“You’re sure about the time?” asked Brereton anxiously.
“Certain, master! It was ten minutes to nine when I went out—nearly ten when I come back. My clock’s always right—I set it by the almanac and the sunrise and sunset every day—and you can’t do better,” asserted Mrs. Hamthwaite.
“You’re equally sure about the second man being Harborough?” insisted Brereton. “You couldn’t be mistaken?”
“Mistaken? No!—master, I know Harborough’s voice, and his figure, aye, and his step as well as I know my own fireside,” declared Mrs. Hamthwaite. “Of course I know it were Harborough—no doubt on’t!”
“How are you sure that this was the evening of the murder?” asked Brereton. “Can you prove that it was?”
“Easy!” said Mrs. Hamthwaite. “The very next morning I went away to see my daughter up the coast. I heard of the old man’s murder at High Gill Junction. But I didn’t hear then that Harborough was suspected—didn’t hear that till later on, when we read it in the newspapers.”
“And the other man—the tall man in grey clothes, who has a slightly grey beard—you didn’t know him?”
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 neighbourhood 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 Hexendale?”
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 another line of railway there—this man Mrs. Hamthwaite 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 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!”
“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 exclaimed. “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 exclaimed. “I shouldn’t wonder!—I shouldn’t wonder 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.
XX
At Bay
It was only by an immense effort of will that Brereton prevented an exclamation and a start of surprise. But of late he had been perpetually on the lookout 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 dreadfully. When is all this mystery coming to an end, Brereton? There is one thing dead certain—Harborough isn’t guilty in this case. That is, if Stoner really was killed by the blow they talk of.”
But Brereton refused to discuss matters that night. He pleaded fatigue, he had been at it all day long, he said, and his brain was confused and tired and needed rest. And presently he went off to his room—and when he got there he let out a groan of dismay. For one thing was imperative—Bent’s marriage must not take place while there was the least chance of a terrible charge being suddenly let loose on Cotherstone.
He rose in the morning with his mind made up on the matter. There was but one course to adopt—and it must be adopted immediately. Cotherstone must be spoken to—Cotherstone must be told of what some people at any rate knew about him and his antecedents. Let him have a chance to explain himself. After all, he might have some explanation. But—and here Brereton’s determination became fixed and stern—it must be insisted upon that he should tell Bent everything.
Bent always went out very early in the morning, to give an eye to his business, and he usually breakfasted at his office. That was one of the mornings on
