The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

it goes to the Old Kilns—disused. This way down to a turning off the Padfield and Catton road.”

      Hewitt returned to the cinder-path again, and once more examined the footmarks. He traced them back over the grass toward the house. “Certainly,” he said, “he hasn’t gone back to the house. Here is the double line of tracks, side by side, from the house—Steggles’ ordinary boots with iron tips, and Crockett’s running pumps; thus they came out. Here is Steggles’ track in the opposite direction alone, made when he went back for the sweater. Crockett remained; you see various prints in those loose cinders at the end of the path where he moved this way and that, and then two or three paces toward the fence—not directly toward the door, you notice—and there they stop dead, and there are no more, either back or forward. Now, if he had wings, I should be tempted to the opinion that he flew straight away in the air from that spot—unless the earth swallowed him and closed again without leaving a wrinkle on its face.”

      Kentish stared gloomily at the tracks and said nothing.

      “However,” Hewitt resumed, “I think I’ll take a little walk now and think over it. You go into the house and show yourself at the bar. If anybody wants to know how Crockett is, he’s pretty well, thank you. By the by, can I get to the Cop—this place of Taylor’s—by this back lane?”

      “Yes, down to the end leading to the Catton road, turn to the left and then first on the right. Any one’ll show you the Cop,” and Kentish shut the door behind the detective, who straightway walked—toward the Old Kilns.

      In little more than an hour he was back. It was now becoming dusk, and the landlord looked out papers from a box near the side window of his snuggery, for the sake of the extra light. “I’ve got these papers together for you,” he said, as Hewitt entered. “Any news?”

      “Nothing very great. Here’s a bit of handwriting I want you to recognize, if you can. Get a light.”

      Kentish lit a lamp, and Hewitt laid upon the table half a dozen small pieces of torn paper, evidently fragments of a letter which had been torn up, here reproduced in fac-simile:

      The landlord turned the scraps over, regarding them dubiously. “These aren’t much to recognize, anyhow. I don’t know the writing. Where did you find ‘em?”

      “They were lying in the lane at the back, a little way down. Plainly they are pieces of a note addressed to some one called Sammy or something very like it. See the first piece, with its ‘mmy’? That is clearly from the beginning of the note, because there is no line between it and the smooth, straight edge of the paper above; also, nothing follows on the same line. Some one writes to Crockett—presuming it to be a letter addressed to him, as I do for other reasons—as Sammy. It is a pity that there is no more of the letter to be found than these pieces. I expect the person who tore it up put the rest in his pocket and dropped these by accident.”

      Kentish, who had been picking up and examining each piece in turn, now dolorously broke out:

      “Oh, it’s plain he’s sold us—bolted and done us; me as took him out o’ the gutter, too. Look here—‘throw them over’; that’s plain enough—can’t mean anything else. Means throw me over, and my friends—me, after what I’ve done for him! Then ‘right away’—go right away, I s’pose, as he has done. Then”—he was fiddling with the scraps and finally fitted two together—“why, look here, this one with ‘lane’ on it fits over the one about throwing over, and it says ‘poor f’ where its torn; that means ‘poor fool,’ I s’pose—me, or ‘fathead,’ or something like that. That’s nice. Why, I’d twist his neck if I could get hold of him; and I will!”

      Hewitt smiled. “Perhaps it’s not quite so uncomplimentary, after all,” he said. “If you can’t recognize the writing, never mind. But, if he’s gone away to sell you, it isn’t much use finding him, is it? He won’t win if he doesn’t want to.”

      “Why, he wouldn’t dare to rope under my very eyes. I’d—I’d—”

      “Well, well; perhaps we’ll get him to run, after all, and as well as he can. One thing is certain—he left this place of his own will. Further, I think he is in Padfield now; he went toward the town, I believe. And I don’t think he means to sell you.”

      “Well, he shouldn’t. I’ve made it worth his while to stick to me. I’ve put a fifty on for him out of my own pocket, and told him so; and, if he won, that would bring him a lump more than he’d probably get by going crooked, besides the prize money and anything I might give him over. But it seems to me he’s putting me in the cart altogether.”

      “That we shall see. Meantime, don’t mention anything I’ve told you to any one—not even to Steggles. He can’t help us, and he might blurt things out inadvertently. Don’t say anything about these pieces of paper, which I shall keep myself. By the by, Steggles is indoors, isn’t he? Very well, keep him in. Don’t let him be seen hunting about this evening. I’ll stay here to-night and we’ll proceed with Crockett’s business in the morning. And now we’ll settle my business, please.”

      In the morning Hewitt took his breakfast in the snuggery, carefully listening to any conversation that might take place at the bar. Soon after nine o’clock a fast dog-cart stopped outside, and a red-faced, loud-voiced man swaggered in, greeting Kentish with boisterous cordiality. He had a drink with the landlord, and said: “How’s things? Fancy any of ‘em for the sprint handicap? Got a lad o’ your own in, haven’t you?”

      “Oh, yes,” Kentish replied. “Crockett. Only a young un not got to his proper mark yet, I reckon. I think old Taylor’s got No. 1 this time.”

      “Capital lad,” the other replied, with a confidential nod. “Shouldn’t wonder at all. Want to do anything yourself over it?”

      “No, I don’t think so. I’m not on at present. Might have a little flutter on the grounds just for fun; nothing else.”

      There were a few more casual remarks, and then the red-faced man drove away.

      “Who was that?” asked Hewitt, who had watched the visitor through the snuggery window.

      “That’s Danby—bookmaker. Cute chap. He’s been told Crockett’s missing, I’ll bet anything, and come here to pump me. No good, though. As a matter of fact, I’ve worked Sammy Crockett into his books for about half I’m in for altogether—through third parties, of course.”

      Hewitt reached for his hat. “I’m going out for half an hour now,” he said. “If Steggles wants to go out before I come back, don’t let him. Let him go and smooth over all those tracks on the cinder-path, very carefully. And, by the by, could you manage to have your son about the place to-day, in case I happen to want a little help out of doors?”

      “Certainly; I’ll get him to stay in. But what do you want the cinders smoothed for?”

      Hewitt smiled, and patted his host’s shoulder. “I’ll explain all my tricks when the job’s done,” he said, and went out.

      On the lane from Padfield to Sedby village stood the Plough beer-house, wherein J. Webb was licensed to sell by retail beer to be consumed on the premises or off, as the thirsty list. Nancy Webb, with a very fine color, a very curly fringe, and a wide smiling mouth revealing a fine set of teeth, came to the bar at the summons of a stoutish old gentleman in spectacles who walked with a stick.

      The stoutish old gentleman had a glass of bitter beer, and then said in the peculiarly quiet voice of a very deaf man: “Can you tell me, if you please, the way into the main Catton road?”

      “Down the lane, turn to the right at the cross-roads, then first to the left.”

      The