But Mallalieu, busied with his own reflections, had no thought of Stoner in his mind, and consequently showed no surprise at meeting him. He made a point of cultivating friendly relations with all who worked for him, and he grinned pleasantly at his clerk.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed cordially. “Taking your walks alone, eh? Now I should ha’ thought a young fellow like you would ha’ been taking one o’ Miss Featherby’s little milliners out for a dander, like—down the riverside, what?”
Stoner smiled—not as Mallalieu smiled. He was in no mood for persiflage; if he smiled it was because he thought that things were coming his way, that the game was being played into his hands. And suddenly he made up his mind.
“Something better to do than that, Mr. Mallalieu,” he answered pertly. “I don’t waste my time on dressmakers’ apprentices. Something better to think of than that, sir.”
“Oh!” said Mallalieu. “Ah! I thought you looked pretty deep in reflection. What might it be about, like?”
Something within Stoner was urging him on to go straight to the point. No fencing, said this inward monitor, no circumlocution—get to it, straight out. And Stoner thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a copy of the reward bill. He opened it before his employer, watching Mallalieu’s face.
“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!”
“No offence meant,” retorted Stoner, coolly. He looked round him, noticed some convenient railings, old and worn, which fenced in the quarry, and stepping 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 exclaimed. “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, and especially a man as I pay wages to, to speak in them tones to me! What d’ye mean by it?”
“I’ll tell you what I mean, Mr. Mallalieu,” replied Stoner, still regarding his man fixedly, and nerving himself for the contest. “I mean this—I know who killed Kitely!”
Mallalieu felt himself start again; he felt his face flush warm. But he managed to show a fairly controlled front, and he made shift to sneer.
“Oh, indeed,” he said, twisting his mouth in derision. “Do you now? Deary me!—it’s wonderful how clever some young folks is! So you know who killed Kitely, do you, my lad? Ah! And who did kill Kitely, now? Let’s be knowing! Or happen you’d rather keep such a grand secret to yourself—till you can make something out of it?”
“I can make something out of it now,” retorted Stoner, who was sharp enough to see through Mallalieu’s affectation of scorn. “Just you realize the importance of what I’m saying. I tell you once again—I know who killed Kitely!”
“And who did kill him, then?” demanded Mallalieu. “Psha!—you know naught about it!”
Stoner laughed, looked round, and then leaned his head forward.
“Don’t I?” he said, with a sneer that exceeded his employer’s in significance and meaning. “But you’re wrong—I do! Kitely was murdered by either you or Cotherstone! How’s that, Mr. Mallalieu?”
Mallalieu again regarded his clerk in silence. He knew by that time that this fellow was in possession of some information, and his characteristic inclination 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 sarcastically. “Oh! Now which on us would you be inclined 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!”
Again there was silence, and again a duel of staring 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 gentleman?” 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 Cotherstone, 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 respected, so much thought
