"The description," said the detective, "tallies exactly with that given
at the bank of the person who presented the cheque."
"Do you know his writing?"
"I know what I believe to be his writing," said I.
"Is that it?" inquired Mr Barnacle, showing me an envelope addressed to
Hawkesbury.
"No, that is not the handwriting I believe to be his."
"Is that?" showing another.
"No."
"Is that?" This time it was the envelope I had already recognised.
"Yes, that is it."
"How are you able to recognise it?"
"By this," said I, producing the letter to Mary Smith from my pocket.
The handwriting on the two envelopes was compared and found to be alike,
and further to correspond with a signature at the back of the cheque.
The clerk, it seemed, being a little doubtful of the person who
presented the cheque, had required him to write his name on the back;
and the fictitious signature "A. Robinson" was accordingly given in
Masham's hand.
"That seems clear," said the detective.
"I see," said Mr Barnacle, looking again at the envelope I had given
him, "this letter is addressed to the place where Smith lives. Is
Masham a friend of Smith or his family?"
"Would you mind reading the letter, sir?" I said; "that will answer the
question better than I can."
Mr Barnacle did so, and Mr Merrett also.
In the midst of my trouble it was at least a satisfaction to see the
look of disgust which came into both their faces as they perused its
contents.
"A dastardly letter!" said Mr Merrett. "How came Masham to know of
Smith's private affairs?"
"Hawkesbury overheard Smith and me talking of them on the first occasion
that we found him here, and must have told Masham, who had a grudge
against Smith."
"You heard, of course, that Hawkesbury included Smith as well as
yourself in his accusation?"
"Yes, I did. And I wish he was here to confirm my denial of it. What
happened was--"
"Yes," said Mr Barnacle, "you need not go into that again. But answer
one more question, Batchelor. Are you acquainted with Masham?"
"Slightly. I once was introduced to him by Hawkesbury and spent a day
with him."
"Have you any reason to believe he is a swindler?"
"I know of nothing which would warrant me in saying so," replied I.
"Do you know whether Hawkesbury owes him money?"
"Yes--at least I have been told so."
"By whom?"
"By a boy--a shoeblack who--"
"A shoeblack!" exclaimed Mr Merrett. "Is that your only authority?"
"I believe he is honest," I said; "he overheard a conversation between
Masham and a friend, in which Masham mentioned that Hawkesbury owed him
£15."
"Really," said Mr Merrett, "this is almost absurd to take such
testimony as that."
"It wouldn't be amiss to see the boy, though," said Mr Barnacle; "a
great deal depends on whether or no Hawkesbury owed money to Masham.
Where is this boy to be found?"
"Oh, I could fetch him at once. I know where he works," I said.
"No," said Mr Barnacle, "you must stay here. Doubleday can go." And
he touched the bell.
"Doubleday," he said, when that youth entered, "we want you to bring
here a shoeblack."
"Yes, sir," said Doubleday, artlessly: "will any one do?"
"No, no," said Mr Barnacle, "the boy we wish to see is--where is he,
Batchelor?"
"He works at the top of Style Street," I said; "you will know the place
by the writing all over the flagstones on either side."
With this lucid direction Doubleday started, and I in the meanwhile was
left to go on with my usual work. Most of the fellows were away at
dinner, and Hawkesbury as before was invisible, so I had the place
pretty much to myself, and was spared, for a time, at any rate, a good
deal of unwelcome questioning.
In due time there was a sound of scuffling and protest on the stairs
outside, and Doubleday reappeared dragging in Billy. That youthful
hero, evidently doubting the import of this strange summons, was in a
highly indignant frame of mind at being thus hauled along by the
mischievous Doubleday, who, vouchsafing no explanation and heeding no
protest, had simply made a grab at his unlucky young victim, and then
led him away, box, brushes, and all, to Hawk Street.
"Do you hear? turn it up--do you hear?" he cried, as they entered. "Oh,
go on, you let my arm be--let me go, do you hear?"
At this point he recognised me, who thought it well to interpose.
"Don't alarm yourself, Billy," said I, "no one's going to hurt you."
"This cove do--and he _are_!"
"Well, he didn't mean. The gentlemen here want to ask you some
questions, that's all."
"I ain't a-goin' to be arsted no questions. They ain't my governors, so
I let them know. I ain't a-goin' to be arsted questions by any one 'sep
my governor."
"But what they want to ask you, Billy," said I, "has something to do
with Mr Smith's happiness and mine. All you have to do is to tell the
truth."
This explanation mollified the ruffled Billy somewhat.
"Come, young cock-sparrow," said Doubleday, returning from announcing
the distinguished visitor, "you're wanted inside. They want you, too,
Batch."
We entered. Billy, as usual, was more at his ease than any one else.
"What cheer? Well, what do you want to arst me?" he cried, jauntily.
The partners, thus encouraged, looked rather amused, and Mr Barnacle
said, "You're the little shoeblack, are you?"
"In corse I are!"
"And you know this gentleman?"
"Yaas; I knows the animal!"
"And you know Mr Smith?"
"What! my governor? He ain't no concern of yourn," retorted the boy,
firing up a little at this liberty taken with his "governor's" name.
Mr Barnacle gazed curiously at the strange urchin through his
spectacles, and then resumed, in as coaxing a tone as he could assume,
"You know a person called Masham, do you?"
"Yaas; I knows 'im."
"What sort of person is he?"
"What sort? Why, he are a beauty, so I tell you!"
"Yes; but I mean, what sort of looking man? Is he tall or short? Has
he dark hair or light? Would you know him if you saw him?"
"Know him? Oh no--no fear--I know the beauty!"
"Well, what sort of looking man is he?" asked Mr Barnacle.
"He's a ugly bloke with a mug like yourn, and a 'orseshoe pin in 'is
weskit."
"Yes? And what colour is his hair?"
"Carrots!"
That was quite enough. This unromantic portrait corresponded
sufficiently nearly with the description already given.
"Now," said Mr Barnacle, "will you tell us when you last blacked his
boots?"
"A Toosdy."
"Do you remember whether he was alone?"
"Ain't you arstin' me questions, though!" exclaimed Billy. "Of course
he 'ad a bloke along of him, and, says he, `That there parson's son,'
says he, `is a cuttin' it fat?' says he. `He do owe me a fifteen pun,'
says 'e, `and ef 'e don't hand it over sharp,' says he, `I'll wake 'im
up!' And then--"
"Yes," said Mr Barnacle; "that's enough, my man, thank you."
When Billy had gone, Mr Merrett turned to me and said, "Go to your
work, Batchelor, and tell Doubleday to send Hawkesbury here."
I obeyed, feeling that, after all, as far as I was concerned, the storm
had blown over.
Doubleday went to Hawkesbury's glass box and opened the door. "You're
wanted, Hawkes-- Hullo!"
This exclamation was caused by the discovery that Hawkesbury was not
there!
"Where's Hawkesbury?" he inquired of the office generally.
"He's not come back," said Crow.
"When did he go out?"
"Why, the usual time, to be sure."
Doubleday gave a low whistle, and exclaimed, "Bolted!" And so it was.
That afternoon Hawkesbury did not appear again at Hawk Street, or the
next day, or the next week, or the next month. And when inquiry was
made at the rectory, all that could be ascertained was that he had left
home, and that not even his father knew where he had gone.