“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 deserved 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 carried 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.
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 detectives 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 connection between one or other of them and his murder. Far away as it was, that old Wilchester 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 hundred 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 contracts 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 opinion, he had only to ask in order to have. He firmly 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 halfway across the Atlantic within five days. No—Dave Myler was a good sort—one of the best—but he was a bit straightlaced, 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 between High Gill and Highmarket, his mind was already 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 beeline 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
