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 yourself, 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!—go away, my lad, go home—come 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 fellows in there—men that know me—are thinking—that!”
“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, wondering 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: Cotherstone 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, but remarkably cool and normal, and he hastened to offer him a glass of whisky.
“Aye, thank you, I will,” replied Cotherstone, seating himself. “It’ll be the first spirits I’ve tasted since you locked me up, and I daresay it’ll do me no harm. Now then,” he went on as the two settled themselves by the hearth, “I want a bit of a straight talk with you. You know me—we’ve been friends. I want you to tell me, straight, plain, truthful—what are Highmarket folk thinking and saying about me? Come!”
The superintendent’s face clouded and he shook his head.
“Well, you know what folks will be, Mr. Cotherstone!” he answered. “And you know how very ready to say nasty things these Highmarket people are. I’m not a Highmarket man myself, any more than you are, and I’ve always regarded ’em as very bitter-tongued folk, and so—”
“Out with it!” said Cotherstone. “Let’s know the truth—never mind what tongues it comes from. What are they saying?”
“Well,” replied the superintendent, reluctantly, “of course I get to hear everything. If you must have it, the prevailing notion is that both you and Mr. Mallalieu had a hand in Kitely’s death. They think his murder’s at your doors, and that what happened to Stoner was a by-chance. And if you want the whole truth, they think you’re a deal cleverer than Mallalieu, and that Kitely probably met his end at your hands, with your partner’s connivance. And there are those who say that if Mallalieu’s caught—as he will be—he’ll split on you. That’s all, sir.”
“And what do you think?” demanded Cotherstone.
The superintendent shifted uneasily in his chair.
“I’ve never been able to bring myself to think that either you or Mallalieu ’ud murder a man in cold blood, as Kitely was murdered,” he said. “As regards Stoner, I’ve firmly held to it that Mallalieu struck him in a passion. But—I’ve always felt this—you, or Mallalieu, or both of you, know more about the Kitely affair than you’ve ever told!”
Cotherstone leaned forward and tapped his host on the arm.
“I do!” he said significantly. “You’re right in that. I—do!”
The superintendent laid down his pipe and looked at his visitor gravely.
“Then for goodness sake, Mr. Cotherstone,” he exclaimed, “for goodness sake, tell! For as sure as we’re sitting here, as things are at present, Mallalieu’ll hang if you don’t! If he doesn’t hang for Stoner, he will for Kitely, for if he gets off over Stoner he’ll be re-arrested on the other charge.”
“Half an hour ago,” remarked Cotherstone, “I shouldn’t have minded if Mallalieu had been hanged half a dozen times. Revenge is sweet—and I’ve good reason for being revenged on Mallalieu. But now—I’m inclined to tell the truth. Do you know why? Why—to show these Highmarket folks that they’re wrong!”
The superintendent sighed. He was a plain, honest, simple man, and Cotherstone’s reason seemed a 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 remember the night of Kitely’s murder?”
“Aye, I should think so!” 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
