British Mystery Classics - Arthur Morrison Edition (Illustrated). Morrison Arthur

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 old gentleman waited with his hand to his ear for some few seconds after she had finished speaking, and then resumed in his whispering voice: “I’m afraid I’m very deaf this morning.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a note-book and pencil. “May I trouble you to write it down? I’m so very deaf at times that I—Thank you.”

      The girl wrote the direction, and the old gentleman bade her good-morning and left. All down the lane he walked slowly with his stick. At the cross-roads he turned, put the stick under his arm, thrust his spectacles into his pocket, and strode away in the ordinary guise of Martin Hewitt. He pulled out his note-book, examined Miss Webb’s direction very carefully, and then went off another way altogether, toward the Hare and Hounds.

      Kentish lounged moodily in his bar. “Well, my boy,” said Hewitt, “has Steggles wiped out the tracks?”

      “Not yet; I haven’t told him. But he’s somewhere about; I’ll tell him now.”

      “No, don’t. I don’t think we’ll have that done, after all. I expect he’ll want to go out soon—at any rate, some time during the day. Let him go whenever he likes. I’ll sit upstairs a bit in the club-room.”

      “Very well. But how do you know Steggles will be going out?”

      “Well, he’s pretty restless after his lost protégé, isn’t he? I don’t suppose he’ll be able to remain idle long.”

      “And about Crockett. Do you give him up?”

      “Oh, no! Don’t you be impatient. I can’t say I’m quite confident yet of laying hold of him—the time is so short, you see—but I think I shall at least have news for you by the evening.”

      Hewitt sat in the club-room until the afternoon, taking his lunch there. At length he saw, through the front window, Raggy Steggles walking down the road. In an instant Hewitt was down-stairs and at the door. The road bent eighty yards away, and as soon as Steggles passed the bend the detective hurried after him.

      All the way to Padfield town and more than half through it Hewitt dogged the trainer. In the end Steggles stopped at a corner and gave a note to a small boy who was playing near. The boy ran with the note to a bright, well-kept house at the opposite corner. Martin Hewitt was interested to observe the legend, “H. Danby, Contractor,” on a board over a gate in the side wall of the garden behind this house. In five minutes a door in the side gate opened, and the head and shoulders of the red-faced man emerged. Steggles immediately hurried across and disappeared through the gate.

      This was both interesting and instructive. Hewitt took up a position in the side street and waited. In ten minutes the trainer reappeared and hurried off the way he had come, along the street Hewitt had considerately left clear for him. Then Hewitt strolled toward the smart house and took a good look at it. At one corner of the small piece of forecourt garden, near the railings, a small, baize-covered, glass-fronted notice-board stood on two posts. On its top edge appeared the words, “H. Danby. Houses to be Sold or Let.” But the only notice pinned to the green baize within was an old and dusty one, inviting tenants for three shops, which were suitable for any business, and which would be fitted to suit tenants. Apply within.

      Hewitt pushed open the front gate and rang the door-bell. “There are some shops to let, I see,” he said, when a maid appeared. “I should like to see them, if you will let me have the key.”

      “Master’s out, sir. You can’t see the shops till Monday.”

      “Dear me, that’s unfortunate, I’m afraid I can’t wait till Monday. Didn’t Mr. Danby leave any instructions, in case anybody should inquire?”

      “Yes, sir—as I’ve told you. He said anybody who called about ‘em must come again on Monday.”

      “Oh, very well, then; I suppose I must try. One of the shops is in High Street, isn’t it?”

      “No, sir; they’re all in the new part—Granville Road.”

      “Ah, I’m afraid that will scarcely do. But I’ll see. Good-day.”

      Martin Hewitt walked away a couple of streets’ lengths before he inquired the way to Granville Road. When at last he found that thoroughfare, in a new and muddy suburb, crowded with brick-heaps and half-finished streets, he took a slow walk along its entire length. It was a melancholy example of baffled enterprise. A row of a dozen or more shops had been built before any population had arrived to demand goods. Would-be tradesmen had taken many of these shops, and failure and disappointment stared from the windows. Some were half covered by shutters, because the scanty stock scarce sufficed to fill the remaining half. Others were shut almost altogether, the inmates