Starmidge ate and drank in silence for awhile, evidently pondering his companion's question.

"Yes," he said at last, "there's all that in it. It may be any one of the three. You never know! Yet, according to all I've been told, Horbury's a thoroughly straight man of business."

"According to all I've been told," remarked Easleby, "and all I've been told about anything has been told by yourself, the two Chestermarkes have the reputation of being thoroughly straight men of business—outwardly. But one thing is certain, my lad, after what we've just learned—Hollis went down to Scarnham to offer that cheque to one of these three men. And whichever it was, that man's Godwin Markham! It's a double-life business, Jack—the man's Godwin Markham here in London, and he's somebody else in—somewhere else. Dead certainty, my lad!"

"It's not Horbury," said Starmidge, after some reflection. "I'll stake my reputation, such as it is, on that!"

"You don't know," replied Easleby. "Remember, Mrs. Lester said this son of hers always did business with a manager. That's a usual thing with these big money-lending offices—the real man doesn't show. For aught you know, Horbury may have been running a money-lender's office in town, unknown to anybody, under the name of Godwin Markham. And—he may have wanted new funds for it, and he may have collared those securities which the Chestermarkes say are missing, and he may have appropriated Lord Ellersdeane's jewels—d'ye see? You never can tell—in any of these cases. You see, my lad, you've been going, all along, on the basis, the supposition, that Horbury's an innocent man, and the victim of foul play. But—he may be a guilty man! Lord bless you!—I don't attach any importance to reputation and character, not I! It isn't ten years since Jim Chambers and myself had a case in point—a bank manager who was churchwarden, Sunday-School teacher, this, that, and t'other in the way of piety and respectability—all a cloak to cover as clever a bit of thievery and fraud as ever I heard of!—he got ten years, that chap, and he ought to have been hanged. As I say, you never can make certain. Hollis may have found out that Godwin Markham of Conduit Street was in reality John Horbury of Scarnham, and then——"

"I'll tell you what!" interrupted Starmidge, who had been thinking as well as listening. "There's a very sure and certain way of finding out who Godwin Markham is! Do you remember?—Mrs. Lester said her son had only seen him once. Well, once is enough!—he'd remember him. We must go to Maychester right away and see this young Lester, and get him to describe the man he saw."

"Good notion, of course," assented Easleby. "Where is Maychester, now?"

"Essex," replied Starmidge.

"That would certainly be a solver," said Easleby. "But there's something else we could do, following up your special line of thought. Now, honour bright, which of these men do you take Godwin Markham to be?"

"Gabriel Chestermarke!" answered Starmidge promptly. "It's established that he's constantly in London—as much in London as in Scarnham. Gabriel Chestermarke certainly—with, no doubt, Joseph in collusion. The probability is that they run that money-lending office in Conduit Street under the name of Godwin Markham. They're within the law."

"What about the Moneylenders' Act?" asked Easleby. "Compulsory registration, you know."

"It's this way," explained Starmidge. "The object of that Act was to enable a borrower to know for certain who it was that was lending him the money he borrowed. So registration was made compulsory. But, as in the case of many another Act of Parliament, Easleby, evasion is not only possible, but easy. A money-lender can register in a name which isn't his own if it's one which he generally uses in his business. So—there you are! I've seen that name Godwin Markham advertised ever since I was a youngster—it's an old established business, well known. There's nothing to prevent Abraham Moses from styling himself Fitzwilliam Simpkins, if he's always done business as Fitzwilliam Simpkins—see? And—it's highly probable that, as he's so much in town, Gabriel Chestermarke lives in town under the name of Godwin Markham—double-life business, as you suggest. But you were going to suggest something else. What?"

"This," said Easleby. "You know that Gabriel Chestermarke went to the stage-door of the Adalbert Theatre the other night. Go there—officially—and find out if he called there as Gabriel Chestermarke. That'll solve a lot."

"We'll both go!" assented Starmidge. "It's a good notion—I hadn't thought of it. Whom shall we try to see?"

"Top man of all," counselled Easleby. "Lessee, manager, whatever he is. Our cards'll manage it."

"I'm obliged to you, old man!" exclaimed Starmidge. "It's a bright idea! Of course, somebody there'll know who the man was that called last night—know his name, of course. And in that case——"

"Aye, but don't you anticipate too much, my lad!" interrupted Easleby. "There's no doubt that Gandam traced your Gabriel Chestermarke to the stage-door of the Adalbert Theatre—and lost him there. But, you know, for anything you know, Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke, banker, of Scarnham, may have had legitimate and proper business at that theatre. For aught you know, Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke may be owner of that theatre—ground-landlord—part-proprietor—financier. He may have a mortgage on it. All sorts of reasons occur to me as to why Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke may have called. He might be a personal friend of the manager's, or the principal actor's—called to take 'em out to supper, d'ye see, on his arrival in town. So—whoever we see there, you want to go guardedly, eh?"

"I'll tell you what," said Starmidge, "I'll leave it to you. I'll go with you, of course, but you manage it."

"Right, my lad!" assented Easleby. "All I shall want'll be a copy of this morning's newspaper—to lead up from."

One of the London morning journals had been making a great feature of the Scarnham affair from the moment Parkinson, on Starmidge's inspiration, had supplied the Press with its details, and it had that day printed an exhaustive rÉsumÉ of the entire history of the case, brought up to the discovery of Frederick Hollis's body. Easleby bought a copy of this issue as soon as he and Starmidge returned to town, and carefully blue-pencilled the cross-headed columns and the staring capitals above them. With the folded paper in his hand, and Starmidge at his heel, he repaired to the stage-door of the Adalbert Theatre at a quarter to eight, when the actors and actresses were beginning to pass in for their evening's work and thrust his head into the glass-fronted cage in which the stage door-keeper sat.

"A word with you, mister," whimpered Easleby. "A quiet word, you understand. Me and my friend here are from the Yard—New Scotland Yard, you know, and we've an inquiry to make. Our cards, d'ye see?—I shall ask you to take 'em inside in a minute. But first, a word with you. Do you remember a gentleman coming here last night, late, who nodded to you and walked straight in? Little, stiffly built gentleman, very pale face, holds himself well up—what?"

"I know him," answered the door-keeper, much impressed by the official cards which Easleby held before his nose. "Seen him here many a time, but I don't know his name. He's a friend of Mr. Castlemayne's, and he's the entry, d'ye see—walks in as he likes."

"Ah, just so—and who may Mr. Castlemayne be, now?" asked Easleby confidentially.

"Mr. Castlemayne?" repeated the door-keeper. "Why, he's the lessee, of course!—the boss!"

"Ah, the boss, is he?" said Easleby. "Much obliged to you, sir. Well, now, then, just take these two cards to Mr. Castlemayne, will you, and ask him if he'll be good enough to see their owners for a few minutes on very important private business?"

The door-keeper departed up a dark passage, and Easleby pointed Starmidge to a playbill which hung, framed on the wall, behind them.

"There you are!" he said, indicating a line near the big capitals at the top. "'Lessee and Manager—Mr. Leopold Castlemayne.' That's our man. Fancy name, of course—real name Tom Smith, or Jim Johnson, you know. But, Lord bless you, what's in a name? Haven't we got a case in point?"

"There's a good deal in what's in a name in our case, old man!" retorted Starmidge. "You're off it there!"

Easleby was about to combat this reply when a boy appeared, and intimated that Mr. Castlemayne would see the gentlemen at once. And the two detectives followed up one passage and down another, and round corners and across saloons and foyers, until they were shown into a snug room, half office, half parlour, very comfortably furnished and ornamented, wherein, at a desk, and alone, sat a gentleman in evening dress, whose countenance, well-fed though it was, seemed to be just then clouded with suspicion and something that looked very like anxiety. He glanced up from the cards which lay before him to the two men who had sent them in, and silently pointed them to chairs near his own.

"Good-evening, sir," said Easleby, with a polite bow. "Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Castlemayne, but you see our business from our cards, and we've called, sir, to ask if you can give us a bit of much-wanted information. I don't know, sir," continued Easleby, laying the blue-pencilled newspaper on the lessee's desk, "if you've read in the papers any account of the affair which is here called the Scarnham Mystery!"

Mr. Leopold Castlemayne glanced at the columns to which Easleby pointed, rubbed his chin, and nodded.

"Yes—yes!" he said. "I have just seen the papers. Case of a strange disappearance—bank manager—isn't it?"

"It's more than that, sir," replied Easleby. "It's a case of—all sorts of things. Now you're wondering, Mr. Castlemayne, why we come to you? I'll explain. You'll see there, sir, the name—blue-pencilled—Gabriel Chestermarke. Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke is a banker at Scarnham. You don't happen to know him, Mr. Castlemayne?"

The two detectives watched the lessee narrowly as that question was put. And each knew instantly that the prompt reply was a truthful one.

"Never heard of him in my life," said Mr. Castlemayne.

"Thank you, sir," said Easleby. "Just so! Well, sir, my friend here—Detective-Sergeant Starmidge—has been down at Scarnham in charge of this case from the first, and he's formed some ideas about this Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke. Last night Gabriel Chestermarke travelled up to town from Ecclesborough—Mr. Starmidge arranged for him to be shadowed when he arrived at St. Pancras. A man of ours—not quite as experienced as he might be, you understand, sir—did shadow him—and lost him. He lost him here at your theatre, Mr. Castlemayne."

"Ah!" said the lessee, half indifferently. "Got amongst the audience, I suppose?"

"No, sir," replied Easleby. "Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke, sir, entered your stage-door at about eleven-thirty—walked straight in. But he never came out of that door—so he must have left by another exit."

Mr. Leopold Castlemayne suddenly sat up very erect and rigid. His face flushed a little, his lips parted; he looked from one man to the other.

"Mr.—Gabriel—Chestermarke!" he said. "Entered my stage-door—eleven-thirty—last night? Here!—describe him!"

Easleby glanced at Starmidge. And Starmidge, as if he were describing a picture, gave a full and accurate account of Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke's appearance from head to foot.

The lessee suddenly jumped from his chair, walked over to a door, opened it, and looked into an inner room. Evidently satisfied, he closed the door again, came back, seated himself, thrust his hands in his pockets, and looked at the detectives.

"All in confidence—strict confidence?" he said. "All right, then!—I understand. I tell you, I don't know any Gabriel Chestermarke, banker, of Scarnham! The man you've described—the man who came here last night—is Godwin Markham, the Conduit Street money-lender—damn him!"