Half-a-dozen surmises seemed to rush through my mind at that first sight of Uncle Zabdiel lying dead. The first—that he had tried to drive too hard a bargain with Bardolph Just, and had been caught in his own net; the next, that that badly-used youth, Andrew Ferkoe, had turned at last and killed his oppressor. I thought, too, that perhaps some poor creature he had driven to desperation, and ground hard in his money mill, had chosen this way to pay his debts.

One of the men ran off in what I thought was an absurd search for a doctor; the other stood waiting, and keeping, as I thought, a watchful eye upon me. In truth, I was not altogether comfortable, for although Uncle Zabdiel's lips were for ever sealed, I thought it possible that he might have made the bare statement that his supposedly-dead nephew was alive, in writing to the authorities. In which case, it might go hard with me that I should be seen in the neighbourhood of the house in which he had been so recently killed, and that house, too, with its front door open. The man had set down the lamp upon the landing, where it lighted up the dead man horribly; he now began to put a few questions to me.

"Had you an appointment with this gentleman?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes, I had," I answered. "An appointment on a matter of business. I was coming to the house, when I saw you and the other man on your way here. May I ask who you are?" For I thought it better to pretend ignorance, although I knew well that these must be the men for whom Uncle Zabdiel had sent.

"We are police officers," said the man, "and we had an appointment with Mr. Blowfield for this evening. It seems a pity that we were not a little earlier," he added.

"You might have been useful," I added drily. "What should Mr. Blowfield want with you?"

The man looked at me suspiciously, but did not answer. He turned to look at the dead man with a thoughtful frown on his face. "This is the sort of case that absolutely invites murder, in a manner of speaking," he said. "A lonely old man—probably without a soul in the house—pretty well off, I expect; that sort of thing soon gets spread about among the sort of people to whom it's of interest. Of course, I couldn't say off-hand; but I should judge that robbery was the business here, and that whoever did it has had to make a mighty quick exit, or they would scarcely have left the door as we found it. It's been a touch-and-go business, and, as I say, if we had been a little earlier the old gentleman might have been alive to tell us what he wanted to tell us."

Now, although I had been resolute in my determination to end the matter, and to go back to my prison, I found myself thanking my stars that the old gentleman had not been alive to say what he had to say. Not that I should ever have found it in my heart to do him an injury on my own account, and, indeed, I was a little horrified to find him done to death in this fashion; but you must understand how great a relief it was for me.

By this time the second man had come back, bringing with him a young doctor. The latter glanced quickly from one to the other of us, and then knelt down on the stairs to make his examination. The first police officer stood near to him, holding the lamp; I, with the other man, stood below. In a moment or two the doctor looked up, with pursed lips, and nodded quickly to the man with the lamp.

"Nothing for me to do here," he said quietly. "He's been dead about half an hour—scarcely more, I should think. A weak old man like this wouldn't stand much chance when he came face to face with a strong man armed with that stick. He's had two blows—one clean in front, and the other at the side. He must have died almost on the instant. Anyone suspected?"

The man with the lamp shook his head. "We've only arrived here a matter of minutes ago," he replied, "having been asked by the old gentleman to call here to-night."

"What for?" The doctor, who had risen to his feet, asked the question sharply.

"This Mr. Blowfield," answered the man in a perplexed tone, "has written to Scotland Yard, saying that if someone would call to see him he could give them information concerning a nephew of his—a man called Norton Hyde. This nephew robbed him some time ago, and was sentenced to penal servitude. He escaped, and committed suicide rather than be captured; so that I don't see what the old gentleman could have had to tell us."

I determined that I would strike in boldly for myself; it would seem less suspicious than keeping silence. "Oh, yes!" I exclaimed, a little scornfully, "he's had that idea for a long time—he was always talking about it."

"What idea?" asked the doctor.

"The idea that his nephew was alive," I said. "I daresay you may remember the case of the young man?" I added.

"Perfectly," said the doctor. "I wonder where the old chap got that notion from?"

"We'd better go through the house, and see what has been disturbed," said the first man, moving forward with the lamp. Then suddenly, after a whispered word to his companion, he turned again to me. "Were you a friend of Mr. Blowfield?" he asked, and this time I saw the doctor also looking at me curiously.

"Oh, yes! I knew him well," I answered readily. "Believe me," I said, with a little laugh, "I am quite willing to give you every information in my power concerning myself. My name is John New, and I am lodging quite near here. I have been in the habit of coming backwards and forwards on various occasions; as you know, I came in just behind you to-night."

"That's true enough, sir," said the other man.

Now all this time I had quite forgotten the boy Andrew Ferkoe; and suddenly it leapt into my mind that instead of being in the house, as he should properly have been, we had seen nothing of him. My heart sank at that remembrance, for I liked the boy, and had been sorry to think how badly he was treated. I could sympathise with him more than anyone else could well do, for had I not suffered just as he had suffered, and had not I made shipwreck of my life because of this old man who had gone to his account? I felt certain now in my own mind what had happened; Andrew Ferkoe had turned at last upon his master, and had beaten him to death, and then had fled out of the house.

The man with the lamp turned at the door of a room, and looked back at me over his shoulder. "Did you know anything about his habits, sir?" he asked. "Did he live alone?"

I determined to lie. After all, they might not discover anything about the wretched boy if I held my peace. "Quite alone, I believe," I said. "There was an old woman used to come in to clean house for him, and cook his meals; but only for an hour or two a day."

"Just as I thought: this sort of party absolutely asks to be murdered!" he exclaimed.

We found the place in great disorder. Drawers had been wrenched open, and the contents scattered in all directions; desks forced, and cupboards burst open. So far as we could judge, my Uncle Zabdiel must have been in his bedroom at the time of the attack, and must have heard a noise, and come out, armed with that heavy stick of his. There could not have been any struggle, save in the wrenching away of the stick from his grasp; after that it had been a mere matter of the two blows, as the doctor had suggested. The robbery afterwards had been a hurried business, bunglingly done. The great safe in the corner of the study—that room in which I had toiled so many years—was untouched; and, from what I knew of my uncle and his ideas regarding property, I judged that the murderer had got but little for that risking of his neck. That he had tried to cover up the body from his own sight was obvious, from the fact that he must have gone back into the bedroom, and so have dragged out the bed-clothing to put over his victim.

"We'll go through the rest of the house," said the man; and I suddenly leapt to the remembrance that they must discover Andrew Ferkoe's room, and his bed, and must begin to put awkward questions to me. I was on the point of suggesting that I believed the other rooms to be empty; but, on second thoughts, I felt it best to hold my tongue, and to trust that the boy might yet escape.

So the four of us came to the door of the room, and the man with the lamp unsuspiciously opened it, and went in. He stopped with a gasp, and looked back at us.

"There's someone here!" he whispered. "In bed—and asleep!"

Wonderingly we went forward into the room. The man with the lamp bent over the bed and turned back the clothes. Andrew Ferkoe seemed to rouse himself from sleep, and to stretch his arms; he sat up and yawned at us. For my part, I felt that he rather overdid the thing. His face was white and drawn; but then, it was always that. I confess I was a little contemptuous of the cunning he displayed; I was not quite so sorry for him as I had been. There we stood, grouped about his bed, while he sat up and looked round from one to the other of us.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

The doctor gave a short laugh. "Matter enough!" he ejaculated. "Do you mean to say you've been asleep?"

"Of course," said Andrew Ferkoe. "What else should I go to bed for?"

"Do you mean to tell us that you've heard nothing to-night?" asked the man with the lamp sharply. "No struggling—no crying out?"

Andrew Ferkoe slowly shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "Who are you? I know that gentleman," he added, pointing to me. "What do they want, Mr. New?"

I began to have a sneaking admiration for the boy, even though I shuddered at him; I thought how wonderfully he played the game. I answered as calmly as I could.

"Your master has been murdered, Andrew," I said—"brutally done to death. Have you really been asleep?—have you heard nothing?"

"Nothing at all, sir," he said, scrambling out of bed, and standing ghostlike amongst us in his long night-shirt, and with his thin, bare feet and ankles showing. "I don't know anything about it."

He began to whimper, looking from one to the other of us in a terrified way; I began to have my doubts whether, after all, he was not sincere, and had not really slept through the horrible business.

"I thought you said that the old gentleman lived alone?" asked the police officer, turning to me.

"When I said that I'd clean forgotten the boy," I answered easily. "You see, I've never been here except by daylight; how should I know that anyone else slept in the house?"

That explanation seemed simple enough, and, in a fashion, satisfactory. I suggested to the man that Andrew Ferkoe should be allowed to dress; I pledged my word to look after him.

"You see, you can hardly leave the boy in the house alone, after what has occurred," I urged. "You have my address, and you can verify it if you like. Let me take the boy with me, and I will undertake to produce him for any enquiry at any time."

I saw that they hesitated; it was the doctor who put in the final word on Andrew Ferkoe's behalf. He had been looking at the youth curiously, had even put a hand on his shoulder, and had twisted him about to look into his eyes.

"I shouldn't think much suspicion would attach to our young friend here," he said. "A bit of a weakling, I should imagine, not very likely to do any harm to anyone. Certainly it won't do to leave him in this place. Get dressed, my lad," he added to Andrew.

As he turned away I heard him whisper to the man with the lamp, "He's been asleep fast enough. I doubt if the old man even cried out. The whole attack would be too sudden."

I waited with Andrew Ferkoe while he got dressed; the others went downstairs to move the body of Uncle Zabdiel. Once or twice I noticed that the boy looked at me in a furtive way. I began to think that if he had been innocent he would in all probability have said something, or have asked some question. He got into his clothes rapidly, fumbling a great deal with the buttons, as though his fingers trembled. Once he looked up, and opened his mouth as if to speak. I shook my head at him. "Better not say anything, Andrew," I said in a whisper.

He looked at me in a startled way, but finished his dressing without a word. We went out of the room together, and on the stairs I met the doctor and the two men, who were waiting for us. It seemed that one man was to remain in charge of the house, while the other walked with me to my lodging to see that the address I had given was a correct one. In a few minutes Andrew Ferkoe and I were walking along in silence, side by side, with the police officer a little in the rear.

In due course we came to my lodgings, and there the man left us. I roused up the landlady, something to her surprise, and told her that I must have another bed put into my room. I did not mean to lose sight of the youth until I had decided what to do with him.

The woman very obligingly got out a little camp bedstead that was stowed away in an attic, and I assisted her to rig it up in a corner of my room. Then she bade us "Good-night," and Andrew Ferkoe and I were left alone. And for a time there was silence, while I sat on the side of my bed and smoked, and looked at him.

"Why do you look at me in that queer way?" he asked at last, in a trembling voice.

"Look here, Andrew," I said solemnly, "let me say quite reverently that at the present moment there's just God and you and me in this room, and God understands a great deal better even than I do what you have had to put up with. Don't speak until I've finished," I exclaimed sternly, "because I want to give you a word of warning. If you want to tell me anything, let's hear it; if you don't want to tell me anything, go to bed, and try to sleep. But if you do speak—speak the truth."

He looked at me round-eyed, and with his mouth wide open, for nearly a minute; then he gasped out a question. "Do you—do you really think I did it?" he asked.

"I don't think about it at all," I answered. "I'm waiting for you to tell me—if you feel you want to."

"I didn't do it—I never touched him. I should never have had the strength or the courage," he began, in a shaking whisper.

"But you were shamming sleep," I reminded him.

"Of course I was," was his surprising answer. "What else could I do? I didn't know who you were, or who was coming into the place, and I'd seen enough in the way of horrors for one night to last me all my life." He shuddered, and covered his face with his hands, and dropped down on to his bed.

"Seen enough horrors!" I echoed. "What had you seen?"

He looked up at me, and began his extraordinary story. "I went to bed a long time before old Blowfield," he said. "I think I went to sleep almost at once; I generally do, you know. At all events I didn't hear the old man come up to his room. When I first woke up I heard a noise down below in the house, just like somebody wrenching open a shutter. I got horribly frightened, and I put my head under the bedclothes, and kept very still; it was just like that night when you broke in and came to my room. After a time the noise stopped, and I began to wonder whether someone had tried to get in and couldn't, or whether they had really got into the house. It must have been about a quarter of an hour after that—only it seemed ever so much longer—that I first heard old Blowfield cry out."

I felt certain now that he was speaking the truth. Watching him narrowly, I saw the terror grow in his eyes at the recollection of what he had heard and seen in that grim old house. I nodded to him to go on.

"I heard old Blowfield shout out, 'Who's there?'" went on the youth. "He shouted that twice, and I got so excited that I crept out of my room in the dark, and leaned over the rail at the top of the staircase. I saw old Blowfield standing there, and just below him was a man, and the man was crouching as if he was going to spring. Old Blowfield struck at him with the stick—he was holding a candle in his left hand, so that he could see what he was doing—and the man dodged, and caught the stick, and pulled it out of his hand. The man struck old Blowfield once, and he went down and lay still; and then he struck him again."

"Why didn't you raise an alarm?" I asked, somewhat needlessly.

"What good would that have been?" murmured Andrew Ferkoe resentfully. "I could see that the man didn't think there was anyone else in the house. What chance should I have had if he'd caught sight of me? I don't know whether I made any noise, but while he stood there with the stick in his hands he looked up towards where I was, but he didn't see me. Then he went back into the bedroom and came out, dragging the bedclothes; he threw them on top of the old man. When he went down into the house I slipped back into my room and got into bed; I simply dared not move or make a sound."

"How long did you stop like that?" I asked.

"I don't rightly know," was his reply, as he shook his head. "It seemed a long time, and at first I could hear him moving about the house here and there, and then there was a silence. I had just got out of bed, meaning to go down, when I heard another movement in the house, and then voices. And I lay there, trembling so that I could feel the bed shaking under me, until at last, after what seemed hours, I heard people coming up the stairs, and coming into my room. And then I gave myself up for lost, and tried hard to pray. I thought if I pretended to be asleep they wouldn't kill me, and so I pretended. You may imagine how relieved I felt when I opened my eyes and saw you."

"That's all very well, my young friend," I said, "but why in the world didn't you tell the truth at once, and say what you'd seen? Why did you lie, and say that you had been asleep and had heard nothing?"

He looked at me with an expression of cunning on his lean face.

"Who was going to believe me?" he asked. "Even you had heard me say how badly the old man had treated me, and how I wished I had the courage to kill him; even you believed to-night, first of all, that I had done it. If I had told any story about a man coming into the place and killing old Blowfield, and going again, they would have laughed at me. I was in a tight corner, and the only thing I could do was to pretend that I had slept through it all."

I saw the reasonableness of that argument; it might have gone hard with the boy if for a moment suspicion had fallen upon him. "Did you see the face of the man clearly?" I asked, after a pause. "What was he like?"

"He was a small man, stooping a little," said Andrew Ferkoe. "I should think he would be about forty-five or fifty years of age. He was dressed like a labourer."

Instantly I remembered the man I had seen on the previous evening lurking outside the house; I wished now that I had taken more note of him. I began to wonder who it could be, and whether it was only some chance loafer who had selected that house as one likely to suit his purpose for burglary. It could scarcely have been anyone who knew Uncle Zabdiel's habits well, or he would not have been surprised on the stairs as he had been; for the fact that he had to snatch a weapon from the hand of the old man proved, I thought, that he had not gone there meaning to kill. For the matter of that, few men enter a place with that deliberate intention; it is only done in the passion of the moment, when they must strike and silence another, or suffer the penalty for what they have done.

Long after the boy was in bed and asleep I sat there watching him. Even now my mind was not clear of doubts concerning Andrew Ferkoe, smooth though his tale was. I wondered if all he had told me was true, or if, after all, he had seized that occasion to strike down the old man, and so pay off old scores. I knew that for the present I must leave the matter, and must wait for time or chance to elucidate the mystery.

It must have been about the middle of the night when I found myself sitting up in bed, very wide awake, with one name seeming to din itself into my ears. I wondered why I had not thought of it before.

"William Capper!"

It had been a little man, who walked with drooping shoulders, a man who might be forty-five or fifty years of age. Well, Capper was older than that, but then Andrew Ferkoe had only seen the man in the dim light of a candle.

And the motive? That was more difficult to arrive at, although even I thought there I saw my way. Capper I knew was determined to kill Bardolph Just if he could, and he would know that Bardolph Just had gone to the house of Zabdiel Blowfield. What more natural than that he should have seen him arrive, but should have missed him when he went away; that would explain the man in labouring clothes I had seen hanging about near the house. Capper would know that he must put on some sort of disguise in order to bring himself into the presence of the doctor, and in order to lull the other's dread of him. I was convinced now that it was Capper who had forced his way into the house late at night, and, finding himself suddenly confronted by a man who demanded his business, had aimed a blow at him at the same time, and killed Zabdiel Blowfield on the impulse of the moment. I lay down again, firmly convinced that I had arrived at a proper solution of the matter.

I further questioned Ferkoe in the morning, and all that he told me served the more to settle the thing in my mind. I wondered if by any chance Capper would be discovered; I wondered also whether, after all, I had been mistaken in my estimate of him, and whether the sudden gusts of passion that had swept over him on the two occasions in regard to Bardolph Just might not have been real madness, and might, in this last case, have found their victim in a man with whom Capper had nothing to do. In that case he was merely a harmful lunatic, dangerous to anyone when those gusts of passion swept him.

I found that during the next day or two I was pretty closely watched and interrogated by one and another, and more than once I trembled for my liberty, and even for my life. For you will understand that I was surrounded now, more than ever, by dangers of every sort; if it could once have been proved or even suggested that I was that convict nephew of the dead man, it would have gone hard with me. For here was I, masquerading under another name, and actually walking up to the house on the night of the murder. And had not Zabdiel Blowfield actually stated in writing that he could tell the authorities something concerning his nephew, Norton Hyde? The motive was clear; it had been vitally necessary that I should silence Uncle Zabdiel at all costs.

So I argued the matter, and I remembered uneasily enough that that weakling, Andrew Ferkoe, knew who I really was, and might, in case of extremity, give my secret away. On the other hand it turned out that the police had found a scrap of writing in the house, which gave the name and address of Dr. Bardolph Just, so that that gentleman was brought into the business, in order that questions might be asked of him. I had gone down to the house, and there we came face to face.

There was no necessity for me to ask him what he thought about the matter; I read in his face that he was certain in his own mind that I was the man. I should not have spoken to him at all, because when next I fought him I meant to fight with other weapons than my tongue, but he came up to me, and looked at me with that evil grin of his.

"This is a bad business," he said. "I understand that you were here almost immediately after the thing was done, eh?"

"Yes, and not before," I replied in a whisper. "You're on the wrong track, I assure you. I've had nothing to do with the matter."

I saw that he had something more to say to me. When presently I left the house he strolled along by my side. His first words were startling enough, in all conscience.

"Well, so for the moment you have succeeded," he said quietly.

I turned and stared at him; I did not understand in the least what he meant. "In what have I succeeded?" I asked. "Don't I tell you that I'm not responsible for the business we've just been talking about."

"You know what I'm referring to," he said, harshly. "I'm speaking of the girl."

I had learnt wisdom, and I controlled myself with an effort. "What of her?" I asked carelessly.

I saw his eyes flash, and noticed that his teeth were clenched hard as he strode along beside me. "You've got her!" he burst out at last, "but you shan't keep her. You've been wise enough, too, to hide her away somewhere where you don't go yourself. I've had you watched, and I know that. But I'll find her, and if I don't find her within a certain time, determined on by myself, I'll tell my story, and you shall hang!"

I was on the point of blurting out that I knew nothing about the matter, but on second thoughts I held my tongue. I guessed in a moment that Debora must have made her escape from the house, and must be somewhere in hiding, and, of course, she would not know where to communicate with me. My heart leapt at the thought that she was free; it sank again at the thought that she might be penniless and unprotected amongst strangers. At the same time I decided that I would not give him any undue advantage over me, by letting him understand that I did not know where the girl was. I merely shrugged my shoulders and laughed.

"You can take my warning, and make the most of it," he said abruptly. "If Debora does not return to me within the time I have mapped out—and I shall not even tell you what that time is—I tell what I know to the right people."

I remembered what Debora had said to me about her certainty that this man had caused the death of Gregory Pennington; I had a shot at that matter now. "And some explanation will be needed regarding the man you allowed to be shut away in a grave in Penthouse Prison," I said quietly.

He turned his head sharply, and looked at me. I regarded him steadily. "That's a matter you'll have to explain," he said, with a grin.

"I?" It was my turn to look amazed.

"Yes—you," he said. "I've got my story ready when the time comes, I assure you. All I've had to do with it has been the covering up of your traces; that was only pity for a forlorn wretch, hunted almost to death. The changing of the clothes was your business. I don't see how it affects me."

We had come to a point where he was turning off in one direction and I going in another. I gave him my final shot at parting. "Not if Gregory Pennington really committed suicide," I said.

I looked back when I had gone a little way, and saw Bardolph Just in the same attitude in which I had left him, looking after me. It was as though I had stricken him dumb and motionless with what I had said, and I was now more than ever convinced that Debora had been right in her conjecture. I had done one good thing, at least; he would scarcely dare to carry out his threat of exposing me; he might think that I had some inside knowledge of which he was ignorant.

Meanwhile I was seriously troubled about Debora. It was impossible for me to know what had become of her, or where she was; my only hope was that there might be an accidental meeting between us. The various places known to us both were known also to our enemies; if Debora had gone to the house of Uncle Zabdiel she would in all probability have been seen there by Bardolph Just, or by some one in his pay. Similarly, she would, of course, keep as far away as possible from his house and from the cottage where once I had left her with Harvey Scoffold. I roamed the streets, looking into every face that passed me, yet never seeing the face for which I longed.

An inquest on Uncle Zabdiel took place in the ordinary course, and a certain John New gave evidence of his slight acquaintance with the murdered gentleman, and of what he had seen on the night of the murder. The astounding fact that Andrew Ferkoe had slept through the whole business came out in court, and was the immediate cause of some extraordinary newspaper headlines, in which more than one reporter developed a hitherto undiscovered talent for wit at Andrew's expense. It may be wondered at, perhaps, that I should have persuaded the boy to stick to his original story, but, apart from anything else, I had strong reasons for preventing any suspicion falling upon the man Capper, and, above all, I did not for a moment believe that Andrew Ferkoe's real story would be believed. I had grown to believe it myself, but I thought that for many reasons it might be well if Ferkoe left it to be imagined that he had really slept, and had seen nothing.

So the matter remained a mystery, with only one curious element in it, for me at least, and that was a little point that came out in the evidence. It seemed that no finger prints had been discovered anywhere, although many things in the house had been handled. It was obvious that the murderer had worn gloves. That seemed to point to a more professional hand than that of poor Capper, and served a little to upset my theory, but on the whole I believed it still.

I was to be undeceived, nevertheless, and that within a little time. On the very day of the inquest, when Andrew Ferkoe and myself were walking away, we turned, with almost a natural impulse, towards the house which had been the scene of the tragedy—perhaps you may call that a morbid impulse. It was a place that would always have a curious attraction for me, by reason of the fact that the greater part of my life had been spent there, and that I had seen many curious things occur there, and that once poor Debora had taken refuge in it. It was all ended now with the death of the man who had worked so much harm to me; I was thinking about it all as I stood outside the place, when I felt my arm clutched convulsively, and looked round, to see that Andrew Ferkoe, with a dropping jaw, was staring at a man who was standing at a little distance from us, also watching the house—a man dressed as a labourer.

"What's the matter?" I whispered. I could not see the man's face from where I stood; his cap was drawn down at one side, so as partially to conceal it.

"That's the man!" whispered Andrew, in a shaking voice. "I know the clothes, and I saw his face for a moment when he turned this way."

"Pull yourself together, and don't look as if you'd seen a ghost," I whispered sharply. "We'll follow the man, and see where he goes. As he hasn't seen you, go on ahead a bit, and then turn so that you can see his face; then come back to me."

The youth hurried away; walked past the man with his long stride; then came back. I saw the man glance at him for a moment sharply as he came past; then Andrew came up to me, his face white with excitement.

"That's the man! I'm certain of it," he said.

We walked for a long way after the man, until at last he seemed to have some suspicion concerning us. Once or twice he stopped, and, of course, we stopped also; then at last he turned about, and came straight back towards where we waited.

He carried his head low, but I thought I knew the bend of his shoulders; I was convinced that in a moment he would look up, and I should see William Capper looking at me.

But I was wrong. For when he looked up, with a sullen glance of defiance, I saw that it was George Rabbit!