As he lay tossing and groaning in his comfortable bed that night, Mallalieu thought over many things. How had Stoner acquired his information? Did anybody else know what Stoner knew? After much reflection 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—according to his own idea. Stoner had overheard the conversation between old Kitely and Cotherstone in the private office, of course! That was it—he wondered 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 between 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 blackmail—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 convinced 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 exchanged 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 evening, 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. Suddenly 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 returned.
“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,” answered 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!” 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 particularly 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 Mallalieu 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 Corporation business, and within a few hours to be where nobody 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 additional 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 Committee. 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 superintendent. “In fact, sir, he’s dead! A couple of men found
