tener that he never opened his lips until Stoner had
set forth everything before him in detail. Now and
then he nodded, now and then his sharp eyes dilated,
now and then he clapped his hands. And in the end
he smote Stoner on the shoulder.
“Stoner, old sport l’’ he exclaimed. “It’s a sure
thing! Gad, I never heard a clearer. That five hun-
dred is yours—aye, as dead certain as that my nose
is mine ! It's—it's—what they call inductive reason-
ing. The initials M. and C.—Mallows and Chidforth
—Mallalieu and Cotherstone—the two thousand
pounds—the fact that Kitely was at Wilchester
Assizessin 1881—that he became Cotherstone's tenant
thirty years after—oh, I see it all, and so will a judge
and jury | Stoner, one, or both of 'em killed that
old chap to silence him l’’
“That's my notion,” assented Stoner, who was


ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER 147
highly pleased with himself, and by that time con-
vinced that his own powers, rather than a combina-
tion of lucky circumstances, had brought the desired
result about. “Of course, I’ve worked it out to that.
And the thing now is—what’s the best line to take?
What would you suggest, Dave?”
Myler brought all his business acumen to bear on
the problem presented to him.
“What sort of chap is this Tallington?” he asked
at last, pointing to the name at the foot of the reward
handbill.
“Most respectable solicitor in Highmarket,” an-
swered Stoner, promptly.
“Word good?” asked Myler.
“Good as–gold,” affirmed Stoner.
“Then if it was me,” said Myler, “I should make
a summary of what I knew, on paper—carefully—
and I should get a private interview with this Talling-
ton and tell him—all. Man l—you’re safe of that five
hundred For there's no doubt, Stoner, on the evi-
dence, no doubt whatever!”
Stoner sat silently reflecting things for a while.
Then he gave his friend a sly, somewhat nervous
look. Although he and Myler had been bosom friends
since they were breeched, Stoner was not quite cer-
tain as to what Myler would say to what he, Stoner,
was just then thinking of.
“Look here,” he said suddenly. “There's this
about it. It's all jolly well, but a fellow's got to think
for himself, Dave, old man. Now it doesn’t matter
a twopenny cuss to me about old Kitely—I don’t care
if he was scragged twice over—I’ve no doubt he de-
w


148 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
served it. But it'll matter a lot to M. & C. if they’re
found out. I can touch that five hundred easy as
winking—but—you take my meaning?—I daresay
M. & C. 'ud run to five thousand if I kept my tongue
Still. What?”
But Stoner knew at once that Myler disapproved.
The commercial traveller's homely face grew grave,
and he shook his head with an unmistakable gesture.
“No, Stoner,” he said. “None o’ that Play
straight, my lad! No hush-money transactions.
Keep to the law, Stoner, keep to the law Besides,
there's others than you can find all this out. What
you want to do is to get in first. See Tallington as
soon as you get back.”
“I daresay you’re right,” admitted Stoner. “But
—I know M. & C., and I know they’d give—aye, half
of what they’re worth—and that’s a lot!—to have this
kept dark.”
That thought was with him whenever he woke in
the night, and as he strolled round Darlington next
morning, it was still with him when, after an early
dinner, he set off homeward by an early afternoon
train which caried him to High Gill junction; whence
he had to walk five miles across the moors and hills
to Highmarket. And he was still pondering it
weightily when, in one of the loneliest parts of the
solitudes which he was crossing, he turning the corner
of a little pine wood, and came face to face with
Mallalieu.


CHAPTER XVI
THE LONELY MOOR
During the three hours which had elapsed since his
departure from Darlington, Stoner had been thinking
things over. He had seen his friend Myler again that
morning; they had had a drink or two together at the
station refreshment room before Stoner's train left,
and Myler had once more urged upon Stoner to use
his fortunately acquired knowledge in the proper way.
No doubt, said Myler, he could get Mallalieu and
Cotherstone to square him; no doubt they would
cheerfully pay thousands where the reward only came
to hundreds—but, when everything was considered,
was it worth while? No!—a thousand times, no, said
Myler. The mere fact that Stoner had found out all
this was a dead sure proof that somebody else might
find it out. The police had a habit, said Myler, of
working like moles—underground. How did Stoner
know that some of the Norcaster and London detec-
tives weren't on the job already? They knew by
that time that old Kitely was an ex-detective; they’d
be sure to hark back on his past doings, in the effort
to trace some connexion between one or other of them
and his murder. Far away as it was, that old Wil-
149


150 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
chester affair would certainly come up again. And
when it came up—ah, well, observed Myler, with force
and earnestness, it would be a bad job for Stoner if it
were found out that he'd accepted hush-money from
his masters. In fact—Myler gave it as his decided
opinion, though, as he explained, he wasn’t a lawyer
—he didn’t know but what Stoner, in that case, would
be drawn in as an accessory after the fact.
“Keep to the law, Bert, old man!’” counselled
Myler, as they parted. “You’ll be all right then,
Stick to my advice—see Tallington at once—this very
afternoon —and put in for the five hundred. You'll
be safe as houses in doing that—but there’d be an
awful risk about t'other, Bert. Be wise —you’ll get
no better counsel.”
Stoner knew that his sagacious friend was right,
and he was prepared to abide by his counsel—as long
as Myler was at his elbow. But when he had got
away from him, his mind began to wobble. Five hun-
dred pounds!—what was it in comparison with what
he might get by a little skilful playing of his cards?
He knew Mallalieu and he knew Cotherstone—knew
much more about both of them than they had any idea
of. He knew that they were rich men—very rich
men. They had been making money for years, and
of late certain highly successful and profitable con-
tracts had increased their wealth in a surprising
fashion. Everything had gone right with them—
every contract they had taken up had turned out a
gold mine. Five thousand pounds would be nothing
to them singly—much less jointly. In Stoner's opin-
ion, he had only to ask in order to have. He firmly


THE LONELY MOOR 151
believed that they would pay—pay at once, in good
cash. And if they did—well, he would take good
care that no evil chances came to him If he laid
hands on five thousand pounds, he would be out of
Highmarket within five hours, and half-way across the
Atlantic within five days. No-Dave Myler was a
good sort—one of the best—but he was a bit straight-
laced, and old-fashioned—especially since he had
taken a wife—and after all, every man has a right to
do his best for himself. And so, when Stoner came
face to face with Mallalieu, on the lonely moor be-
tween High Gill and Highmarket, his mind was al-
ready made up to blackmail.
The place in which they met was an appropriate
one—for Stoner's purpose. He had crossed the high
ground between the railway and the little moorland
town by no definite track, but had come in a bee-line
across ling and bracken and heather. All around
stretched miles upon miles of solitude—nothing but
the undulating moors, broken up by great masses of
limestone rock and occasional clumps and coverts of
fir and pine; nothing but the blue line of the hills
in the west; nothing but the grey northern skies
overhead; nothing but the cry of the curlew and the
bleating of the mountain sheep. It was in the midst
of this that he met his senior employer—at the corner
of a thin spinney which ran along the edge of a dis-
used quarry. Mallalieu, as Stoner well knew, was a
great man for walking on these moors, and he always
walked alone. He took these walks to keep his flesh
down; here he came, swinging his heavy oak walk-
ing-stick, intent on his own thoughts, and he and


THE LONELY MOOR 153
“That!” he said. “Just that, Mr. Mallalieu.”
Mallalieu glanced at the handbill, started a little,
and looked half-sharply, half-angrily, at his clerk.
“What about it?” he growled. His temper, as
Stoner well knew, was quickly roused, and it showed
signs of awakening now. “What’re you showing me
that bit o’ paper for? Mind your manners, young
man l’’
“No offence meant,” retorted Stoner, coolly. He
looked round him, noticed some convenient railings,
old and worn, which fenced in the quarry, and step-
ping back to them, calmly leaned against the top one,
put his hands in his pockets and looked at Mallalieu
with a glance which was intended to show that he
felt himself top dog in any encounter that might come.
“I want a word or two with you, Mr. Mallalieu,” he
said.
Mallalieu, who was plainly amazed by this strange
conduct, glared at Stoner.
“You want a word—or two—with—me?” he ex-
claimed. “For why, pray?—and why here?”
“Here's a convenient spot,” said Stoner, with a
nasty laugh. “We’re all alone. Not a soul near us.
You wouldn’t like anybody to overhear what I’ve got
to say.”
Mallalieu stared at the clerk during a full minute's
silence. He had a trick of silently staring people
out of countenance. But he found that Stoner was
not to be stared down, and eventually he spoke.
“I’ll tell you what it is, my lad!” he said. “I
don't know whether you’ve been drinking, or if you've
some bee in your bonnet, but I don't allow nobody,


THE LONELY MOOR 155
tion was to fence with him. And he made a great
effort to pull himself together, so as to deal better
with whatever might be in store.
“Either me or Mr. Cotherstone !” he repeated sar-
castically. “Oh ! Now which on us would you be in-
clined to fix it on, Mr. Stoner? Eh?”
“May have been one, may have been the other,
may have been both, for aught I know,” retorted
Stoner. “But you’re both guilty, any way! It's no
use, Mr. Mallalieu-I know you killed him. And—I
know why l’’
Again there was silence, and again a duel of star-
ing eyes. And at its end Mallalieu laughed again, still
affecting sneering and incredulous sentiments.
“Aye?—and why did one or t'other or both—have
it which way you will—murder this here old gentle-
man?” he demanded. “Why, Mr. Sharp-nose?”
“I’ll tell you—and then you’ll know what I know,”
answered Stoner. “Because the old gentleman was
an ex-detective, who was present when you and Coth-
erstone, under your proper names of Mallows and
Chidforth, were tried for fraud at Wilchester Assizes,
thirty years ago, and sentenced to two years! That’s
why, Mr. Mallalieu. The old chap knew it, and he
let you know that he knew it, and you killed him to
silence him. You didn’t want it to get out that the
Mayor and Borough Treasurer of Highmarket, so re-
spected, so much thought of, are—a couple of old gaol-
birds !”
Mallalieu’s hot temper, held very well in check
until then, flamed up as Stoner spat out the last con-
temptuous epithet. He had stood with his right hand


156 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
behind him, grasping his heavy oaken stick—now, as
his rage suddenly boiled, he swung hand and stick
round in a savage blow at his tormentor, and the crook
of the stick fell crashing against Stoner's temples.
So quick was the blow, so sudden the assault, that the
clerk had time to do no more than throw up an arm.
And as he threw it up, and as the heavy blow fell, the
old, rotten railing against which Stoner had leant so
nonchalantly, gave way, and he fell back through it,
and across the brow of the quarry—and without a
sound. Mallalieu heard the crash of his stick on
his victim's temples; he heard the rending and crack-
ling of the railings—but he heard neither cry, nor
sigh, nor groan from Stoner. Stoner fell backward
and disappeared—and then (it seemed an age in com-
ing) Mallalieu's frightened senses were aware of a
dull thud somewhere far down in the depths into
which he had fallen. Then came silence—deep, heavy
silence—broken at last by the cry of a curlew flying
across the lonely moor.
Mallalieu was seized with a trembling fit. He be-
gan to shake. His heavy frame trembled as if under
the effects of a bad ague; the hand which had struck
the blow shook so violently that the stick dropped
from it. And Mallalieu looked down at the stick,
and in a sudden overwhelming rage kicked it away
from him over the brink of the quarry. He lifted his
fist and shook it—and just as suddenly dropped it.
The trembling passed, and he broke out into a cold
sweat of fear.
“God ha’ mercy!” he muttered. “If–if he's
killed? He shouldn’t ha' plagued me—he shouldn't


THE LONELY MOOR. 157
ha’ dared me ! It was more than flesh and blood
could stand, and—Lord ha’ mercy, what's to be
done?”
The autumn twilight was creeping over the moor.
The sun had set behind the far-off western hills just
before Mallalieu and Stoner had met, and while they
talked dusk had come on. The moorlands were now
growing dark and vague, and it seemed to Mallalieu
that as the light failed the silence increased. He
looked round him, fearful lest any of the shepherds of
the district had come up to take a Sunday glance at
their flocks. And once he thought he saw a figure at
a little distance away along the edge of the trees, and
he strained and strained his eyes in its direction—and
concluded it was nothing. Presently he strained his
eyes in another way—he crept cautiously to the edge
of the quarry, and looked over the broken railing, and
far down on the limestone rocks beneath he saw
Stoner, lying on his back, motionless.
Long experience of the moorlands and their nooks
and crannies enabled Mallalieu to make his way down
to the bottom of the quarry by a descent through a
brake of gorse and bramble. He crept along by the
undergrowth to where the body lay, and fearfully laid
a hand on the still figure. One touch was sufficient—
he stood up trembling and shaking more than ever.
“He’s dead—dead!” he muttered. “Must ha’
broken his neck—it’s a good fifty feet down here.
Was ever aught so unfortunatel And—whatever
shall I say and do about it?”
Inspiration came to him quickly—as quickly as the
darkness came into that place of death. He made


158 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
an effort, and regained his composure, and presently
was able to think and to decide. He would say and do
nothing—nothing whatever. No one had witnessed
the meeting between Stoner and himself. No one
had seen the blow. No one had seen Stoner's fall.
Far better to say nothing, do nothing—far best to go
away and let things take their course. Stoner’s body
would be found, next day, the day after, some day—
and when it was found, people would say that Stoner
had been sitting on those rotten railings, and they had
given way, and he had fallen—and whatever marks
there were on him would be attributed to the fall
down the sharp edges of the old quarry.
So Mallalieu presently went away by another route,
and made his way back to Highmarket in the darkness
of the evening, hiding himself behind hedges and walls
until he reached his own house. And it was not until
he lay safe in bed that night that he remembered the
loss of his stick.


CHAPTER XVII
THE MEDICAL OPINION
The recollection of that stick plunged Mallalieu
into another of his ague-like fits of shaking and trem-
bling. There was little sleep for him after that: he
spent most of the night in thinking, anticipating, and
scheming. That stick would almost certainly be
found, and it would be found near Stoner's body. A
casual passer-by would not recognize it, a moorland
shepherd would not recognize it. But the High-
market police, to whom it would be handed, would
know it at once to be the Mayor's : it was one which
Mallalieu carried almost every day—a plain, very
stout oak staff. And the police would want to know
how it came to be in that quarry. Curse it!—was
ever anything so unfortunate —however could he
have so far lost his head as to forget it? He was half
tempted to rise in the middle of the night and set
out for the moors, to find it. But the night was dark,
and solitary as the moors and the quarry where he
dared not risk the taking of a lantern. And so
he racked his brains in the effort to think of some
means of explaining the presence of the stick. He
hit on a notion at last—remembering suddenly that
Stoner had carried neither stick nor umbrella. If the
159


160 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
stick were found he would say that he had left it at
the office on the Saturday, and that the clerk must
have borrowed it. There was nothing unlikely in
that: it was a good reason, it would explain why it
came to be found near the body. Naturally, the police
would believe the word of the Mayor: it would be a
queer thing if they didn't, in Mallalieu's opinion.
And therewith he tried to go to sleep, and made a
miserable failure of it.
As he lay tossing and groaning in his comfortable
bed that night, Mallalieu thought over many things.
How had Stoner acquired his information? Did any-
body else know what Stoner knew? After much re-
flection he decided that nobody but Stoner did know.
Further reckoning up of matters gave him a theory as
to how Stoner had got to know. He saw it all—ac-
cording to his own idea. Stoner had overheard the
conversation between old Kitely and Cotherstone in
the private office, of course! That was it—he won-
dered he had never thought of it before. Between the
partners’ private room and the outer office in which
Stoner sat, there was a little window in the wall; it
had been specially made so that papers could be passed
from one room to the other. And, of course, on that
afternoon it had probably been a little way open, as
it often was, and Stoner had heard what passed be-
tween Cotherstone and his tenant. Being a deep
chap, Stoner had kept the secret to himself until the
reward was offered. Of course, his idea was black-
mail—Mallalieu had no doubt about that. No-all
things considered, he did not believe that Stoner had
shared his knowledge—Stoner would be too well con-


THE MEDICAL OPINION 161
vinced of its value to share it with anybody. That
conclusion comforted Mallalieu-once more he tried to
sleep.
But his sleep was a poor thing that night, and he
felt tired and worn when, as usual, he went early
to the yard. He was there before Cotherstone; when
Cotherstone came, no more than a curt nod was ex-
changed between them. They had never spoken to
each other except on business since the angry scene
of a few days before, and now Mallalieu, after a glance
at some letters which had come in the previous even-
ing, went off down the yard. He stayed there an
hour: when he re-entered the office he looked
with an affectation of surprise at the clerk's empty
desk.
“Stoner not come?” he demanded curtly.
Cotherstone, who was turning over the leaves of
an account book, replied just as curtly.
“Not yet!”
Mallalieu fidgeted about for a while, arranging
some papers he had brought in from the yard. Sud-
denly he uttered an exclamation of impatience, and
going to the door, called to a lad who was passing.
“Here, you!” he said. “You know where Mr.
Stoner lodges?—Mrs. Battley's. Run round there,
and see why he hasn’t come to his work. It’s an
hour and a half past his time. Happen he's poorly
—run now, sharp !”
He went off down the yard again when he had
despatched this message; he came back to the
office ten minutes later, just as the messenger re-
turned.


162 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Well?” he demanded, with a side-glance to assure
himself that Cotherstone was at hand. “Where is
he, like?”
“Please, sir, Mrs. Battley, she says as how Mr.
Stoner went away on Saturday afternoon, sir,” an-
swered the lad, “and he hasn’t been home
since. She thinks he went to Darlington, sir, on a
visit.”
Mallalieu turned into the office, growling.
“Must ha’ missed his train,” he muttered as he
put more papers on Stoner's desk. “Here—
happen you’ll attend to these things—they want
booking up.”
Cotherstone made no reply, and Mallalieu presently
left him and went home to get his breakfast. And as
he walked up the road to his house he wondered why
Stoner had gone to Darlington. Was it possible that
he had communicated what he knew to any of his
friends? If so—
“Confound the suspense and the uncertainty l’’
growled Mallalieu. “It 'ud wear the life out of a
man. I’ve a good mind to throw the whole thing
up and clear out! I could do it easy enough wi' my
means. A clear track—and no more o’ this infernal
anxiety.”
He reflected, as he made a poor show of eating his
breakfast, on the ease with which he could get away
from Highmarket and from England. Being a par-
ticularly astute man of business, Mallalieu had taken
good care that all his eggs were not in one basket.
He had many baskets—his Highmarket basket was
by no means the principal one. Indeed all that Mal-


THE MEDICAL OPINION 163
lalieu possessed in Highmarket was his share of the
business and his private house. As he had made his
money he had invested it in easily convertible, gilt-
edged securities, which would be realized at an hour's
notice in London or New York, Paris or Vienna. It
would be the easiest thing in the world for him, as
Mayor of Highmarket, to leave the town on Corpora-
tion business, and within a few hours to be where no-
body could find him; within a few more, to be out of
the country. Lately, he had often thought of going
right away, to enjoy himself for the rest of his life.
He had made one complete disappearance already;
why not make another? Before he went townwards
again that morning, he was beginning to give serious.
attention to the idea.
Meanwhile, however, there was the business of the
day to attend to, and Stoner's absence threw addi-
tional work on the two partners. Then at twelve
o'clock, Mallalieu had to go over to the Town Hall
to preside at a meeting of the General Purposes Com-
mittee. That was just over, and he was thinking of
going home to his lunch when the superintendent of
police came into the committee-room and drew him
aside.
“I’ve bad news for you, Mr. Mayor,” he announced
in a whisper. “Your clerk—he hasn’t been at work
this morning, I suppose?”
“Well?” demanded Mallalieu, nerving himself for
what he felt to be coming. “What about it?”
“He’s met with a bad accident,” replied the su-
perintendent. “In fact, sir, he's dead! A couple of
men found his body an hour or so ago in Hobwick


164 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Quarry, up on the moor, and it’s been brought down
to the mortuary. You’d better come round, Mr.
Mayor—Mr. Cotherstone's there, now.”
Mallalieu followed without a word. But once out-
side the Town Hall he turned to his companion.
“:Have you made aught out of it?” he asked.
“He’s been away, so his landlady says, since Satur-
day afternoon: I sent round to inquire for him when
he didn’t turn up this morning. What do you know,
like?”
“It looks as if it had been an accident,” answered
the superintendent. “These men that found him
noticed some broken railings at top of the quarry.
They looked down and saw a body. So they made
their way down and found—Stoner. It would seem
as if he’d leaned or sat on the railings and they’d
given way beneath him, and of course he'd pitched
headlong into the quarry. It’s fifty feet deep, Mr.
Mayorl That’s all one can think of. But Dr. Rock-
cliffe’s with him now.”
Mallalieu made a mighty effort to appear calm,
as, with a grave and concerned face, he followed his
guide into the place where the doctor, an official or
two, and Cotherstone were grouped about the dead
man. He gave one glance at his partner and Coth-
erstone gave one swift look at him—and there was
something in Cotherstone's look which communicated
a sudden sense of uneasy fear to Mallalieu: it was a
look of curious intelligence, almost a sort of signal.
And Mallalieu experienced a vague feeling of dread as
he turned to the doctor.
“A bad job—a bad job l’’ he muttered, shaking his


THE MEDICAL OPINION 165
head and glancing sideways at the body. “D’ye
make aught out of it, doctor? Can you say how it
came about?”
Dr. Rockcliffe pursed up his lips and his face be-
came inscrutable. He kept silence for a moment—
when he spoke his voice was unusually stern.
“The lad’s neck is broken, and his spine's frac-
tured,” he said in a low voice. “Either of those in-
juries was enough to cause death. But—look at
that l”
He pointed to a contusion which showed itself
with unmistakable plainness on the dead man’s left
temple, and again he screwed up his lips as if in
disgust at some deed present only to the imag-
ination.
“That’s a blow !” he said, more sternly than before.
“A blow from some blunt instrument It was a sav-
age blow, too, dealt with tremendous force. It may
—may, I say—have killed this poor fellow on the
spot—he may have been dead before ever he fell down
that quarry.”
It was only by an enormous effort of will that Mal-
lalieu prevented himself from yielding to one of his
shaking fits.
“But—but mightn’t he ha’ got that with strik-
ing his head against them rocks as he fell?” he sug-
gested. “It’s a rocky place, that, and the rocks
project, like, so—”
‘‘No!” said the doctor, doggedly. “That’s no in-
jury from any rock or stone or projection. It’s the
result of a particularly fierce blow dealt with great
force by some blunt instrument—a life preserver, a


166 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
club, a heavy stick. It’s no use arguing it. That’s a
certainty l’’
Cotherstone, who had kept quietly in the back-
ground, ventured a suggestion.
“Any signs of his having been robbed ?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied the superintendent promptly.
“I’ve everything that was on him. Not much, either.
Watch and chain, half a sovereign, some loose silver
and copper, his pipe and tobacco, a pocket-book with
a letter or two and such-like in it—that’s all. There'd
been no robbery.”
“I suppose you took a look round?” asked Coth-
erstone. “See anything that suggested a struggle?
Or footprints? Or aught of that sort?”
The superintendent shook his head.
“Naught !” he answered. “I looked carefully at
the ground round those broken railings. But it’s the
sort of ground that wouldn’t show footprints, you
know—covered with that short, wiry mountain grass
that shows nothing.”
“And nothing was found?” asked Mallalieu. “No
weapons, eh?”
For the life of him he could not resist asking that
—his anxiety about the stick was overmastering him.
And when the superintendent and the two policemen
who had been with him up to Hobwick Quarry had
answered that they had found nothing at all, he had
hard work to repress a sigh of relief. He presently
went away hoping that the oak stick had fallen into
a crevice of the rocks or amongst the brambles which
grew out of them; there was a lot of tangle-wood
about that spot, and it was quite possible that the


168 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Have you anything to go on ?’’ asked Brereton.
“Had anybody any motive? Was there any love af-
fair—jealousy, you know—anything of that sort?”
“No, I'm sure there wasn't,” replied the super-
intendent. “The whole town and county’s ringing
with the news, and I should ha’ heard something by
now. And it wasn’t robbery—not that he’d much
on him, poor fellow ! There’s all he had,” he went on,
opening a drawer. “You can look at 'em, if you
like.’’
He left the room just then, and Brereton, disre-
garding the cheap watch and chain and the pigskin
purse with its light load, opened Stoner's pocket-
book. There was not much in that, either—a letter
or two, some receipted bills, a couple of much creased
copies of the reward bill, some cuttings from news-
papers. He turned from these to the pocket-book it-
self, and on the last written page he found an entry
which made him start. For there again were the
initials'
“—M. & C.—fraud—blag. soc.—Wilchester Assizes
—81—£2000—money never recovered—2 yrs.-K.
pres.”
Not much—but Brereton hastily copied that entry.
And he had just written the last word when the su-
perintendent came back into the room with a man who
was in railway uniform.
“Come in here,” the superintendent was saying.
“You can tell me what it is before this gentleman.
Some news from High Gill junction, Mr. Brereton,”
he went on, “something about Stoner. Well, my lad,
what is it?”


THE MEDICAL OPINION 169
“The station-master sent me over on his bicycle,”
replied the visitor. “We heard over there this after-
noon about Stoner's body being found, and that you
were thinking he must have fallen over into the
quarry in the darkness. And we know over yonder
that that’s not likely.”
“Aye?” said the superintendent. “Well, as a mat-
ter of fact, my lad, we weren’t thinking that, but no
doubt that rumour's got out. Now why do you rail-
way folks know it isn’t likely?”
“That’s what I’ve come to tell,” answered the man,
a sharp, intelligent-looking fellow. “I’m ticket-col-
lector over there, as you know, sir. Now, young
Stoner came to the junction on Saturday afternoon
and booked for Darlington, and of course went to
Darlington. He came back yesterday afternoon—
Sunday—by the train that gets to our junction at 3.3.
I took his ticket. Instead of going out of the station
by the ordinary way, he got over the fence on the
down line side, saying to me that he’d take a straight
cut across the moor to Highmarket. I saw him going
Highmarket way for some distance. And he’d be at
Hobwick Quarry by 4.30 at the latest—long before
darkness.”
“Just about sunset, as a matter of fact,” remarked
the superintendent. “The sun sets about 4.18.”
“So he couldn’t have fallen over in the darkness,”
continued the ticket-collector. “If all had gone well
with him, he’d have been down in Highmarket here
by dusk.”
“I’m obliged to you,” said the superintendent.


170 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“It’s worth knowing, of course. Came from Darling-
ton, eh? Was he alone?”
“Quite alone, sir.”
“You didn’t see anybody else going that way across
the moors, did you? Didn’t notice anybody follow-
ing him?”
“No,” replied the ticket-collector with decision.
“Me and one of my mates watched him a long way,
and I’ll swear there was no one near him till he was
out of sight. We didn’t watch him on purpose,
neither. When the down-train had gone, me and my
mate sat down to smoke our pipes, and from where we
were we could see right across the moors in this direc-
tion. We saw Stoner—now and then, you under-
stand—right away to Chat Bank.”
“You didn’t notice any suspicious characters come
to your station that afternoon or evening?” asked the
superintendent.
The ticket-collector replied that nothing of that sort
had been seen, and he presently went away. And
Brereton, after an unimportant word or two, went
away too, certain by that time that the death of
Stoner had some sinister connexion with the murder
of Kitely.


CEIAPTER XVIII
THE SCRAP BOOK
Brereton went back to his friend's house more puz-
zled than ever by the similarity of the entries in
Ritely's memoranda and in Stoner's pocket-book.
Bent had gone over to Norcaster that afternoon, on
business, and was not to be home until late in the
evening: Brereton accordingly dined alone and had
ample time to reflect and to think. The reflecting and
the thinking largely took the form of speculating—
on the fact that certain terms and figures which had
been set down by Kitely had also been set down by
Stoner. There were the initials—M. & C. There was
a date—if it was a date—81. What in Kitely’s memo-
randum the initials S. B. might mean, it was useless
to guess at. His memorandum, indeed, was as cryp-
tic as an Egyptian hieroglyph. But Stoner's memo-
randum was fuller, more explicit. The M. & C. of the
Kitely entry had been expanded to Mallows and Chid-
forth. The entry “fraud” and the other entries
“Wilchester Assizes” and the supplementary words,
clearly implied that two men named Mallows and
Chidforth were prosecuted at Wilchester Assizes in
the year 1881 for fraud, that a sum of £2,000 was in-
volved, which was never recovered, that Mallows and
171


172 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Chidforth, whoever they were, were convicted and
were sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. So much
for Stoner’s memorandum. But did it refer to the
same event to which Kitely made reference in his
memorandum ? It seemed highly probable that it did.
It seemed highly probable, too, that the M. & C. of
Kitely’s entry were the Mallows & Chidforth of
Stoner's. And now the problem narrowed to one
most serious and crucial point—were the Mallows and
Chidforth of these references the Mallalieu and Coth-
erstone of Highmarket.
Speculating on this possibility, Brereton after his
solitary dinner went into Bent’s smoking-room, and
throwing himself into a chair before the fire, lighted
his pipe and proceeded to think things out. It was
abundantly clear to him by that time that Kitely and
Stoner had been in possession of a secret: it seemed
certain that both had been murdered by some person
who desired to silence them. There was no possible
doubt as to Kitely's murder: from what Brereton had
heard that afternoon there seemed to be just as little
doubt that Stoner had also been murdered. He had
heard what the local medical men had to say—one and
all agreed that though the clerk had received injuries
in his fall which would produce almost instantaneous
death he had received a mortal blow before he fell.
Who struck that blow? Everything seemed to point
to the fact that the man who struck it was the man
who strangled Kitely—a man of great muscular
power. -
Glancing around the room as he sat in a big eas
chair, his hands behind his head, Brereton’s eyes fell


THE SCRAP BOOK 173
suddenly on Kitely's legacy to Windle Bent. The
queer-looking old volume which, because of its black
calf binding and brass clasp, might easily have been
taken for a prayer-book, lay just where Bent had set
it down on his desk when Christopher Pett formally
handed it over—so far as Brereton knew Bent up to
now had never even opened it. And it was with no
particular motive that Brereton now reached out and
picked it up, and unsnapping the clasp began idly
to turn over the leaves on which the old detective had
pasted cuttings from newspapers and made entries
in his crabbed handwriting. Brereton believed that
he was idly handling what Pett had jocosely de-
scribed the book to be—a mere scrap-book. It never
entered his head that he held in his hands almost
the whole solution of the mystery which was puz-
zling him.
No man knows how inspiration comes to him, and
Brereton never knew how it was that suddenly, in the
flash of an eye, in the swiftness of thought, he knew
that he had found what he wanted. Suggestion might
have had something to do with it. Kitely had writ-
ten the word Scrap-book on the first blank page. Af-
terwards, at the tops of pages, he had filled in dates
in big figures—for reference—1875–1879–1887–
and so on. And Brereton suddenly saw, and under-
stood, and realized. The cryptic entry in Kitely's
pocket-book became plain as the plainest print.
M. dº C. v. S. B. cir. 81:—Brereton could amplify that
now. Kitely, like all men who dabble in antiquarian
pursuits, knew a bit of Latin, and naturally made an
occasional airing of his knowledge. The full entry,


174 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
of course, meant M. &. C. vide (= see) Scrap-Book
circa (= about) 1881.
With a sharp exclamation of delight, Brereton
turned over the pages of that queer record of crime
and detection until he came to one over which the
figure 1881 stood out boldly. A turn or two more of
pages, and he had found what he wanted. There it
was—a long cutting from what was evidently a local
newspaper—a cutting which extended over two or
three leaves of the book—and at the end a memoran-
dum in Kitely's handwriting, evidently made some
years before. The editor of that local newspaper had
considered the case which Kitely had so carefully
scissored from his columns worthy of four headlines
in big capitals:—
THE BUILDING SOCIETY DEFALCATIONS
MALLOWS AND CHIDFORTH AT THE
WILCHESTER ASSIZES
VERDICT AND SENTENCE
Brereton settled down to a careful reading of the
report. There was really nothing very remarkable
about it—nothing exciting nor sensational. It was
indeed no more than a humdrum narrative of a vulgar
crime. But it was necessary that he should know
all about it, and be able to summarize it, and so he
read it over with unusual care. It was a very plain
story—there were no complications. It appeared
from the evidence adduced that for some time previous
to 1881 there had been in existence in Wilchester a
building society, the members of which were chiefly of


THE SCRAP BOOK 175
the small tradesman and better-class working-man or-
der. Its chief officials for a year or two had been
John Mallows and Mark Chidforth, who were respec-
tively treasurer and secretary. Mallows was fore-
man to a builder in the town; Chidforth was clerk to
the same employer. Both were young men. They
were evidently regarded as smart fellows. Up to the
time of the revelations they had borne the very best
of characters. Each had lived in Wilchester since
childhood; each had continued his education at night
schools and institute classes after the usual elemen-
tary school days were over; each was credited with an
ambitious desire to rise in the world. Each, as a
young man, was attached to religious organizations—
Mallows was a sidesman at one of the churches, Chid-
forth was a Sunday-school teacher at one of the chap-
els. Both had been fully and firmly trusted, and it
appeared from the evidence that they had had what
practically amounted to unsupervised control of the
building society’s funds. And—the really important
point—there was no doubt whatever that they had
helped themselves to some two thousand pounds of
their fellow-members’ money.
All this was clear enough: it took little time for
Brereton to acquaint himself with these facts. What
was not so clear was the whereabouts or disposal of
the money. From the evidence there appeared to be
two conflicting notions current in Wilchester at the
time. Some people apparently believed confidently
that the two culprits had lost the money in secret
speculation and in gambling: other people were just
as certain that they had quietly put the money away


176 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
in some safe quarter. The prisoners themselves ab-
solutely refused to give the least scrap of informa-
tion: ever since their arrest they had maintained a
stolid silence and a defiant demeanour. More than
once during the progress of the trial they had op-
portunities of making clean breasts of their misdoings
and refused to take them. Found guilty, they were
put back until next day for sentence—that, of course,
was to give them another chance of saying what they
had done with the money. But they had kept up
their silence to the end, and they had been sentenced
to two years’ imprisonment, with hard labour, and
so had disappeared from public view, with their
secret—if there really was a secret—intact.
So much for the newspaper cutting from the Wil-
chester Sentinel. But there was more to read. The
cutting came to an end on the top half of a page in
the scrap-book; underneath it on the blank half of the
page Kitely had made an entry, dated three years
after the trial.
“Wilchester: June 28, 1884. Re above. Came
down here on business today and had a talk with
police about M. & C. and the money. M. & C. never
been heard of since their release. Were released at
same time, and seen in the town an hour or two later,
after which they disappeared—a man who spoke to
M. says that M. told him they were going to emigrate.
They are believed to have gone to Argentine. Both
had relatives in Wilchester, but either they don’t
know anything of M. & C.’s subsequent doings, or
they keep silence. No further trace of money, and
opinion still divided as to what they really did with


178 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
that time absolutely certain. And realizing that cer-
tainty, he felt himself placed in a predicament which
could not fail to be painful. It was his duty, as
counsel for an innocent man, to press to the full his
inquiries into the conduct of men whom he believed
to be guilty. In this he was faced with an unpleas-
ant situation. He cared nothing about Mallalieu. If
Mallalieu was a guilty man, let Mallalieu pay the
richly-deserved consequences of his misdeeds. Brere-
ton, without being indifferent or vindictive or callous,
knew that it would not give him one extra heart-
throb if he heard Mallalieu found guilty and sentenced
to the gallows. But Cotherstone was the father of
the girl to whom Windle Bent was shortly to be mar-
ried—and Bent and Brereton had been close friends
ever since they first went to school together.
It was a sad situation, an unpleasant thing to face.
He had come on a visit to Bent, he had prolonged
that visit in order to defend a man whom he firmly
believed to be as innocent as a child—and now he was
to bring disgrace and shame on a family with whom
his host and friend was soon to be allied by the closest
of ties. But—better that than that an innocent man
should suffer! And walking up and down Bent's
smoking-room, and thinking the whole thing through
and through, he half made up his mind to tell Bent all
about it when he returned.
Brereton presently put on hat and coat and left
the house. It was then half-past seven; a sharp,
frosty November evening, with an almost full moon
rising in a clear, star-sprinkled sky. The sudden
change from the warmth of the house to the frost-
*


THE SCRAP BOOK 179
laden atmosphere of the hillside quickened his mental
faculties; he lighted his pipe, and resolved to take
a brisk walk along the road which led out of High-
market and to occupy himself with another review of
the situation. A walk in the country by day or night
and in solitude had always had attractions for Brere-
ton and he set out on this with zest. But he had not
gone a hundred yards in the direction of the moors
when Avice Harborough came out of the gate of
Northrop's garden and met him.
“I was coming to see you,” she said quietly. “I
have heard something that I thought you ought to
hear, too—at once.”
“Yes?” responded Brereton.
Avice drew an envelope from her muff and gave
it to him.
“A boy brought that to me half an hour ago,” she
said. “It is from an old woman, Mrs. Hamthwaite,
who lives in a very lonely place on the moors up
above Hobwick Quarry. Can you read it in this
light?”
“I will,” answered Brereton, drawing a scrap of
paper from the envelope. “Here,” he went on, giv-
ing it back to Avice, “you hold it, and I’ll strike a
match—the moonlight's scarcely strong enough.
Now,” he continued, taking a box of vestas from his
pocket and striking one, “steady—‘If Miss Harbor-
ough will come up to see Susan Hamthwaite I will tell
you something that you might like to know.” Ah!”
he exclaimed, throwing away the match. “Now, how
far is it to this old woman’s cottage?”
“Two miles,” replied Avice.


180 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Can you go there now?” he asked.
“I thought of doing so,” she answered.
“Come along, then,” said Brereton. “We’ll go
together. If she objects to my presence I’ll leave you
with her and wait about for you. Of course, she
wants to tell you something relating to your father.”
“You think so?” said Avice. “I only hope it is!”
“Certain to be,” he replied. “What else could it
be?”
“There are so many strange things to tell about,
just now,” she remarked. “Besides, if old Mrs.
Hamthwaite knows anything, why hasn’t she let me
know until tonight?”
“Oh, there’s no accounting for that!” said Brere-
ton. “Old women have their own way of doing
things. By the by,” he continued, as they turned
out of the road and began to climb a path which led
to the first ridge of the moors outside the town, “I
haven’t seen you today—you’ve heard of this Stoner
affair?”
“Mr. Northrop told me this afternoon,” she replied.
“What do you think about it?”
Brereton walked on a little way without replying.
He was asking a serious question of himself. Should
he tell all he knew to Avice Harborough?


CHAPTER XIX
A TALL MAN IN GREY CLOTHES
That question remained unanswered, and Brereton
remained silent, until he and Avice had reached the
top of the path and had come out on the edge of the
wide stretch of moorland above the little town. He
paused for a moment and looked back on the roofs and
gables of Highmarket, shining and glittering in the
moonlight; the girl paused too, wondering at his si-
lence. And with a curious abruptness he suddenly
turned, laid a hand on her arm, and gave it a firm,
quick pressure.
“Look here!” he said. “I’m going to trust you.
I’m going to say to you what I haven’t said to a soul
in that town —not even to Tallington, who's a man
of the law, nor to Bent, who's my old friend. I
want to say something to somebody whom I can trust.
I can trust you!”
“Thank you,” she answered quietly. “I-I think
I understand. And you’ll understand, too, won’t
you, when I say—you can l’’
“That’s all right,” he said, cheerfully. “Of
course ! Now we understand each other. Come on,
then—you know the way—act as guide, and I'll tell
you as we go along.”
Avice turned off into what appeared to be no more
181


A TALL MAN IN GREY CLOTHES 183
sider it without prejudice—if you can. How does it
appear to you?”
Instead of replying directly the girl walked on in
silence for a moment or two, and suddenly turned to
Brereton with an impulsive movement.
“You’ve given me your confidence and I’ll give
you mine !” she exclaimed. ‘‘Perhaps I ought to
have given it before—to you or to Mr. Tallington—
but—I didn’t like. I’ve wondered about Mallalieu !
Wondered if—if he did kill that old man. And won-
dered if he tried to put the blame on my father out
of revenge!”
“Revengel” exclaimed Brereton. “What do you
mean?”
“My father offended him—not so very long ago,
either,” she answered. “Last year—I’ll tell you it
all, plainly—Mr. Mallalieu began coming to our cot-
tage at times. First he came to see my father about
killing the rats which had got into his out-buildings.
Then he made excuses—he used to come, any way—at
night. He began to come when my father was out,
as he often was. He would sit down and smoke and
talk. I didn’t like it—I don’t like him. Then he
used to meet me in the wood in the Shawl, as I came
home from the Northrops’. I complained to my
father about it and one night my father came in and
found him here. My father, Mr. Brereton, is a very
queer man and a very plain-spoken man. He told
Mr. Mallalieu that neither of us desired his company
and told him to go away. And Mr. Mallalieu lost his
temper and said angry things.”


I84 THE BOROUGH THEASURER
“And your father?” said Brereton. “Did he lose
his temper, too?”
“No l’’ replied Avice. “He has a temper—but he
kept it that night. He never spoke to Mr. Mallalieu
in return. He let him say his say—until he’d got
across the threshold, and then he just shut the door
on him. But—I know how angry Mr. Mallalieu was.”
Brereton stood silently considering matters for a
moment. Then he pointed to the light in the window
beneath them, and moved towards it.
“I’m glad you told me that,” he said. “It may
account for something that’s puzzled me a great deal—
I must think it out. But at present—is that the
old woman’s lamp 2''
Avice led the way down to the hollow by a narrow
path which took them into a little stone-walled en-
closure where a single Scotch fir-tree stood sentinel
over a typical moorland homestead of the smaller
sort—a one-storied house of rough stone, the roof of
which was secured from storm and tempest by great
boulders slung on stout ropes, and having built on to
it an equally rough shelter for some small stock of
cows and sheep. Out of a sheer habit of reflection
on things newly seen, Brereton could not avoid won-
dering what life was like, lived in this solitude, and
in such a perfect hermitage—but his speculations were
cut short by the opening of the door set deep within
the whitewashed porch. An old woman, much bent
by age, looked out upon him and Avice, holding a
small lamp so that its light fell on their faces.
“Come your ways in, joy!” she said hospitably.
“I was expecting you’d come up tonight: I knew


A TALL MAN IN GREY CLOTHES 185
you’d want to have a word with me as soon as you
could. Come in and sit you down by the fire—it’s
coldish o’ nights, to be sure, and there’s frost in the
air.’’
“This gentleman may come in, too, mayn’t he,
Mrs. Hamthwaite?’’ asked Avice as she and Brere-
ton stepped within the porch. “He’s the lawyer-
gentleman who's defending my father—you won’t
mind speaking before him, will you?”
“Neither before him, nor behind him, nor yet to
him,” answered Mrs. Hamthwaite with a chuckle.
“I’ve talked to lawyers afore today, many’s the time !
Come your ways in, sir—sit you down.”
She carefully closed the door on her guests and
motioned them to seats by a bright fire of turf, and
then setting the lamp on the table, seated herself in a
corner of her long-settle and folding her hands in her
apron took a long look at her visitors through a pair
of unusually large spectacles. And Brereton, gen-
uinely interested, took an equally long look at her;
and saw a woman who was obviously very old but
whose face was eager, intelligent, and even vivacious.
As this queer old face turned from one to the other,
its wrinkles smoothed out into a smile.
“You’ll be wondering what I’ve got to tell, love,”
said Mrs. Hamthwaite, turning to Avice. “And no
doubt you want to know why I haven’t sent for you
before now. But you see, since that affair happened
down your way, I been away. Aye, I been to see
my daughter—as lives up the coast. And I didn’t
come home till today. And I’m no hand at writing
letters. However here we are, and better late than


186 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
never and no doubt this lawyer gentleman’ll be glad
to hear what I can tell him and you.”
“Very glad indeed!” responded Brereton. “What
is it?”
The old woman turned to a box which stood in a
recess in the ingle-nook at her elbow and took from
it a folded newspaper.
“Me and my daughter and her husband read this
here account o’ the case against Harborough as it was
put before the magistrates,” she said. “We studied
it. Now you want to know where Harborough was on
the night that old fellow was done away with. That's
it, master, what?”
“That is it,” answered Brereton, pressing his arm
against Avice, who sat close at his side. “Yes, in-
deed! And you—”
“I can tell you where Harborough was between nine
o'clock and ten o'clock that night,” replied Mrs.
Hamthwaite, with a smile that was not devoid of
cunning. “I know, if nobody else knows!”
“Where, then?” demanded Brereton.
The old woman leaned forward across the hearth.
“Up here on the moor!” she whispered. “Not
five minutes' walk from here. At a bit of a place—
Miss there’ll know it—called Good Folks' Lift. A
little rise i' the ground where the fairies used to
dance, you know, master.”
“You saw him?” asked Brereton.
“I saw him,” chuckled Mrs. Hamthwaite. “And
if I don’t know him, why then, his own daughter
doesn’t l’’
“You’d better tell us all about it,” said Brereton.


A TALL MAN IN GREY CLOTHES 187
Mrs. Hamthwaite gave him a sharp look. “I’ve
given evidence to law folks before today,” she said.
“You’ll want to know what I could tell before a
judge, like?”
“Of course,” replied Brereton.
“Well, then—” she continued. “You see, mas-
ter, since my old man died, I’ve lived all alone up
here. I’ve a bit to live on—not over much, but
enough. All the same, if I can save a bit by getting
a hare or a rabbit, or a bird or two now and then,
off the moor—well, I do | We all of us does that,
as lives on the moor: some folks calls it poaching,
but we call it taking our own. Now then, on that
night we’re talking about, I went along to Good
Folks’ Lift to look at some snares I’d set early that
day. There’s a good deal of bush and scrub about
that place—I was amongst the bushes when I heard
steps, and I looked out and saw a tall man in grey
clothes coming close by. How did I know he were
in grey clothes? Why, 'cause he stopped close by
me to light his pipel But he’d his back to me, so
I didn’t see his full face, only a side of it. He were
a man with a thin, greyish beard. Well, he walks past
there, not far—and then I heard other steps. Then
I heard your father's voice, miss—and I see the two
of 'em meet. They stood, whispering together, for
a minute or so—then they came back past me, and
they went off across the moor towards Hexendale.
And soon they were out of sight, and when I’d fin-
ished what I was after I came my ways home. That’s
all, master—but if yon old man was killed down in
Highmarket Shawl Wood between nine and ten


A TALL MAN IN GREY CLOTHES 189
Mrs. Hamthwaite made a face which seemed to
suggest uncertainty.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” she answered. “I believe
him to be a man that I have seen about this here neigh-
bourhood two or three times during this last eighteen
months or so. If you really want to know, I’m a
good deal about them moors o’ nights; old as I am,
I’m very active, and I go about a goodish bit—why
not? And I have seen a man about now and then—
months between, as a rule—that I couldn’t account
for—and I believe it's this fellow that was with
Harborough.”
“And you say they went away in the direction of
Hexendale?” said Brereton. “Where is Hexen-
dale 3’’
The old woman pointed westward.
“Inland,” she answered. “Over yonder. Miss
there knows Hexendale well enough.”
“Hexendale is a valley—with a village of the same
name in it—that lies about five miles away on the
other side of the moors,” said Avice. “There's an-
other line of railway there—this man Mrs. Ham-
thwaite speaks of could come and go by that.”
“Well,” remarked Brereton presently, “we’re very
much obliged to you, ma'am, and I’m sure you won’t
have any objection to telling all this again at the
proper time and place, eh?”
“Eh, bless you, no!” answered Mrs. Hamthwaite.
“I’ll tell it wherever you like, master—before Lawyer
Tallington, or the magistrates, or the crowner, or
anybody! But I’ll tell you what, if you’ll take a bit


190 THE BOROUGH THEASURER
of advice from an old woman—you’re a sharp-looking
young man, and I’ll tell you what I should do if
I were in your place—now then l’’
“Well, what?” asked Brereton good-humouredly.
Mrs. Hamthwaite clapped him on the shoulder as
she opened the door for her visitors.
“Find that tall man in the grey clothes!” she said.
“Get hold of him He's the chap you want!”
Brereton went silently away, meditating on the old
woman's last words.
“But where are we to find him?” he suddenly ex-
claimed. “Who is he?”
“I don’t think that puzzles me,” remarked Avice.
‘‘He’s the man who sent the nine hundred pounds.”
Brereton smote his stick on the heather at their
feet.
“By George —I never thought of that!” he cz-
claimed. “I shouldn’t wonder l—I shouldn’t won-
der at all. Hooray!—we're getting nearer and nearer
to something.”
But he knew that still another step was at hand—
an unpleasant, painful step—when, on getting back
to Bent's, an hour later, Bent told him that Lettie
had been cajoled into fixing the day of the wedding,
and that the ceremony was to take place with the
utmost privacy that day week.


CHAPTER xx
AT BAY
It was only by an immense effort of will that Brere-
ton prevented an exclamation and a start of surprise.
But of late he had been perpetually on the look-out for
all sorts of unforeseen happenings and he managed to
do no more than show a little natural astonishment.
“What, so soon!” he said. “Dear me, old chap!—
I didn’t think of its being this side of Christmas.”
“Cotherstone's set on it,” answered Bent. “He
seems to be turning into a regular hypochondriac.
I hope nothing is really seriously wrong with him.
But anyway—this day week. And you’ll play your
part of best man, of course.”
“Oh, of course!” agreed Brereton. “And then
—are you going away?”
“Yes, but not for as long as we'd meant,” said
Bent. “We’ll run down to the Riviera for a few
weeks—I’ve made all my arrangements today. Well,
any fresh news about this last bad business? This
Stoner affair, of course, has upset Cotherstone dread-
fully. When is all this mystery coming to an end,
Brereton? There is one thing dead certain—Harbor-
ough isn’t guilty in this case. That is, if Stoner
really was killed by the blow they talk of.”
191


AT BAY 193
his morning’s letters, poured out the whole story
which he had learned from the ex-detective's scrap-
book ond from the memorandum made by Stoner in
his pocket-book.
Tallington listened with absorbed attention, his face
growing graver and graver as Brereton marshalled the
facts and laid stress on one point of evidence after
another. He was a good listener—a steady, watch-
ful listener—Brereton saw that he was not only tak-
ing in every fact and noting every point, but was also
weighing up the mass of testimony. And when the ,
story came to its end he spoke with decision, spoke,
too, just as Brereton expected he would, making no
comment, offering no opinion, but going straight to
the really critical thing.
“There are only two things to be done,” said Tal-
lington. “They’re the only things that can be done.
We must send for Bent, and tell him. Then we must
get Cotherstone here, and tell him. No other course
—none !”
“Bent first?” asked Brereton.
“Certainly 1 Bent first, by all means. It's due
to him. Besides,” said Tallington, with a grim smile,
“it would be decidedly unpleasant for Cotherstone to
compel him to tell Bent, or for us to tell Bent in
Cotherstone's presence. And—we'd better get to
work at once, Brereton | Otherwise—this will get out
in another way.”
“You mean—through the police?” said Brereton.
“Surely!” replied Tallington. “This can't be
kept in a corner. For anything we know somebody
may be at work, raking it all up, just now. Do you


194 THE BOROUGH, TREASURER
suppose that unfortunate lad Stoner kept his knowl-
edge to himself? I don't! No-at once! Come,
Bent's office is only a minute away—I’ll send one of
my clerks for him. Painful, very—but necessary.”
The first thing that Bent's eyes encountered when
he entered Tallington’s private room ten minutes
later was the black-bound, brass-clasped scrap-book,
which Brereton had carried down with him and had
set on the solicitor’s desk. He started at the sight of
it, and turned quickly from one man to the other.
“What's that doing here?” he asked. “is—have
you made some discovery? Why am I wanted ?”
Once more Brereton had to go through the story.
But his new listener did not receive it in the calm
and phlegmatic fashion in which it had been received
by the practised ear of the man of law. Bent was at
first utterly incredulous; then indignant: he inter-
rupted; he asked questions which he evidently be-
lieved to be difficult to answer; he was fighting—and
both his companions, sympathizing keenly with him,
knew why. But they never relaxed their attitude,
and in the end Bent looked from one to the other with
a cast-down countenance in which doubt was begin-
ning to change into certainty.
“You’re convinced of—all this?” he demanded
suddenly. “Both of you? It’s your conviction?”
“It’s mine,” answered Tallington quietly.
“I’d give a good deal for your sake, Bent, if it
were not mine,” said Brereton. “But—it is mine.
I’m—sure!”
Bent jumped from his chair. -
“Which of them is it, then?” he exclaimed. “Gad!


AT BAY 195
—you don’t mean to say that Cotherstone is—a mur-
derer! Good heavens !—think of what that would
mean to—to-”
Tallington got up and laid a hand on Bent’s arm.
“We won’t say or think anything until we hear
what Cotherstone has to say,” he said. “I’ll step
along the street and fetch him, myself. I know he’ll
be alone just now, because I saw Mallalieu go into
the Town Hall ten minutes ago—there's an important
committee meeting there this morning over which he
has to preside. Pull yourself together, Bent—Coth-
erstone may have some explanation of everything.”
Mallalieu & Cotherstone's office was only a few
yards away along the street; Tallington was back from
it with Cotherstone in five minutes. And Brereton,
looking closely at Cotherstone as he entered and saw
who awaited him, was certain that Cotherstone was
ready for anything. A sudden gleam of understand-
ing came into his sharp eyes; it was as if he said to
himself that here was a moment, a situation, a crisis,
which he had anticipated, and—he was prepared. It
was an outwardly calm and cool Cotherstone, who,
with a quick glance at all three men and at the closed
door, took the chair which Tallington handed to him,
and turned on the solicitor with a single word.
“Well ?”
“As I told you in coming along,” said Tallington,
“we want to speak to you privately about some infor-
mation which has been placed in our hands—that is, of
course, in Mr. Brereton's and in mine. We have
thought it well to already acquaint Mr. Bent with it.
All this is between ourselves, Mr. Cotherstone—so


196 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
treat us as candidly as we'll treat you. I can put
everything to you in a few words. They’re painful.
Are you and your partner, Mr. Mallalieu, the same
persons as the Chidforth and Mallows who were prose-
cuted for fraud at Wilchester Assizes in 1881 and
sentenced to two years’ imprisonment?”
Cotherston neither started nor flinched. There was
no sign of weakness nor of hesitation about him now.
Instead, he seemed to have suddenly recovered all the
sharpness and vigour with which two at any rate of
the three men who were so intently watching him
had always associated with him. He sat erect and
watchful in his chair, and his voice became clear and
strong.
“Before I answer that question, Mr. Tallington,”
he said, “I’ll ask one of Mr. Bent here. It's this—
is my daughter going to suffer from aught that may
or may not be raked up against her father? Let me
know that —if you want any words from me.”
Bent flushed angrily.
“You ought to know what my answer is l’’ he ex-
claimed. “It’s no !”
“That’ll do!” said Cotherstone. “I know you—
you’re a man of your word.” He turned to Talling-
ton. “Now I’ll reply to you,” he went on. “My
answer's in one word, too. Yes!”
Tallington opened Kitely’s scrap-book at the ac-
count of the trial at Wilchester, placed it before
Cotherstone, and indicated certain lines with the point
of a pencil.
“You’re the Chidforth mentioned there?” he asked
quietly. “And your partner’s the Mallows?”
~


AT BAY 197
“That’s so,” replied Cotherstone, so imperturbably
that all three looked at him in astonishment “That's
quite so, Mr. Tallington.”
“And this is an accurate report of what hap-
pened?” asked Tallington, trailing the pencil over
the newspaper. “That is, as far as you can see at
a glance?”
“Oh, I daresay it is,” said Cotherstone, airily.
“That was the best paper in the town—I daresay
it's all right. Looks so, anyway.”
“You know that Kitely was present at that trial?”
suggested Tallington, who, like Brereton, was begin-
ning to be mystified by Cotherstone's coolness.
“Well,” answered Cotherstone, with a shake of his
head, “I know now. But I never did know until that
afternoon of the day on which the old man was mur-
dered. If you’re wanting the truth, he came into our
office that afternoon to pay his rent to me, and he told
me then. And—if you want more truth—he tried
to blackmail me. He was to come next day—at four
o'clock—to hear what me and Mallalieu 'ud offer him
for hush-money.”
“Then you told Mallalieu ?’’ asked Tallington.
“Of course I told him l’’ replied Cotherstone.
“Told him as soon as Kitely had gone. It was a facer
for both of us—to be recognized, and to have all that
thrown up against us, after thirty years’ honest
Work l’’
The three listeners looked silently at each other.
A moment of suspence passed. Then Tallington put
the question which all three were burning with eager-
ness to have answered.


198 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Mr. Cotherstone!—do you know who killed
Eitely?”
“No l’’ answered Cotherstone. “But I know who
I think killed him l’’
“Who, then?” demanded Tallington.
“The man who killed Bert Stoner,” said Cother-
stone firmly. “And for the same reason.”
“And this man is—”
Tallington left the question unfinished. For Coth-
erstone’s alert face took a new and determined ex-
pression, and he raised himself a little in his chair
and brought his lifted hand down heavily on the
desk at his side.
“Mallalieu!” he exclaimed. “Mallalieu! I be-
lieve he killed Kitely. I suspicioned it from the first,
and I came certain of it on Sunday night. Why?
Because I saw Mallaliew fell Stomer!”
There was a dead silence in the room for a long,
painful minute. Tallington broke it at last by re-
peating Cotherstone's last words.
“You saw Mallalieu fell Stoner? Yourself?”
“With these eyes! Look here !” exclaimed Coth-
erstone, again bringing his hand down heavily on the
desk. “I went up there by Hobwick Quarry on Sun-
day afternoon—to do a bit of thinking. As I got
to that spinney at the edge of the quarry, I saw
Mallalieu and our clerk. They were fratching—
quarrelling—I could hear 'em as well as see 'em. And
I slipped behind a big bush and waited and watched.
I could see and hear, even at thirty yards off, that
Stoner was maddening Mallalieu, though of course I
couldn’t distinguish precise words. And all of a sud-


AT BAY 199
den Mallalieu’s temper went, and he lets out with that
heavy oak stick of his and fetches the lad a crack
right over his forehead—and with Stoner starting sud-
denly back the old railings gave way and—down he
went. That’s what I saw—and I saw Mallalieu kick
that stick into the quarry in a passion, and—I’ve got
it !” y
“You’ve got it?” said Tallington.
“I’ve got it!” repeated Cotherstone. “I watched
Mallalieu-after this was over. Once I thought he
saw me—but he evidently decided he was alone. I
could see he was taking on rarely. He went down
to the quarry as it got dusk—he was there some time.
Then at last he went away on the opposite side. And
I went down when he’d got clear away and I went
straight to where the stick was. And as I say, I’ve
got it.” -
Tallington looked at Brereton, and Brereton spoke
for the first time.
“Mr. Cotherstone must see that all this should be
told to the police,” he said.
“Wait a bit,” replied Cotherstone. “I’ve not done
telling my tales here yet. Now that I am talking, I
will talk! Bent l” he continued, turning to his future
son-in-law. “What I’m going to say now is for your
benefit. But these lawyers shall hear. This old Wil-
chester business has been raked up—how, I don't
know. Now then, you shall all know the truth about
that I did two years—for what? For being Mal-
lalieu’s catspaw l’’
Tallington suddenly began to drum his fingers on
the blotting-pad which lay in front of him. From


200 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
this point he watched Cotherstone with an appear-
ance of speculative interest which was not lost on
Brereton.
“Ah!” he remarked quietly. “You were Mal-
lalieu’s—or Mallows’—catspaw? That is—he was
the really guilty party in the Wilchester affair, of
which that’s an account?”
“Doesn’t it say here that he was treasurer?” re-
torted Cotherstone, laying his hand on the open scrap-
book. “He was—he'd full control of the money. He
drew me into things—drew me into 'em in such a
clever way that when the smash came I couldn’t help
myself. I had to go through with it. And I never
knew until—until the two years was over—that Mal-
lalieu had that money safely put away.”
“But—you got to know, eventually,” remarked
Tallington. “And—I suppose—you agreed to make
use of it?”
Cotherstone smote the table again.
“Yes!” he said with some heat. “And don’t you
get any false ideas, Mr. Tallington. Bent —I’ve paid
that money back—I, myself. Each penny of it—two
thousand pound, with four per cent. interest for
thirty years! I’ve done it—Mallalieu knows naught
about it. And here's the receipt. So now then l’’
“When did you pay it, Mr. Cotherstone?” asked
Tallington, as Bent unwillingly took the paper which
Cotherstone drew from a pocket-book and handed to
him. “Some time ago, or lately?”
“If you want to know,” retorted Cotherstone, “it
was the very day after old Kitely was killed. I
sent it through a friend of mine who still lives in


AT BAY 201
Wilchester. I wanted to be done with it—I didn’t
want to have it brought up against me that anybody
lost aught through my fault. And so—I paid.”
“But—I’m only suggesting—you could have paid
a long time before that, couldn’t you?” said Talling-
ton. “The longer you waited, the more you had to
pay. Two thousand pounds, with thirty years' in-
terest, at four per cent.—why, that’s four thousand
four hundred pounds altogether l’’
“That’s what he paid,” said Bent. “Here’s the
receipt.”
“Mr. Cotherstone is telling us—privately—every-
thing,” remarked Tallington, glancing at the receipt
and passing it on to Brereton. “I wish he'd tell us—
privately, as I say—why he paid that money the day
after Kitely's murder. Why, Mr. Cotherstone?”
Cotherstone, ready enough to answer and to speak
until then, flushed angrily and shook his head. But
he was about to speak when a gentle tap came at Tal-
lington’s door, and before the solicitor could make
any response, the door was opened from without, and
the police-superintendent walked in, accompanied by
two men whom Brereton recognized as detectives from
Norcaster.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Tallington,” said the su-
perintendent, “but I heard Mr. Cotherstone was here.
Mr. Cotherstone !—I shall have to ask you to step
across with me to the office. Will you come over
now?—it’ll be best.”
“Not until I know what I’m wanted for,” an-
swered Cotherstone determinedly. “What is it?”
The superinterfdent sighed and shook his head.


202 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
f
“Very well—it's not my fault, then,” he answered.
“The fact is we want both you and Mr. Mallalieu for
this Stoner affair. That's the plain truth! The war-
rants were issued an hour ago—and we’ve got Mr.
Mallalieu already. Come on, Mr. Cotherstone !—
there's no help for it.”


CEIAPTER XXI
THE INTERRUPTED FLIGHT
Twenty-four hours after he had seen Stoner fall
headlong into Hobwick Quarry, Mallalieu made up his
mind for flight. And as soon as he had come to that
moment of definite decision, he proceeded to arrange
for his disappearance with all the craft and subtlety
of which he was a past master. He would go, once
and for all, and since he was to go he would go in such
a fashion that nobody should be able to trace him.
After munching his sandwich and drinking his ale
at the Highmarket Arms, Mallalieu had gone away to
Hobwick Quarry and taken a careful look round.
Just as he had expected, he found a policeman or two
and a few gaping townsfolk there. He made no con-
cealment of his own curiosity; he had come up, he
said, to see what there was to be seen at the place
where his clerk had come to this sad end. He made
one of the policemen take him up to the broken rail-
ings at the brink of the quarry; together they made
a careful examination of the ground.
“No signs of any footprints hereabouts, the super-
intendent says,” remarked Mallalieu as they looked
around. “You haven’t seen aught of that sort l”
“No, your Worship—we looked for that when we
203


204 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
first came up,” answered the policeman. “You see
this grass is that short and wiry that it's too full of
spring to show marks. No, there's naught, any-
where about—we've looked a goodish way on both
sides.”
Mallalieu went close to the edge of the quarry and
looked down. His sharp, ferrety eyes were searching
everywhere for his stick. A little to the right of his
position the side of the quarry shelved less abruptly
than at the place where Stoner had fallen; on the
gradual slope there, a great mass of bramble and
gorse, broom and bracken, clustered: he gazed hard
at it, thinking that the stick might have lodged in its
meshes. It would be an easy thing to see that stick
in daylight; it was a brightish yellow colour and
would be easily distinguished against the prevalent
greens and browns around there. But he saw nothing
of it, and his brain, working around the event of the
night before, began to have confused notions of the
ringing of the stick on the lime-stone slabs at the bot-
tom of the quarry.
“Aye!” he said musingly, with a final look round.
“A nasty place to fall over, and a bad job—a bad
job! Them rails,” he continued, pointing to the
broken fencing, “why, they’re rotten all through I
If a man put his weight on them, they’d be sure to
give way. The poor young fellow must ha’ sat down
to rest himself a bit, on the top one, and of course,
smash they went.”
“That's what I should ha’ said, your Worship,”
agreed the policeman, “but some of 'em that were
up here seemed to think he’d been forced through


THE INTERRUPTED FLIGHT 205
'em, or thrown against 'em, violent, as it might be.
They think he was struck down—from the marks of
a blow that they found.”
“Aye, just so,” said Mallalieu, “but he could get
many blows on him as he fell down them rocks. Look
for yourself!—there's not only rough edges of stone
down there, but snags and roots of old trees that he'd
strike against in falling. Accident, my lad!—that's
what it's been—sheer and pure accident.”
The policeman neither agreed with nor contradicted
the Mayor, and presently they went down to the
bottom of the quarry again, where Mallalieu, under
pretence of thoroughly seeing into everything, walked
about all over the place. He did not find the stick,
and he was quite sure that nobody else had found it.
Finally he went away, convinced that it lay in some
nook or cranny of the shelving slope on to which he
had kicked it in his sudden passion of rage. There, in
all probability, it would remain for ever, for it would
never occur to the police that whoever wielded what-
ever weapon it was that struck the blow would not
carry the weapon away with him. No-on the point
of the stick Mallalieu began to feel easy and confident.
He grew still easier and more confident about the
whole thing during the course of the afternoon. He
went about the town; he was in and out of the Town
Hall; he kept calling in at the police-station; he be-
came certain towards evening that no suspicion at-
tached to himself—as yet. But—only as yet. He
knew something would come out. The big question
with him as he went home in the evening was—was he
safe until the afternoon of the next day? While he


206 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
ate and drank in his lonely dining-room, he decided
that he was; by the time he had got through his after-
dinner cigar he had further decided that when the
next night came he would be safely away from High-
market.
But there were things to do that night. He spent
an hour with a Bradshaw and a map. While he reck-
oned up trains and glanced at distances and situations
his mind was busy with other schemes, for he had all
his life been a man who could think of more than one
thing at once. And at the end of the hour he had
decided on a plan of action.
Mallalieu had two chief objects in immediate view.
He wanted to go away openly from Highmarket with-
out exciting suspicion: that was one. He wanted to
make it known that he had gone to some definite
place, on some definite mission; that was the other.
And in reckoning up his chances he saw how fortune
was favouring him. At that very time the High-
market Town Council was very much concerned and
busied about a new water-supply. There was a pro-
ject afoot for joining with another town, some miles
off, in establishing a new system and making a new
reservoir on the adjacent hills, and on the very next
morning Mallalieu himself was to preside over a spe-
cially-summoned committee which was to debate cer-
tain matters relating to this scheme. He saw how he
could make use of that appointment. He would pro-
fess that he was not exactly pleased with some of the
provisions of the proposed amalgamation, and would
state his intention, in open meeting, of going over in
person to the other town that very evening to see its


208 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
man could find all that out, he argued, half a dozen
other men might find it out. The murder of the
ex-detective, indeed, had strengthened his resolve to
be prepared. He foresaw that suspicion might fall on
Cotherstone; deeper reflection showed him that if
Cotherstone became an object of suspicion he himself
would not escape. And so he had prepared himself.
He had got together his valuable securities; they were
all neatly bestowed in a stout envelope which fitted
into the inner pocket of a waistcoat which he once had
specially made to his own design: a cleverly arranged
garment, in which a man could carry a lot of wealth—
in paper. There in that pocket it all was—Govern-
ment stock, railway stock, scrip, shares, all easily con-
vertible, anywhere in the world where men bought and
sold the best of gilt-edged securities. And in another
pocket Mallalieu had a wad of bank-notes which he
had secured during the previous week from a London
bank at which he kept an account, and in yet another,
a cunningly arranged one, lined out with wash-leather,
and secured by a strong flap, belted and buckled, he
carried gold.
Mallalieu kept that waistcoat and its precious con-
tents under his pillow that night. And next morning
he attired himself with particular care, and in the
hip pocket of his trousers he placed a revolver which
he had recently purchased, and for the first time for
a fortnight he ate his usual hearty breakfast. After
which he got into his most serviceable overcoat and
went away townwards . . . and if anybody had been
watching him they would have seen that Mallalieu
—


THE INTERRUPTED FLIGHT 209
never once turned his head to take a look at the house
which he had built, and might be leaving for ever.
Everything that Mallalieu did that morning was
done with method. He was in and about his office
and his yard for an hour or two, attending to business
in his customary fashion. He saw Cotherstone, and
did not speak to him except on absolutely necessary
matters. No word was said by either in relation to
Stoner's death. But about ten o’clock Mallalieu went
across to the police-station and into the superintend-
ent’s office, and convinced himself that nothing fur-
ther had come to light, and no new information had
been given. The coroner's officer was with the police,
and Mallalieu discussed with him and them some ar-
rangements about the inquest. With every moment
the certainty that he was safe increased—and at
eleven o’clock he went into the Town Hall to his com-
mittee meeting.
Had Mallalieu chanced to look back at the door of
the police-station as he entered the ancient door of
the Town Hall he would have seen three men drive
up there in a motor-car which had come from Nor-
caster—one of the men being Myler, and the other
two Norcaster detectives. But Mallalieu did not look
back. He went up to the committee-room and be-
came absorbed in the business of the meeting. His
fellow committee-men said afterwards that they never
remembered the Mayor being in such fettle for busi-
ness. He explained his objections to the scheme they
were considering; he pointed out this and urged that
—finally, he said that he was so little satisfied with


CHAPTER XXII
THE HAND IN THE DARKNESS
The Highmarket clocks were striking noon when
Mallalieu was arrested. For three hours he remained
under lock and key, in a room in the Town Hall—
most of the time alone. His lunch was brought to
him; every consideration was shown him. The police
wanted to send for his solicitor from Norcaster; Mal-
lalieu bade them mind their own business. He turned
a deaf ear to the superintendent’s entreaties to him to
see some friend; let him mind his own business too,
said Mallalieu. He himself would do nothing until
he saw the need to do something. Let him hear what
could be brought against him—time enough to speak
and act then. He ate his lunch, he smoked a cigar;
he walked out of the room with defiant eye and head
erect when they came to fetch him before a specially
summoned bench of his fellow-magistrates. And it
was not until he stepped into the dock, in full view of
a crowded court, and amidst quivering excitement,
that he and Cotherstone met.
The news of the partners’ arrest had flown through
the little town like wildfire. There was no need to
keep it secret; no reason why it should be kept secret.
2II


212 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
It was necessary to bring the accused men before the
magistrates as quickly as possible, and the days of
private inquiries were long over. Before the High-
market folk had well swallowed their dinners, every
street in the town, every shop, office, bar-parlour,
public-house, private house rang with the news—Mal-
lalieu and Cotherstone, the Mayor and the Borough
Treasurer, had been arrested for the murder of their
clerk, and would be put before the magistrates at
three o’clock. The Kitely affair faded into insignifi-
cance—except amongst the cute and knowing few, who
immediately began to ask if the Hobwick Quarry mur-
der had anything to do with the murder on the Shawl.
If Mallalieu and Cotherstone could have looked out
of the windows of the court in the Town Hall, they
would have seen the Market Square packed with a
restless and seething crowd of townsfolk, all clamour-
ing for whatever news could permeate from the packed
chamber into which so few had been able to fight a
way. But the prisoners seemed strangely indifferent
to their surroundings. Those who watched them
closely—as Brereton and Tallington did—noticed that
neither took any notice of the other. Cotherstone had
been placed in the dock first. When Mallalieu was
brought there, a moment later, the two exchanged
one swift glance and no more—Cotherstone immedi-
ately moved off to the far corner on the left hand,
Mallalieu remained in the opposite one, and placing
his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, he squared
his shoulders and straitened his big frame and took
a calm and apparently contemptuous look round
about him.


THE HAND IN THE DARKNESS 213
Brereton, sitting at a corner of the solicitor's table,
and having nothing to do but play the part of spec-
tator, watched these two men carefully and with ab-
sorbed interest from first to last. He was soon aware
of the vastly different feelings with which they them-
selves watched the proceedings. Cotherstone was
eager and restless; he could not keep still; he moved
his position; he glanced about him; he looked as if
he were on the verge of bursting into indignant or
explanatory speech every now and then—though, as
a matter of fact, he restrained whatever instinct he
had in that direction. But Mallalieu never moved,
never changed his attitude. His expression of dis-
dainful, contemptuous watchfulness never left him—
after the first moments and the formalities were over,
he kept his eyes on the witness-box and on the people
who entered it. Brereton, since his first meeting with
Mallalieu, had often said to himself that the Mayor
of Highmarket had the slyest eyes of any man he had
even seen—but he was forced to admit now that,
however sly Mallalieu’s eyes were, they could, on
occasion, be extraordinarily steady.
The truth was that Mallalieu was playing a part.
He had outlined it, unconsciously, when he said to
the superintendent that it would be time enough for
him to do something when he knew what could be
brought against him. And now all his attention was
given to the two or three witnesses whom the prosecu-
tion thought it necessary to call. He wanted to know
who they were. He curbed his impatience while the
formal evidence of arrest was given, but his ears
pricked a little when he heard one of the police wit-


214 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
nesses speak of the warrant having been issued on
information received. What information? Received
from whom? He half-turned as a sharp official voice
called the name of the first important witness.
“David Myler l’’
Mallalieu stared at David Myler as if he would
tear whatever secret he had out of him with a search-
ing glance. Who was David Myler? No High-
market man—that was certain. Who was he, then?
—what did he know?—was he some detective who
had been privately working up this case? A cool,
quiet, determined-looking young fellow, any-
way. Confound him! But—what had he to do
with this? y
Those questions were speedily answered for Malla-
lieu. He kept his immovable attitude, his immobile
expression, while Myler told the story of Stoner's visit
to Darlington, and of the revelation which had re-
Sulted. And nothing proved his extraordinary com-
mand over his temper and his feelings better than the
fact that as Myler narrated one damming thing after
another, he never showed the least concern or uneasi-
IneSS.
But deep within himself Mallalieu was feeling a lot.
He knew now that he had been mistaken in thinking
that Stoner had kept his knowledge to himself. He
also knew what line the prosecution was taking. It
was seeking to show that Stoner was murdered by
Cotherstone and himself, or by one or other, sep-
arately or in collusion, in order that he might be
silenced. But he knew more than that. Long prac-
tice and much natural inclination had taught Mal-


216 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Cotherstone, or either of them, had murdered Stoner.
No—if that was all. . . .
But in another moment Mallalieu knew that it was
not all. Up to that moment he had firmly believed
that he had got away from Hobwick Quarry unob-
served. Here he was wrong. He had now to learn
that a young man from Norcaster had come over to
Highmarket that Sunday afternoon to visit his sweet-
heart; that this couple had gone up the moors; that
they were on the opposite side of Hobwick Quarry
when he went down into it after Stoner’s fall; that
they had seen him move about and finally go away;
what was more, they had seen Cotherstone descend
into the quarry and recover the stick; Cotherstone had
passed near them as they stood hidden in the bushes;
they had seen the stick in his hand.
When Mallalieu heard all this and saw his stick
produced and identified, he ceased to take any further
interest in that stage of the proceedings. He knew
the worst now, and he began to think of his plans
and schemes. And suddenly, all the evidence for
that time being over, and the magistrates and the
officials being in the thick of some whispered consul-
tations about the adjournment, Mallalieu spoke for
the first time.
“I shall have my answer about all this business at
the right time and place,” he said loudly. “My part-
ner can do what he likes. All I have to say now is
that I ask for bail. You can fix it at any amount you
like. You all know me.”
The magistrates and the officials looked across the
well of the court in astonishment, and the chairman,


THE HAND IN THE DARKNESS 217
a mild old gentleman who was obviously much dis-
tressed by the revelation, shook his head depre-
catingly.
“Impossible!” he remonstrated. “Quite impos-
sible! We haven’t the power—”
“You’re wrong!” retorted Mallalieu, masterful and
insistent as ever. “You have the power! D'ye think
I’ve been a justice of the peace for twelve years with-
out knowing what law is? You’ve the power to ad-
mit to bail in all charges of felony, at your discretion.
So now then l’’
The magistrates looked at their clerk, and the clerk
smiled.
“Mr. Mallalieu’s theory is correct,” he said quietly.
“But no magistrate is obliged to admit to bail in
felonies and misdemeanours, and in practice bail is
never allowed in cases where—as in this case—the
charge is one of murder. Such procedure is un-
heard of.”
“Make a precedent, then l’’ sneered Mallalieu.
“Here!—you can have twenty thousand pounds se-
curity, if you like.”
But this offer received no answer, and in five min-
utes more Mallalieu heard the case adjourned for a
week and himself and Cotherstone committed to Nor-
caster Gaol in the meantime. Without a look at
his fellow-prisoner he turned out of the dock and was
escorted back to the private room in the Town Hall
from which he had been brought.
“Hang 'em for a lot of fools!” he burst out to
the superintendent, who had accompanied him. “Do
they think I’m going to run away? Likely thing—


218 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
on a trumped-up charge like this. Here!—how soon
shall you be wanting to start for yon place?”
The superintendent, who had cherished consider-
able respect for Mallalieu in the past, and was much
upset and very downcast about this sudden change
in the Mayor's fortunes, looked at his prisoner and
shook his head.
“There's a couple of cars ordered to be ready in
half an hour, Mr. Mallalieu,” he answered. “One
for you, and one for Mr. Cotherstone.” -
“With armed escorts in both, I suppose !” sneered
Mallalieu. “Well, look here—you’ve time to get me
a cup of tea. Slip out and get one o' your men to nip
across to the Arms for it—good, strong tea, and a
slice or two of bread-and-butter. I can do with it.”
He flung half a crown on the table, and the super-
intendent, suspecting nothing, and willing to oblige
a man who had always been friendly and genial to-
wards himself, went out of the room, with no further
precautions than the turning of the key in the lock
when he had once got outside the door. It never
entered his head that the prisoner would try to
escape, never crossed his mind that Mallalieu had any
chance of escaping. He went away along the cor-
ridor to find one of his men who could be dispatched
to the Highmarket Arms.
But the instant Mallalieu was left alone he started
into action. He had not been Mayor of Highmarket
for two years, a member of its Corporation for nearly
twenty, without knowing all the ins-and-outs of that
old Town Hall. And as soon as the superintendent
had left him he drew from his pocket a key, went


THE HAND IN THE DARKNESS 219
across the room to a door which stood in a corner
behind a curtain, unlocked it, opened it gently, looked
out, passed into a lobby without, relocked the door
behind him, and in another instant was stealing
quietly down a private staircase that led to an en-
trance into the quaint old garden at the back of the
premises. One further moment of suspense and of
looking round, and he was safely in that garden and
behind the thick shrubs which ran along one of its
high walls. Yet another and he was out of the
garden, and in an old-fashioned orchard which ran,
thick with trees, to the very edge of the coppices at
the foot of the Shawl. Once in that orchard,
screened by its close-branched, low-spreading boughs,
leafless though they were at that period of the year,
he paused to get his breath, and to chuckle over the
success of his scheme. What a mercy, what bless-
ing, he thought, that they had not searched him on
his arrest —that they had delayed that interesting
ceremony until his committall The omission, he
knew, had been winked at-purposely—and it had
left him with his precious waistcoat, his revolver, and
the key that had opened his prison door.
Dusk had fallen over Highmarket before the hear-
ing came to an end, and it was now dark. Mallalieu
knew that he had little time to lose—but he also knew
that his pursuers would have hard work to catch him.
He had laid his plans while the last two witnesses
were in the box: his detailed knowledge of the town
and its immediate neighbourhood stood in good stead.
Moreover, the geographical situation of the Town Hall
was a great help. He had nothing to do but steal out


220 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
of the orchard into the coppices, make his way cau-
tiously through them into the deeper wood which
fringed the Shawl, pass through that to the ridge at
the top, and gain the moors. Once on those moors
he would strike by devious way for Norcaster—he
knew a safe place in the Lower Town there where
he could be hidden for a month, three months, six
months, without fear of discovery, and from whence
he could get away by ship.
All was quiet as he passed through a gap in the
orchard hedge and stole into the coppices. He kept
stealthily but swiftly along through the pine and fir
until he came to the wood which covered the higher
part of the Shawl. The trees were much thicker there,
the brakes and bushes were thicker, and the darkness
was greater. He was obliged to move at a slower
pace—and suddenly he heard men's voices on the low-
er slopes beneath him., Hepaused catching his
breath and listening. And then, just as suddenly as
he had heard the voices, he felt a hand, firm, steady,
sinewy, fasten on his wrist and stay there.


COMFORTABLE CAPTIVITY 223
searched him. But however well he might be armed,
he was for the time being in Miss Pett's power—he
knew very well that if he tried to slip away Miss
Pett had only to utter one shrill cry to attract atten-
tion. And so, much as he desired the freedom of the
moors, he allowed himself to be taken captive by this
gaoler who promised eventual liberty.
Miss Pett waited in the thickness of the trees until
the voices at the foot of the Shawl became faint and
far off; she herself knew well enough that they were
not the voices of men who were searching for Mal-
lalieu, but of country folk who had been into the town
and were now returning home by the lower path in the
wood. But it suited her purposes to create a spirit
of impending danger in the Mayor, and so she kept
him there, her hand still on his arm, until the last
sound died away. And while she thus held him,
Mallalieu, who had often observed Miss Pett in her
peregrinations through the Market Place, and had
been accustomed to speaking of her as a thread-paper,
or as Mother Skin-and-Bones, because of her phe-
nomenal thinness, wondered how it was that a woman
of such extraordinary attenuation should possess such
powerful fingers—her grip on his wrist was like that
of a vice. And somehow, in a fashion for which he
could not account, especially in the disturbed and
anxious state of his mind, he became aware that here
in this strange woman was some mental force which
was superior to and was already dominating his own,
and for a moment he was tempted to shake the steel-
like fingers off and make a dash for the moorlands.
But Miss Pett presently moved forward, holding


224 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Mallalieu as a nurse might hold an unwilling child.
She led him cautiously through the trees, which there
became thicker, she piloted him carefully down a path,
and into a shrubbery—she drew him through a gap in
a hedgerow, and Mallalieu knew then that they were
in the kitchen garden at the rear of old Kitely's cot-
tage. Quietly and stealthily, moving herself as if her
feet were shod with velvet, Miss Pett made her way
with her captive to the door; Mallalieu heard the rasp-
ing of a key in a lock, the lifting of a latch; then he
was gently but firmly pushed into darkness. Behind
him the door closed—a bolt was shot home.
“This way!” whispered Miss Pett. She drew him
after her along what he felt to be a passage, twisted
him to the left through another doorway, and then,
for the first time since she had assumed charge of him,
released his wrist. “Wait !” she said. “We’ll have
a light presently.”
Mallalieu stood where she had placed him, impa-
tient of everything, but feeling powerless to move.
He heard Miss Pett move about; he heard the draw-
ing to and barring of shutters, the swish of curtains
being pulled together; then the spurt and glare of a
match—in its feeble flame he saw Miss Pett’s queer
countenance, framed in an odd-shaped, old-fashioned
poke bonnet, bending towards a lamp. In the gradu-
ally increasing light of that lamp Mallalieu looked
anxiously around him.
He was in a little room which was half-parlour, half
bed-room. There was a camp bed in one corner;
there was an ancient knee-hole writing desk under
the window across which the big curtains had been


COMFORTABLE CAPTIVITY 225
drawn; there were a couple of easy-chairs on either
side of the hearth. There were books and papers on
a shelf; there were pictures and cartoons on the walls.
Mallalieu took a hasty glance at those unusual orna-
ments and hated them: they were pictures of famous
judges in their robes, and of great criminal counsel in
their wigs—and over the chimney-piece, framed in
black wood, was an old broad-sheet, printed in big,
queer-shaped letters: Mallalieu’s hasty glance caught
the staring headline—Dying Speech and Confession of
the Famous Murderer. . . .
“This was Kitely's snug,” remarked Miss Pett
calmly, as she turned up the lamp to the full. “He
slept in that bed, studied at that desk, and smoked
his pipe in that chair. He called it his sanctum-
something-or-other—I don’t know no Latin. But it's
a nice room, and it’s comfortable, or will be when
I put a fire in that grate, and it’ll do very well for
you until you can move. Sit you down—would you
like a drop of good whisky, now?”
Mallalieu sat down and stared his hardest at Miss
Pett. He felt himself becoming more confused and
puzzled than ever.
“Look here, missis!” he said suddenly. “Let’s get
a clear idea about things. You say you can keep me
safe here until I can get away. How do you know I
shall be safe?”
“Because I'll take good care that you are,”
answered Miss Pett. “There's nobody can get into
this house without my permission, and before I let
anybody in, no matter with what warrants or such-
like they carried, I’d see that you were out of it be-


226 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
fore they crossed the threshold. I'm no fool, I can
tell you, Mr. Mallalieu, and if you trust me—”
“I’ve no choice, so it seems,” remarked Mallalieu,
grimly. “You’ve got me! And now, how much are
you reckoninng to get out of me—what?”
“No performance, no pay !” said Miss Pett.
“Wait till I’ve managed things for you. I know how
to get you safely away from here—leave it to me, and
I’ll have you put down in any part of Norcaster you
like, without anybody knowing. And if you like to
make me a little present then—”
“You’re certain?” demanded Mallalieu, still sus-
picious, but glad to welcome even a ray of hope.
“You know what you're talking about?”
“I never talk idle stuff,” retorted Miss Pett. “I’m
telling you what I know.”
“All right, then,” said Mallalieu. “You do your
part, and I’ll do mine when it comes to it—you’ll not
find me ungenerous, missis. And I will have that
drop of whisky you talked about.”
Miss Pett went away, leaving Mallalieu to stare
about him and to meditate on this curious change in
his fortunes. Well, after all, it was better to be safe
and snug under this queer old woman’s charge than
to be locked up in Norcaster Gaol, or to be hunted
about on the bleak moors and possibly to go without
food or drink. And his thoughts began to assume a
more cheerful complexion when Miss Pett presently
brought him a stiff glass of undeniably good liquor,
and proceeded to light a fire in his prison: he even
melted so much as to offer her some thanks.
“I’m sure I’m much obliged to you, missis,” he


228 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“A sensible woman like me only believes what she
can prove,” answered Miss Pett.
She went away and shut the door, and Mallalieu,
left to himself, took another heartening pull at his
glass and proceeded to re-inspect his quarters. The
fire was blazing up : the room was warm and com-
fortable; certainly he was fortunate. But he assured
himself that the window was properly shuttered,
barred, and fully covered by the thick curtain, and he
stood by it for a moment listening intently for any
sound of movement without. No sound came, not
even the wail of a somewhat strong wind which he
knew to be sweeping through the pine trees, and he
came to the conclusion that the old stone walls were
almost sound-proof and that if he and Miss Pett con-
versed in ordinary tones no eavesdroppers outside the
cottage could hear them. And presently he caught
a sound within the cottage—the sound of the sizzling
of chops on a gridiron, and with it came the pleasant
and grateful smell of cooking meat, and Mallalieu de-
cided that he was hungry.
To a man fixed as Mallalieu was at that time the
evening which followed was by no means unpleasant.
Miss Pett served him as nice a little supper as his
own housekeeper would have given him; later on she
favoured him with her company. They talked of
anything but the events of the day, and Mallalieu
began to think that the queer-looking woman was a
remarkably shrewd and intelligent person. There
was but one drawback to his captivity—Miss Pett
would not let him smoke. Cigars, she said, might
be smelt outside the cottage, and nobody would credit


230 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Miss Pett examined the waistcoat at her leisure.
Her thin fingers went through every pocket and every
paper, through the bank-notes, the scrip, the shares,
the securities. She put everything back in its place,
after a careful reckoning and estimation of the whole.
And Mallalieu was as deeply plunged in his slumbers
as ever when she went back into his room with her
shaded light and her catlike tread, and she replaced
the garment exactly where she found it, and went out
and shut the door as lightly as a butterfly folds its
wings.
It was then eleven o’clock at night, and Miss Pett,
instead of retiring to her bed, sat down by.the living-
room fire and waited. The poke bonnet had been
replaced by the gay turban, and under its gold and
scarlet her strange, skeleton-like face gleamed like
old ivory as she sat there with the firelight playing
on it. And so immobile was she, sitting with her
sinewy skin-and-bone arms lying folded over her silk
apron, that she might have been taken for an image
rather than for a living woman.
But as the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece
neared midnight, Miss Pett suddenly moved. Her
sharp ears caught a scratching sound on the shutter
outside the window. And noiselessly she moved down
the passage, and noiselessly unbarred the front door,
and just as noiselessly closed it again behind the
man who slipped in—Christopher, her nephew.


CHAPTER XXIV
STRICT BUSINESS LINES
Mr. Christopher Pett, warned by the uplifted finger
of his aunt, tip-toed into the the living-room, and
setting down his small travelling bag on the table pro-
ceeded to divest himself of a thick overcoat, a warm
muffler, woollen gloves, and a silk hat. And Miss
Pett, having closed the outer and inner doors, came
in and glanced inquiringly at him.
“Which way did you come, this time?” she in-
quired.
“High Gill,” replied Christopher. “Got an after-
noon express that stopped there. Jolly cold it was
crossing those moors of yours, too, I can tell you!—
I can do. with a drop of something. I say—is there
anything afoot about here?—anything going on?”
“Why?” asked Miss Pett, producing the whisky .
and the lemons. “And how do you mean?”
Christopher pulled an easy chair to the fire and
stretched his hands to the blaze.
“Up there, on the moor,” he answered. “There's
fellows going about with lights—lanterns, I should
say. I didn’t see 'em close at hand—there were sev-
eral of 'em crossing about—like fire-flies—as if the
23I


232 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
chaps who carried 'em were searching for something.”
Miss Pett set the decanter and the materials for
toddy on the table at her nephew's side, and took a
covered plate from the cupboard in the corner.”
“Them's potted meat sandwiches,” she said.
“Very toothsome you’ll find 'em—I didn’t prepare
much, for I knew you'd get your dinner on the train.
Yes, well, there is something afoot—they are search-
ing. Not for something, though, but for somebody.
Mallalieu !”
Christopher, his mouth full of sandwiches, and his
hand laid on the decanter, lifted a face full of new
and alert interest.
“The Mayor l’’ he exclaimed.
“Quite so,” assented Miss Pett. “Anthony Mal-
lalieu, Esquire, Mayor of Highmarket. They want
him, does the police—bad!”
Christopher still remained transfixed. The decan-
ter was already tilted in his hand, but he tilted it no
further; the sandwich hung bulging in his cheek.
“Good Lord!” he said. “Not for—” he paused,
nodding his head towards the front of the cottage
where the wood lay “—not for—that? They ain’t
suspicioning him?”
“No, but for killing his clerk, who’d found some-
thing out,” replied Miss Pett. “The clerk was killed
Sunday; they took up Mallalieu and his partner today,
and tried 'em, and Mallalieu slipped the police some-
how, after the case was adjourned, and escaped. And
—he's here !”
Christopher had begun to pour the whisky into his


234 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
other Brixton property-owner, got paid, and have
brought you the money. All of it—ain’t even taken
my costs, my expenses, and my commission out of it—
ye .”
“How much did you sell for?” asked Miss Pett.
Christopher pulled his bag to his side and took a
bundle of red-taped documents from it.
“You ought to think yourself jolly lucky,” he said,
wagging his head admonitorily at his aunt. “I see
a lot of the state of the property market, and I can
assure you I did uncommonly well for you. I
shouldn’t have got what I did if it had been sold by
auction. But the man I sold to was a bit keen, 'cause
he's already got adjacent property, and he gave rather
more than he would ha’ done in other circumstances.
I got,” he continued, consulting the topmost of his
papers, “I got, in round figures, three thousand four
hundred—to be exact, three thousand four hundred,
seventeen, five, eleven.”
“Where's the money?” demanded Miss Pett.
“It’s here,” answered Christopher, tapping his
breast. “In my pocket-book. Notes, big and little—
so that we can settle up.”
Miss Pett stretched out her hand.
‘‘Hand it over !” she said.
Christopher gave his aunt a sidelong glance.
“Hadn’t we better reckon up my costs and com-
mission first?” he suggested. “Here's an account of
the costs—the commission, of course, was to be settled
between you and me.”
“We’ll settle all that when you’ve handed the


236 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
very reasonable indeed for me. What were you think-
ing of, now?”
“I got the top price,” remarked Christopher re-
flectively. “I got you quite four hundred more than
the market price. How would—how would five per
cent. be, now?”
Miss Pett threw up the gay turban with a toss of
surprise.
“Five per cent!” she ejaculated. “Christopher
Pett!—whatever are you talking about? Why, that
'ud be a hundred and seventy pound ! Eh, dear!—
nothing of the sort—it 'ud be as good as robbery.
I’m astonished at you.”
“Well, how much, then?” growled Christopher.
“Hang it all!—don't be close with your own
nephew.”
“I’ll give you a hundred pounds—to include the
costs,” said Miss Pett firmly. “Not a penny more
—but,” she added, bending forward and nodding
her head towards that half of the cottage wherein
Mallalieu slumbered so heavily, “I’ll give you some-
thing to boot—an opportunity of feathering your nest
out of him l’’
Christopher's face, which had clouded heavily,
lightened somewhat at this, and he too glanced at
the door.
“Will it be worth it?” he asked doubtfully.
“What is there to be got out of him if he's flying
from justice? He'll carry naught—and he can’t get
at anything that he has, either.’’
Miss Pett gave vent to a queer, dry chuckle; the
sound of her laughter always made her nephew think
>


238 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
my affairs and removing my effects from this place,
and he's a lawyer and’ll give you good advice.”
Mallalieu growled a little. He had seen Mr. Chris-
topher Pett and he was inclined to be doubtful of him.
“Is he to be trusted?” he muttered. “I expect
he’ll have to be squared, too !”
“Not beyond reason,” replied Miss Pett. “We’re
not unreasonable people, our family. He's a very
sensible young man, is Christopher. The late Kitely
had a very strong opinion of his abilities.”
Mallalieu had no doubt of Mr. Christopher Pett's
abilities in a certain direction after he had exchanged
a few questions and answers with that young gentle-
man. For Christopher was shrewd, sharp, practical
and judicial.
“It’s a very dangerous and—you'll excuse plain
speaking under the circumstances, sir—very foolish
thing that you’ve done, Mr. Mallalieu,” he said, as he
and the prisoner sat closeted together in the still
shuttered and curtained parlour-bedroom. “The
mere fact of your making your escape, sir, is what
some would consider a proof of guilt—it is indeed!
And of course my aunt—and myself, in my small
way—we're running great risks, Mr. Mallalieu-we
really are—great risks I’’
“Now then, you’ll not lose by me,” said Mallalieu.
“I’m not a man of straw.”
“All very well, sir,” replied Christopher, “but even
if you were a millionaire and recompensed us on what
I may term a princely scale—not that we shall expect
it, Mr. Mallalieu-the risks would be extraordinary
—ahem 1 I mean will be extraordinary. For you see,


STRICT BUSINESS LINES 239
Mr. Mallalieu, there's two or three things that’s dead
certain. To start with, sir, it’s absolutely impossible
for you to get away from here by yourself—you can’t
do it !”
“Why not?” growled Mallalieu. “I can get away
at nightfall.”
“No, sir,” affirmed Christopher stoutly. “I saw
the condition of the moors last night. Patrolled, Mr.
Mallalieu, patrolled ! By men with lights. That
patrolling, sir, will go on for many a night. Make
up your mind, Mr. Mallalieu, that if you set foot out
of this house, you’ll see the inside of Norcaster Gaol
before two hours is over !”
“What do you advise, then?” demanded Malla-
lieu. “Here!—I’m fairly in for it, so I’ll tell you
what my notion was. If I can once get to a certain
part of Norcaster, I’m safe. I can get away to the
Continent from there.”
“Then, sir,” replied Christopher, “the thing is to
devise a plan by which you can be conveyed to Nor-
caster without suspicion. That’ll have to be ar-
ranged between me and my aunt—hence our risks
on your behalf.”
“Your aunt said she’d a plan,” remarked Mal-
lalieu.
“Not quite matured, sir,” said Christopher. “It
needs a little reflection and trimming, as it were.
Now what I advise, Mr. Mallalieu, is this—you keep
snug here, with my aunt as sentinel—she assures me
that even if the police—don't be frightened, sir!—
did come here, she could hide you quite safely before
ever she opened the door to them. As for me, I'll


240 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
go, casual-like, into the town, and do a bit of quiet
looking and listening. I shall be able to find out
how the land lies, sir—and when I return I'll report
to you, and the three of us will put our heads to-
gether.”
Leaving the captive in charge of Miss Pett, Christo-
pher, having brushed his silk hat and his overcoat
and fitted on a pair of black kid gloves, strolled
solemnly into Highmarket. He was known to a few
people there, and he took good care to let those of
his acquaintance who met him hear that he had come
down to arrange his aunt’s affairs, and to help in the
removal of the household goods bequeathed to her
by the deceased Kitely. In proof of this he called in
at the furniture remover's, to get an estimate of the
cost of removal to Norcaster Docks—thence, said
Christopher, the furniture could be taken by sea to
London, where Miss Pett intended to reside in future.
At the furniture remover's, and in such other shops as
he visited, and in the bar-parlour of the Highmarket
Arms, where he stayed an hour or so, gossiping with
the loungers, and sipping a glass or two of dry sherry,
Christopher picked up a great deal of information.
And at noon he returned to the cottage, having
learned that the police and everybody in Highmarket
firmly believed that Mallalieu had got clear and clean
away the night before, and was already far beyond
pursuit. The police theory was that there had been
collusion, and that immediately on his escape he had
been whirled off by some person to whose identity
there was as yet no clue.
But Christopher Pett told a very different story to


STRICT BUSINESS LINES 241
Mallalieu. The moors, he said, were being patrolled
night and day: it was believed the fugitive was in hid-
ing in one of the old quarries. Every road and en-
trance to Norcaster, and to all the adjacent towns and
stations, was watched and guarded. There was no
hope for Mallalieu but in the kindness and contrivance
of the aunt and the nephew, and Mallalieu recognized
the inevitable and was obliged to yield himself to
their tender mercies.


CEIAPTER XXV
NO FURTHER, EVIDENCE
While Mallalieu lay captive in the stronghold of
Miss Pett, Cotherstone was experiencing a quite dif-
ferent sort of incarceration in the detention cells of
Norcaster Gaol. Had he known where his partner
was, and under what circumstances Mallalieu had ob-
tained deliverance from official bolts and bars, Coth-
erstone would probably have laughed in his sleeve
and sneered at him for a fool. He had been calling
Mallalieu a fool, indeed, ever since the previous even-
ing, when the police, conducting him to Norcaster, had
told him of the Mayor's escape from the Town Hall.
Nobody but an absolute fool, a consummate idiot,
thought Cotherstone, would have done a thing like
that. The man who flies is the man who has reason
to fly—that was Cotherstone's opinion, and in his
belief ninety-nine out of every hundred persons in
Highmarket would share it. Mallalieu would now be
set down as guilty—they would say he dared not face
things, that he knew he was doomed, that his escape
was the desperate act of a conscious criminal. Ass!—
said Cotherstone, not without a certain amount of
malicious delight: they should none of them have
242


NO FURTHER EVIDENCE 243
reason to say such things of him. He would make
no attempt to fly—no, not if they left the gate of
Norcaster Gaol wide open to him It should be his
particular care to have himself legally cleared—his
acquittal should be as public as the proceedings which
had just taken place. He went out of the dock with
that resolve strong on him; he carried it away to his
cell at Norcaster; he woke in the morning with it,
stronger than ever. Cotherstone, instead of turning
tail, was going to fight—for his own hand.
As a prisoner merely under detention, Cotherstone
had privileges of which he took good care to avail
himself. Four people he desired to see, and must
see at once, on that first day in gaol-and he lost no
time in making known his desires. One—and the
most important—person was a certain solicitor in
Norcaster who enjoyed a great reputation as a sharp
man of affairs. Another—scarcely less important—
was a barrister who resided in Norcaster, and had had
it said of him for a whole generation that he had
restored more criminals to society than any man of
his profession then living. And the other two were
his own daughter and Windle Bent. Them he must
see—but the men of law first.
When the solicitor and the barrister came, Cother-
stone talked to them as he had never talked to any-
body in his life. He very soon let them see that he
had two definite objects in sending for them: the first
was to tell them in plain language that money was of
no consideration in the matter of his defence; the
second, that they had come there to hear him lay
down the law as to what they were to do. Talk he did,


244 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
and they listened—and Cotherstone had the satisfac-
tion of seeing that they went away duly impressed
with all that he had said to them. He went back
to his cell from the room in which this interview
had taken place congratulating himself on his
ability.
“I shall be out of this, and all 'll be clear, a week
today!” he assured himself. “We’ll see where that
fool of a Mallalieu is by then I For he'll not get far,
nor go hidden for thirty years, this time.”
He waited with some anxiety to see his daughter,
not because he must see her within the walls of a
prison, but because he knew that by that time she
would have learned the secrets of that past which he
had kept so carefully hidden from her. Only child
of his though she was, he felt that Lettie was not al-
together of his sort; he had often realized that she
was on a different mental plane from his own, and
was also, in some respects, a little of a mystery to him.
How would she take all this?—what would she say?—
what effect would it have on her?—he pondered these
questions uneasily while he waited for her visit.
But if Cotherstone had only known it, he need
have suffered no anxiety about Lettie. It had fallen
to Bent to tell her the sad news the afternoon before,
and Bent had begged Brereton to go up to the house
with him. Bent was upset; Brereton disliked the
task, though he willingly shared in it. They need
have had no anxiety, either. For Lettie listened
calmly and patiently until the whole story had been
told, showing neither alarm, nor indignation, nor ex-
citement; her self-composure astonished even Bent,


NO FURTHER EVIDENCE 247
exchanged glances when Cotherstone, in charge of
two warders from Norcaster, was brought in, and when
the Norcaster solicitor and the Norcaster barrister
whom he had retained, shortly afterwards presented
themselves.
“I begin to foresee,” whispered Tallington.
“‘Clever!—devilish clever!”
“Just so,” agreed Brereton, with a sidelong nod
at the crowded seats close by. “And there’s some-
body who's interested because it’s going to be devilish
clever—that fellow Pett l’’
Christopher Pett was there, silk hat, black kid
gloves and all, not afraid of being professionally
curious. Curiosity was the order of the day: every-
body present—of any intelligent perception—wanted
to know what the presence of Cotherstone, one of the
two men accused of the murder of Stoner, signified.
But it was some little time before any curiosity was
satisfied. The inquest being an adjourned one, most
of the available evidence had to be taken, and as a
coroner has a wide field in the calling of witnesses,
there was more evidence produced before him and his
jury than before the magistrates. There was Myler,
of course, and old Pursey, and the sweethearting
couple: there were other witnesses, railway folks,
medical experts, and townspeople who could con-
tribute some small quota of testimony. But all these
were forgotten when at last Cotherstone, having been
duly warned by the coroner that he need not give
any evidence at all, determinedly entered the witness-
box—to swear on oath that he was witness to his
partner's crime.


248 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
Nothing could shake Cotherstone's evidence. He
told a plain, straightforward story from first to last.
He had no knowledge whatever of Stoner's having
found out the secret of the Wilchester affair. He
knew nothing of Stoner's having gone over to Dar-
lington. On the Sunday he himself had gone up the
moors for a quiet stroll. At the spinney overhang-
ing Hobwick Quarry he had seen Mallalieu and
Stoner, and had at once noticed that something in
the shape of a quarrel was afoot. He saw Mallalieu
strike heavily at Stoner with his oak stick—saw
Mallalieu, in a sudden passion, kick the stick over
the edge of the quarry, watched him go down into the
quarry and eventually leave it. He told how he him-
self had gone after the stick, recovered it, taken it
home, and had eventually told the police where it
was. He had never spoken to Mallalieu on that Sun-
day—never seen him except under the circumstances
just detailed.
The astute barrister who represented Cotherstone
had not troubled the Coroner and his jury much by
asking questions of the various witnesses. But he had
quietly elicited from all the medical men the definite
opinion that death had been caused by the blow.
And when Cotherstone's evidence was over, the bar-
rister insisted on recalling the two sweethearts, and
he got out of them, separately (each being excluded
from the court while the other gave evidence), that
they had not seen Mallalieu and Cotherstone together,
that Mallalieu had left the quarry some time before
they saw Cotherstone, and that when Mallalieu passed
them he seemed to be agitated and was muttering to


NO FURTHER EVIDENCE 249
himself, whereas in Cotherstone's manner they noticed
nothing remarkable.
Brereton, watching the faces of the jurymen, all
tradesmen of the town, serious and anxious, saw the
effect which Cotherstone's evidence and the further
admissions of the two sweethearts was having. And
neither he nor Tallington—and certainly not Mr.
Christopher Pett—was surprised when, in the gather-
ing dusk of the afternoon, the inquest came to an
end with a verdict of Wilful Murder against Anthony
Mallalieu.
“Your client is doing very well,” observed Talling-
ton to the Norcaster solicitor as they foregathered in
an ante-room.
“My client will be still better when he comes before
your bench again,” drily answered the other. “As
you’ll see 1”
“So that's the line you’re taking?” said Talling-
ton quietly. “A good one—for him.”
“Every man for himself,” remarked the Norcaster
practitioner. “We’re not concerned with Mallalieu
—we're concerned about ourselves. See you when
Cotherstone's brought before your worthies next Tues-
day. And—a word in your ear!—it won't be a long
job, then.”
Long job or short job, the Highmarket Town Hall
was packed to the doors when Cotherstone, after his
week's detention, was again placed in the dock. This
time, he stood there alone—and he looked around him
with confidence and with not a few signs that he felt
a sense of coming triumph. He listened with a quiet
smile while the prosecuting counsel—sent down spe-


250 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
cially from London to take charge—discussed with the
magistrates the matter of Mallalieu’s escape, and he
showed more interest when he heard some police in-
formation as to how that escape had been effected,
and that up to then not a word had been heard and
no trace found of the fugitive. And after that, as
the prosecuting counsel bent over to eqchange a whis-
pered word with the magistrates’ clerk, Cotherstone
deliberately turned, and seeking out the place where
Bent and Brereton sat together, favoured them with
a peculiar glance. It was the glance of a man who
wished to say “I told you!—now you’ll see whether
I was right !”
“We’re going to hear something—now !” whis-
pered Brereton.
The prosecuting counsel straightened himself and
looked at the magistrates. There was a momentary
hesitation on his part; a look of expectancy on the
faces of the men on the bench; a deep silence in the
crowded court. The few words that came from the
counsel were sharp and decisive.
“There will be no further evidence against the
prisoner now in the dock, your worships,” he said.
“The prosecution decides to withdraw the charge.”
In the buzz of excitement which followed the voice
of the old chairman was scarcely audible as he glanced
at Cotherstone.
“You are discharged,” he said abruptly.
Cotherstone turned and left the dock. And for
the second time he looked at Bent and Brereton in the
same peculiar, searching way. Then, amidst a dead
silence, he walked out of the court.


THE VIRTUES OF SUSPICION 253
Christopher slowly drew off one of the black kid
gloves, and blew into it before laying it on the table.
“No need to use strong language, Mr. Mallalieu,”
he said deprecatingly, as he calmly proceeded to di-
vest the other hand. “No need at all, sir—between
friends and gentlemen, Mr. Mallalieu !—things are a
lot worse. The coroner's jury has returned a verdict
of wilful murder—against you!”
Mallalieu’s big face turned of a queer grey hue—
that word murder was particularly distasteful to him.
“Against me !” he muttered. “Why me par-
ticularly There were two of us charged. What
about Cotherstone?”
“I’m talking about the inquest” said Christopher.
“They don’t charge anybody at inquests—they only
inquire in general. The verdict’s against you, and
you only. And—it was Cotherstone's evidence that
did it !”
“Cotherstone !” exclaimed Mallalieu. “Evidence
against me! He's a liar if—”
“I’ll tell you—all in due order,” interrupted Chris.
“Be calm, Mr. Mallalieu, and listen—be judicial.”
But in spite of this exhortation, Mallalieu fumed
and fretted, and when Christopher had told him
everything he looked as if it only required a little
resolution on his part to force himself to action.
“I’ve a good mind to go straight out o' this place
and straight down to the police!” he growled. “I
have indeed!—a great mind to go and give myself up,
and have things proved.”
“Do!” said Christopher, heartily. “I wish you
would, sir. It 'ud save me and my poor aunt a world


THE VIRTUES OF SUSPICION 255
losing flesh from anxiety. It was with real con-
cern that he glanced at Christopher when that worthy
returned from the adjourned case on the Tuesday af-
ternoon. His face fell when he saw that Christopher
was gloomier than ever.
“Worse and worse, Mr. Mallalieu!” whispered
Christopher mysteriously when he had shut the door.
“Everything's against you, sir. It's all centring and
fastening on you. What do you think happened?
Cotherstone's discharged 1”
“What l” exclaimed Mallalieu, jumping in his
chair. “Discharged! Why, then, they'd have dis-
charged me!”
Christopher laid his finger on the side of his nose.
“Would they?” he said with a knowing wink.
“Not much they wouldn’t. Cotherstone’s let loose—
to give evidence against you. When you’re caught !”
Mallalieu’s small eyes began to bulge, and a dull
red to show on his cheek. He looked as if he were
bursting with words which he could not get out, and
Christopher Pett hastened to improve the occasion.
‘‘It’s my opinion it's all a plant l’’ he said. “A
conspiracy, if you like, between Cotherstone and the
authorities. Cotherstone, he's got the smartest solici-
tor in Norcaster and the shrewdest advocate on this
circuit—you know 'em, Mr. Mallalieu-Stilby's the
solicitor, and Gradston the barrister—and it strikes me
it’s a put-up job. D'ye see through it? First of all,
Cotherstone gives evidence at that inquest: on his evi-
dence a verdict of murder is returned against—you!
Now Cotherstone's discharged by the magistrates—no
further evidence being offered against him. Why?


256 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
So that he can give evidence before the magistrates
and at the Assizes against—you ! That is—when
you’re caught.”
“They’ve got to catch me yet,” growled Mallalieu.
“Now then—what about this plan of yours? For I’m
going to wait no longer. Either you tell me what
you’re going to do for me, or I shall walk out o’ that
door as soon as it’s dark tonight and take my chances.
D'ye hear that?”
Christopher rose, opened the door, and softly called
Miss Pett. And Miss Pett came, took a seat, folded
her thin arms, and looked attentively at her learned
nephew.
“Yes, sir,” said Chritopher, reumisg the con-
versation, “I hear that—and we are now ready to ex-
plain plans and discuss terms. You will, of course,
recompense us, Mr. Mallalieu?”
“I’ve said all along that you’d not lose by me,”
retorted Mallalieu. “Aught in reason, I’ll pay. But
—this plan o' yours? I’m going to know what it is
before we come to any question of paying. So out
With it !”
“Well, it’s an excellent plan,” responded Christo-
pher. “You say that you’ll be safe if you’re set
down in a certain part of Norcaster—near the docks.
Now that will suit our plans exactly. You're aware,
of course, Mr. Mallalieu, that my aunt here is about
to remove her goods and chattels—bequeathed by Mr.
Kitely, deceased—from this house? Very well—the
removal's to take place tomorrow. I have already ar-
ranged with Mr. Strawson, furniture remover, to send
up a couple of vans tomorrow morning, very early.


THE VIRTUES OF SUSPICION 257
Into those vans the furniture will be placed, and the
vans will convey it to Norcaster, whence they will be
transshipped bodily to London, by sea. Mr. Mal-
lalieu-you'll leave here, sir, in one of those vans !”
Mallalieu listened, considered, began to see possi-
bilities. -
“Aye!” he said, with a cunning glance. “Aye!
—that’s not a bad notion. I can see my way in that.
respect. But—how am I going to get into a van here,
and got out of it there, without the vanmen
knowing?”
“I’ve thought it all out,” answered Christopher.
“You must keep snug in this room until afternoon.
We'll get the first van off in the morning—say by
noon. I’ll so contrive that the second van won’t be
ready to start until after it's dusk. When it is
ready the men'll go down to fetch their horses—I’ll
give 'em something to get themselves a drink before
they come back—that’ll delay 'em a bit longer. And
while they’re away, we’ll slip you into the van—and
I shall go with that van to Norcaster. And when we
get to the shed at Norcaster where the vans are to be
left, the two men will go away with their horses—
and I shall let you out. It’s a good plan, Mr.Malla-
lieu.’’
“It’ll do, anyhow,” agreed Mallalieu, who felt
heartily relieved. “We’ll try it. But you must take
all possible care until I’m in, and we’re off. The least
bit of a slip—”
Mr. Pett drily remarked that if any slips occurred
they would not be of his making—after which both


THE VIRTUES OF SUSPICION 259
making for the door, “I should suggest that Mr. Mal-
lalieu is left to consider matters. Perhaps when he's
reflected a bit 2 y
She and her nephew went out, leaving Mallalieu
fuming and grumbling. And once in the living-room
she turned to Christopher with a shake of the head.
“What did I tell you?” she said. “Mean as a
miserl My plan's much the best. We’ll help our-
selves—and then we can snap our fingers at him. I'll
give him an extra strong nightcap tonight, and
then . . .”
But before the close of that evening came Malla-
lieu’s notions underwent a change. He spent the
afternoon in thinking. He knew that he was in the
power of two people who, if they could, would skin
him. And the more he thought, the more he began
to be suspicious—and suddenly he wondered why he
slept so heavily at night, and all of a sudden he saw
the reason. Drugged!—that old she-devil was drug-
ging his drink. That was it, of course—but it had
been for the last time: she shouldn’t do it again.
That night when Miss Pett brought the hot toddy,
mixed according to the recipe of the late Kitely,
Mallalieu took it at his door, saying he was arrayed
for sleep, and would drink it when in bed. After
which he carefully poured it into a flower-pot that
graced his room, and when he presently lay down it
was with eyes and ears open and his revolver ready
to his right hand.


262 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
the messenger had got into the car. “Have you come
down with him from London?”
“No, sir—I am a clerk at Willerby & Hargreaves’
in Norcaster,” replied the messenger. “Carfax and
Spillington are our London agents. Mr. Carfax and
some other gentlemen came down from town first
thing this morning, and Mr. Carfax got me to bring
you that note.”
“You don't know what he wants to see me about?”
asked Brereton, who was already curious to the point
of eagerness.
“Well, sir, I have a pretty good idea,” answered
the elerk, with a smile, “but I think Mr. Carfax
would rather tell you everything himself. We shall
soon be there, Mr. Brereton—if the young lady doesn’t
keep us.”
Brereton ran into Northrop's house and carried
Avice off with seant ceremony.
* This, of course, has something to do with your
father's ease,” he said, as he led her down to the car.
* It may be—but no, we won't anticipate | Only—
I'm certain things are going to right themselves.
Now then º' he called to the driver as they joined
the elerk. “Get along to Norcaster as fast as
You &m.
Within half an hour the ear stopped at the old-
fashioned gateway of the Duke's Head in Norcaster
market-place, and the clerk immediately led his two
companions into the hotel and upstairs to a private
sitting-room, at the door of which he knocked. A
voice bade him enters he threw the door open and an-
nounced the visitors.
y


MR. WRAYTHWAITE OF WRAYE 263
“Miss Harborough—Mr. Brereton, Mr. Carfax,” he
said.
Brereton glanced sharply at the men who stood in
the room, evidently expectant of his and his com-
panion's arrival. Carfax, a short, middle-aged man,
quick and bustling in manner, he, of course, knew:
the others were strangers. Two of them Brereton in-
stantly set down as detectives; there were all the marks
and signs of the craft upon them. They stood in a
window, whispering together, and at them Brereton
gave but a glance. But at the fourth man, who stood
on the hearthrug, he looked long and hard. And his
thoughts immediately turned to the night on which he
and Avice had visited the old woman who lived in the
lonely house on the moors and to what she had said
about a tall man who had met Harborough in her
presence—a tall, bearded man. For the man who
stood there before him, looking at Avice with an in-
terested, somewhat wistful smile, was a tall, bearded
man—a man past middle age, who looked as if he had
seen a good deal of the far-off places of the world.
Carfax had hurried forward, shaken hands with
Brereton, and turned to Avice while Brereton was
making this rapid inspection.
“So here you are, Brereton—and this young lady,
I suppose, is Miss Harborough 2'' he said, drawing a
chair forward. “Glad you’ve come—and I daresay
you’re wondering why you’ve been sent for? Well—
all in good time, but first—this gentleman is Mr.
John Wraythwaite.”
The big man started forward, shook hands hastily
with Brereton, and turned more leisurely to Avice.


MR. WRAYTHWAITE OF WRAYE 265
tily. “I’m going to explain the reasons. Now, you
won't understand, Brereton, but Miss Harborough,
I think, will know what I mean, or she’ll have some
idea, when I say that this gentleman is now—now,
mind you!—Mr. Wraythwaite of Wraye.”
Avice looked up quickly with evident compre-
hension, and the solicitor nodded.
“You see—she knows,” he went on, turning to
Brereton. “At least, that conveys something to her.
But it doesn’t to you. Well, my dear sir, if you were
a native of these parts it would. Wraye is one of the
oldest and most historic estates between here and the
Tweed—everybody knows Wraye. And everybody
knows too that there has been quite a romance about
Wraye for some time—since the last Wraythwaite
died, in fact. That Wraythwaite was a confirmed old
bachelor. He lived to a great age—he outlived all his
brothers and sisters, of whom he’d had several. He
left quite a tribe of nephews and nieces, who were dis-
tributed all over the world. Needless to say, there
was vast bother and trouble. Finally, one of the
nephews made a strong claim to the estate, as being
the eldest known heir. And he was until recently in
good trim for establishing his claim, when my client
here arrived on the scene. For he is the eldest
nephew—he is the rightful heir—and I am thankful
to say that—only within this last day or two—his
claim has been definitely recognized and established,
and all without litigation. Everything,” continued
Carfax, again rubbing his hands with great satisfac-
tion, “everything is now all right, and Mr. Wrayth-


MR. WRAYTHWAITE OF WRAYE 267
his only son—our friend. Now, he had been told of
the secret marriage of his father, but, being possessed
of an ample fortune himself, he concerned himself
little about the rest of the old family. However, a
year or so ago, happening to read in the newspapers
about the death of the old Squire, his uncle, and the
difficulty of definitely deciding the real heirship, he
came OVer to England. But he had no papers relat-
ing to his father's marriage, and he did not know
where it had taken place. At that time he had not
consulted me—in fact, he had consulted no one. If
he had consulted me,” continued Carfax, with a know-
ing wink at Brereton, “we should have put him right
in a few hours. But he kept off lawyers—and he
sought out the only man he could remember—his
foster-brother, Harborough. And by Harborough's
advice, they met secretly. Harborough did not know
where that marriage had taken place—he had to make
inquiries all over this district—he had to search regis-
ters. Now and then, my client—not my client then,
of course—came to see Harborough ; when he did so,
he and Harborough met in quiet places. And on the
night on which that man Kitely was murdered,’’ con-
cluded the solicitor, “Harborough was with my client
from nine o’clock until half-past four in the morn-
ing, when he parted with him near Hexendale railway
station. Mr. Wraythwaite will swear that.”
“And fortunately, we have some corroboration,”
observed Brereton, with a glance at Avice, “for
whether Mr. Wraythwaite knows it or not, his meet-
ing with Harborough on the moors that particular
night was witnessed.”


268 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
“Capital—capital!” exclaimed Carfax. “By a
credible—and creditable—witness?”
“An old woman of exceptional character,” an-
swered Brereton, “except that she indulges herself
in a little night-poaching now and then.”
“Ah, well, we needn’t tell that when she goes into
the witness-box,” said Carfax. “But that's most sat-
isfactory. My dear young lady!” he added, turning
to Avice, “your father will be released like—like one
o'clock l And then, I think,” he went on bustling
round on the new Squire of Wraye, ‘‘then, my dear,
I think Mr. Wraythwaite here—”
“Leave that to me, Carfax,” interrupted Mr. Wray.
thwaite, with a nod at Avice. “I’ll tell this young
lady all about that myself. In the meantime—”
“Ah, just so !” responded Carfax. “In the mean-
time, we have something not so interesting or pleas-
ing, but extremely important, to tell Mr. Brereton.
Brereton—how are things going? Has any fresh
light been thrown on the Kitely murder? Nothing
really certain and definite you say? Very well, my
dear sir—then you will allow me to throw some light
on it !”
So saying, Carfax rose from his chair, quitted the
room—and within another minute returned, solemnly
escorting the two detectives.
5 y


CHAPTER XXVIII
PAGES FROM THE PAST
Before the solicitor and his companions could seat
themselves at the table whereat the former's pre-
liminary explanation had been made, Mr. Wray-
thwaite got up and motioned Avice to follow his ex-
ample.
“Carfax,” he said, “there’s no need for me to
listen to all that you’ve got to tell Mr. Brereton—
I know it already. And I don’t think it will partic-
ularly interest Miss Harborough at the moment—she’ll
hear plenty about it later on. She and I will leave
you—make your explanations and your arrangements,
and we'll join you later on.”
He led the way to the door, beckoning Avice to
accompany him. But Avice paused and turned to
Brereton.
“You feel sure that it is all right now about my
father?” she said. “You feel certain? If you
do—”
“Yes—absolutely,” answered Brereton, who knew
what her question meant. “And—we will let him
know.”
“He knows!” exclaimed Carfax. “That is, he
2 y
269


PAGES FROM THE PAST 271
phase of the whole affair—which has been up to now
kept secret between Wraythwaite, myself, and Messrs.
Stobb and Leykin there. To it I now invite your
attention.’’
Mr. Carfax here pulled out a memorandum book
from his pocket, and having “fitted on his spectacles
glanced at a page or two within it.
“Now,” he presently continued, “Wraythwaite be-
ing naturally deeply interested in the Kitely case, he
procured the local newspapers—Norcaster and High-
market papers, you know—so that he could read all
about it. There was in those papers a full report
of the first proceedings before the magistrates, and
Wraythwaite was much struck by your examination of
the woman Miss Pett. In fact, he was so much struck
by your questions and her replies that he brought the
papers to me, and we read them together. And, al-
though we knew well enough that we should eventually
have no difficulty whatever in proving an alibi in
Harborough's behalf, we decided that in his interest
we would make a few guarded but strict inquiries
into Miss Pett's antecedents.”
Brereton started. Miss Pett Ah!—he had had
ideas respecting Miss Pett at the beginning of things,
but other matters had cropped up, and affairs had
moved and developed so rapidly that he had almost
forgotten her.
“That makes you think,’’ continued Carfax, with
a smile. “Just sol—and what took place at that
magistrates’ sitting made Wraythwaite and myself
think. And, as I say, we employed Stobb and Leykin,
men of great experience, to-just find out a little


276 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
In fact, it’s been done about as quickly as it well
could be done. And of course Miss Pett will have re-
ceived her legacy—which means that by this time
she’ll have got all that Kitely had to leave.”
Brereton turned to the solicitor, who, during the
recital of facts by the two inquiry agents, had main-
tained his judicial attitude, as if he wºre on the
bench and listening to the opening statements of
counsel.
“Are you suggesting, all of you that you think
Miss Pett murdered Kitely?” he asked. “I should
like a direct answer to that question.”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed Carfax. “What does
it look like? You’ve heard the woman's record!
The probability is that she did murder that Eurasian
girl'—that she took advantage of Stilman's use of drugs
to finish him off. She certainly benefited by Stil-
man's death—and she's without doubt benefited by
Kitely's. I repeat—what does it look like?”
“What do you propose to do?’’ asked Brereton.
The inquiry agents glanced at each other and then
at Carfax. And Carfax slowly took off his spectacles
with a flourish, and looked more judicial than ever
as he answered the young barrister's question.
“I will tell you what I propose to do,” he replied.
“I propose to take these two men over to Highmarket
this evening and to let them tell the Highmarket police
all they have just told you!”


CHAPTER XXIX
WITHOUT THOUGHT OF CONSEQUENCE
Everything was very quiet in the house where Mal-
lalieu lay wide-awake and watchful. It seemed to him
that he had never known it so quiet before. It was
quiet at all times, both day and night, for Miss Pett
had a habit of going about like a cat, and Christopher
was decidedly of the soft-footed order, and stepped
from one room to another as if he were perpetually
afraid of waking somebody or trusting his own weight
on his own toes. But on this particular night the
silence seemed to be unusual—and it was all the
deeper because no sound, not even the faint sighing
of the wind in the firs and pines outside came to break
it. And Mallalieu’s nerves, which had gradually be-
come sharpened and irritated by his recent adventures
and his close confinement, became still more irritable,
still more set on edge, and it was with difficulty that
he forced himself to lie still and to listen. More-
over, he was feeling the want of the stuff which had
Soothed him into such sound slumber every night since
he had been taken in charge by Miss Pett, and he
knew very well that though he had flung it away his
whole system was crying out for the lack of it.
277


278 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
What were those two devils after, he wondered
as he lay there in the darkness? No good—that was
certain. Now that he came to reflect upon it their
conduct during the afternoon and evening had not
been of a reassuring sort. Christopher had kept en-
tirely away from him; he had not seen Christopher
at all since the discussion of the afternoon, which Miss
Pett had terminated so abruptly. He had seen Miss
Pett twice or thrice—Miss Pett's attitude on each
occasion had been that of injured innocence. She had
brought him his tea in silence, his supper with no
more than a word. It was a nice supper—she set it
before him with an expression which seemed to say
that however badly she herself was treated, she would
do her duty by others. And Mallalieu, seeing that
expression, had not been able to refrain from one of
his sneering remarks.
“Think yourself very badly done to, don’t you,
missis!” he had exclaimed with a laugh. “Think I’m
a mean 'un, what?’”
“I express no opinion, Mr. Mallalieu,” replied Miss
Pett, frigidly and patiently. “I think it better for
people to reflect. A night's reflection,” she continued
as she made for the door, “oft brings wisdom, even
to them as doesn’t usually cultivate it.”
Mallalieu had no objection to the cultivation of
wisdom—for his own benefit, and he was striving to
produce something from the process as he lay there,
waiting. But he said to himself that it was easy
enough to be' wise after the event—and for him the
event had happened. He was in the power of these
two, whom he had long since recognized as an un-


WITHOUT THOUGHT 279
scrupulous woman and a shifty man. They had noth-
ing to do but hand him over to the police if they
liked: for anything he knew, Chris Pett might already
have played false and told the police of affairs at the
cottage. And yet on deeper reflection, he did not
think that possible—for it was evident that aunt and
nephew were after all they could get, and they would
get nothing from the police authorities, while they
might get a good deal from him. But—what did they
expect to get from him? He had been a little per-
plexed by their attitude when he asked them if they
expected him to carry a lot of money on him—a
fugitive. Was it possible—the thought came to him
like a thunderclap in the darkness—that they knew,
or had some idea, of what he really had on him?
That Miss Pett had drugged him every night he now
felt sure—well, then, in that case how did he know
that she hadn’t entered his room and searched his be-
longings, and especially the precious waistcoat?
Mallalieu had deposited that waistcoat in the same
place every night—on a chair which stood at the head
of his bed. He had laid it folded on the chair, had
deposited his other garments in layers upon it, had
set his candlestick and a box of matches on top of all.
And everything had always been there, just as he had
placed things, every morning when he opened his eyes.
But—he had come to know Miss Pett's stealthiness by
that time, and . . .
He put out a hand now and fingered the pile of
garments which lay, neatly folded, within a few inches
of his head. It was all right, then, of course, and
his hand drew back—to the revolver, separated from


282 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
parlour-bedchamber, and carefully avoiding the dead
woman put on his boots and began to dress with
feverish haste.
And while he hurried on his clothes Mallalieu
thought. He was not sure that he had meant to kill
these two. He would have delighted in killing them
certainly, hating them as he did, but he had an idea
that when he fired he only meant to frighten them.
But that was neither here nor there now. They were
dead, but he was alive—and he must get out of that,
and at once. The moors—the hills—anywhere. .
A sudden heavy knocking at the door at the back
of the cottage set Mallalieu shaking. He started for
the front—to hear knocking there, too. Then came
voices demanding admittance, and loudly crying the
dead woman's name. He crept to a front window at
that, and carefully drew a corner of the blind and
looked out, and saw many men in the garden. One
of them had a lantern, and as its glare glanced about
Mallalieu set eyes on Cotherstone.


CHAPTER XXX
COTHERSTONE
Cotherstone walked out of the dock and the court
and the Town Hall amidst a dead silence—which was
felt and noticed by everybody but himself. At that
moment he was too elated, too self-satisfied to notice
anything. He held his head very high as he went
out by the crowded doorway, and through the crowd
which had gathered on the stairs; he might have been
some general returning to be publicly fêted as he
emerged upon the broad steps under the Town Hall
portico and threw a triumphant glance at the folk
who had gathered there to hear the latest news. And
there, in the open air, and with all those staring eyes
upon him, he unconsciously indulged in a character-
istic action. He had caused his best clothes to be sent
to him at Norcaster Gaol the previous night, and he
had appeared in them in the dock. The uppermost
garment was an expensive overcoat, finished off with
a deep fur collar: now, as he stood there on the top
step, facing the crowd, he unbuttoned the coat, threw
its lapels aside, and took a long, deep breath, as if he
were inhaling the free air of liberty. There were one
or two shrewd and observant folk amongst the on-
283


286 THE BOROUGH THEASURER
known barrister (so famous in that circuit for his
advocacy of criminals that he had acquired the nick-
name of the Felons' Friend) entered, a dead silence
fell, and men looked at this curious pair and then at
each other with significant glances.
In that silence, Cotherstone, seizing a waiter,
loudly demanded champagne and cigars: he glared
defiantly around him as he supplemented the order
with a command for the best box of cigars in the
house, the best champagne in the cellars. A loud
laugh from some corner of the room broke the silence,
and the waiter, a shrewd fellow who saw how things
were, gave Cotherstone a look.
“Come into the small parlour, Mr. Cotherstone,”
he whispered. “Nobody in there—you'll be more
comfortable, sir.”
“All right, then,” responded Cotherstone. He
glared once more at the company around him, and
his defiance suddenly broke out in another fashion.
“Any friend of mine that likes to join us,” he said
pointedly, “is welcome. Who's coming, like?’’.
There was another hoarse laugh at this, and most
of the men there turned their backs on Cotherstone
and began to talk loudly. But one or two of the
less particular and baser sort, whom Cotherstone
would certainly not have called friends a week before,
nudged each other and made towards the door which
the waiter held invitingly open—it was not every day
that the best champagne and the best cigars were to
be had for nothing, and if Cotherstone liked to fling
him money about, what did it matter, so long as they
benefited by his folly?


COTHERSTONE 287
“That's the style !” said Cotherstone, pushing the
barrister along. “Bring two—bring three bottles,”
he cried to the waiter. “Big ’uns!—and the best.”
An elderly man, one of Cotherstone’s fellow-mem-
bers of the Corporation, came forward and caught
him by the arm.
“Cotherstone!” he whispered. “Don’t be a fool!
Think of what’s only just over. Go home, like a good
fellow—go quietly home. You’re doing no good with
this—you’ll have all the town talking !”
“Hang the town, and you too !” snapped Cother-
stone. “You’re one of them that shouted at me in
front of the Town Hall, curse you ! I’ll let you and
all Highmarket see what I care for you. What's it
to you if I have a quiet glass of wine with my
friends?” -
But there was no quiet drinking of a glass of wine
in the parlour to which Cotherstone and his cronies
retired. Whenever its door opened Cotherstone’s ex-
cited tones were heard in the big room, and the more
sober-minded of the men who listened began to shake
their heads. -
“What’s the matter with him 7” asked one. “No-
body ever knew him like this before What's he car-
rying on in that fashion for?”
“He’s excited with getting off,” said another.
“And that bit of a scene outside there threw him
off his balance. He should ha’ been taken straight
home. Nice lot he's got with him, too ! We all know
what yon barrister chap is—he can drink champagne
like water, they say, and for the others—listen to that,
now !” he added as a burst of excited talking came


COTHERSTONE 291
down to the office and fetch the accumulated cor-
respondence, his manner was so ordinary that Bent
saw no reason why he should accompany him.
But Cotherstone had no intention of going to his
office. He left his house with a fixed determination.
He would know once and for all what Highmarket
felt towards and about him. He was not the man to
live under suspicion and averted looks, and if he was
to be treated as a suspect and a pariah he would know
at Once.
There was at that time in Highmarket a small and
select club, having its house in the Market Place, to
which all the principal townsmen belonged. Both
Mallalieu and Cotherstone had been members since its
foundation; Cotherstone, indeed, was its treasurer.
He knew that the club would be crowded that night—
very well, he would go there and boldly face public
opinion. If his fellowmembers cut him, gave him the
cold shoulder, ignored him—all right, he would know
what to do then.
But Cotherstone never got inside the club. As he
Set his foot on the threshold he met one of the oldest
members—an alderman of the borough, for whom he
had a great respect. This man, at sight of him,
started, stopped, laid a friendly but firm hand on
his arm, and deliberately turned him round.
“No, my lad!” he said kindly. “Not in there
tonight! If you don’t know how to take care of your-
self, let a friend take care of you. Have a bit of
sense, Cotherstone ! Do you want to expose yourself
again to what you got outside the Town Hall this
noon? No-no l—go away, my lad, go home—come


292 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
home with me, if you like—you're welcome!”
The last word softened Cotherstone: he allowed
himself to be led away along the street.
“I’m obliged to you,” he said brusquely. “You
mean well. But—do you mean to say that those fel-
lows in there—men that know me—are thinking—
that l”
“It’s a hard, censorious world, this,” answered the
elder man. “Leave 'em alone a bit—don’t shove
yourself on 'em. Come away—come home and have
a cigar with me.”
“Thank you,” said Cotherstone. “You wouldn’t
ask me to do that if you thought as they do. Thank
you! But I’ve something to do—and I’ll go and do
it at once.”
He pressed his companion’s arm, and turned away
—and the other man watching him closely, saw him
walk off to the police-station, to the superintendent’s
private door. He saw him enter—and at that he
shook his head and went away himself, wonder-
ing what it was that Cotherstone wanted with the
police.
The superintendent, tired by a long day's work,
was taking his ease with his pipe and his glass when
Cotherstone was shown into his parlour. He started
with amazement at the sight of his visitor: Cother-
stone motioned him back to his chair.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” said Cotherstone. “I
want a word or two with you in private—that’s all.”
The superintendent had heard of the scene at the
hotel, and had had his fears about its sequel. But
he was quick to see that his visitor was not only sober,


COTHERSTONE 295
strange—even a wicked one—to him. To tell the
truth merely to spite one's neighbour—a poor, poor
reason, when there was life at stake.
“Aye, Mr. Cotherstone, but you ought to tell the
truth in any case!” he said. “If you know it, get it
out and be done with it. We’ve had enough trouble
already. If you can clear things up—”
“Listen!” interrupted Cotherstone. “I’ll tell you
all I know—privately. If you think good, it can be
put into proper form. Very well, then | You remem-
ber the night of Kitely's murder?”
“Aye, I should think sol” said the superintendent.
“Good reason to !” -
“Let your mind go back to it, and to what you’ve
since heard of it,” said Cotherstone. “You know
that on that afternoon Kitely had threatened me and
Mallalieu with exposure about the Wilchester affair.
He wanted to blackmail us. I told Mallalieu, of
course—we were both to think about it till next day.
But I did naught but think—I didn’t want exposure
for my daughter’s sake: I’d ha’ given anything to
avoid it, naturally. I had young Bent and that friend
of his, Brereton, to supper that night—I was so full of
thought that I went out and left 'em for an hour or
more. The truth was I wanted to get a word with
Kitely. I went up the wood at the side of my house
towards Kitely's cottage—and all of a sudden I came
across a man lying on the ground—him —just where
we found him afterwards.”
“Dead?’’ asked the superintendent.
“Only just,” replied Cotherstone. “But he was
dead—and I saw what had caused his death, for I


COTHERSTONE 297
about it, and—well, I hesitated. And she saw that
she had me, and she went on, “You hold your tongue,
and I’ll hold mine!” she says. “Nobody'll accuse me,
I know—but if you speak one word, I’ll denounce you!
You and your partner are much more likely to have
killed Kitely than I am | Well, I still stood, hesitat-
ing. “What's to be done?’ I asked at last. “Do
naught,” she said. “Go home, like a wise man, and
know naught about it. Let him be found—and say
naught. But if you do, you know what to expect.”
“Not a word that I came in here, then?' I said at last.
“Nobody’ll get no words from me beyond what I
choose to give 'em’, she says. , “And—silence about
the other?' I said. “Just as long as you’re silent,” she
says. And with that I walked out—and I set off
towards home by another way. And just as I was
leaving the wood to turn into the path that leads
into our lane I heard a man coming along and I
shrank into some shrubs and watched for him till he
came close up. He passed me and went on to the
cottage—and I slipped back then and looked in
through the window, and there he was, and they were
both whispering together at the table. And it—was
this woman's nephew—Pett, the lawyer.’’
The superintendent, whose face had assumed
various expressions during this narrative, lifted his
hands in amazement.
“But—but we were in and about that cottage most
of that night—afterwards!” he exclaimed. “We
never saw aught of him. I know he was supposed
to come down from London the meat night, but 2 3
“Tell you he was there that night !” insisted Coth-


298 THE BOROUGH TREASURER
erstone. “D'ye think I could mistake him? Well,
I went home—and you know what happened after-
wards: you know what she said and how she behaved
when we went up—and of course I played my part.
But—that bit of newspaper I’ve given you. I read
it carefully that night, last thing. It’s a column cut
out of a Woking newspaper of some years ago—it's
to do with an inquest in which this woman was con-
cerned—there seems to be some evidence that she got
rid of an employer of hers by poison. And d'ye
know what I think, now?—I think that had been sent
to Kitely, and he’d plagued her about it, or held it
out as a threat to her—and—what is it?”
The superintendent had risen and was taking down
his overcoat.
“Do you know that this woman’s leaving the town
tomorrow?” he said. “And there’s her nephew with
her, now—been here for a week? Of course, I under-
stand why you’ve told me all this, Mr. Cotherstone—
now that your old affair at Wilchester is common
knowledge, far and wide, you don’t care, and you
don’t see any reason for more secrecy?’’
“My reason,” answered Cotherstone, with a grim
smile, “is to show Highmarket folk that they aren’t
so clever as they think. For the probability is that
Kitely was killed by that woman, or her nephew, or
both.”
“I’m going up there with a couple of my best men,
any way,” said the superintendent. “There's no
time to lose if they’re clearing out tomorrow.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Cotherstone. He
waited, staring at the fire until the superintendent


CHAPTER XXXI
THE BARRISTER’S FEE
Six months later, on a fine evening which came as
the fitting close of a perfect May afternoon, Brereton
got out of a London express at Norcaster and entered
the little train which made its way by a branch line
to the very heart of the hills. He had never been
back to these northern regions since the tragedies of
which he had been an unwilling witness, and when
the little train came to a point in its winding career
amongst the fell-sides and valleys from whence High-
market could be seen, with the tree-crowned Shawl
above it, he resolutely turned his face and looked in
the opposite direction. He had no wish to see the
town again; he would have been glad to cut that
chapter out of his book of memories. Nevertheless,
being so near to it, he could not avoid the recollections
which came crowding on him because of his knowledge
that Highmarket’s old gables and red roofs were
there, within a mile or two, had he cared to look at
them in the glint of the westering sun. No-he would
never willingly set foot in that town again!—there
was nobody there now that he had any desire to see.
Bent, when the worst was over, and the strange and
sordid story had come to its end, had sold his business,
3O2


THE BARRISTER’S FEE 303
quietly married Lettie and taken her away for a
long residence abroad, before returning to settle down:
in London. Brereton had seen them for an hour or
two as they passed through London on their way to
Paris and Italy, and had been more than ever struck
by young Mrs. Bent's philosophical acceptance of
facts. Her father, in Lettie's opinion, had always
been a deeply-wronged and much injured man, and
it was his fate to have suffered by his life-long con-
nexion with that very wicked person, Mallalieul: he
had unfortunately paid the penalty at last—and there
was no more to be said about it. It might be well,
thought Brereton, that Bent’s wife should be so calm
and equable of temperament, for Bent, on his return
to England, meant to go in for politics, and Lettie
would doubtless make an ideal help-meet for a public
man. She would face situations with a cool head and
a well-balanced judgment—and so, in that respect, all
was well. All the same, Brereton had a strong no-
tion that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bent would ever revisit
Highmarket.
As for himself, his thoughts went beyond High-
market—to the place amongst the hills which he had
never seen. After Harborough's due acquittal Brere-
ton, having discharged his task, had gone back to
London. But ever since then he had kept up a regular
correspondence with Avice, and he knew all the details
of the new life which had opened up for her and her
father with the coming of Mr. Wraythwaite of Wraye.
Her letters were full of vivid descriptions of Wraye
itself, and of the steward's house in which she and
Harborough—now appointed steward and agent to his








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