In one of the many rooms of that barrack-like building, which harbours so many guilty secrets, and is so learned in many shady ways of life, and is known to all and sundry as Scotland Yard, there worked—with long intervals for mysterious disappearances into various parts of the country—a small man, with a hard, expressionless face, ornamented with a tuft of greyish hair on the chin.

This man had once had the extraordinary good fortune to pick up a vital piece of evidence—literally, to trip over it; for it was right in his way, and he could not well avoid it. But it brought him into prominent notice; it got him talked about; and, as he was wise enough to appear absolutely impassive, when complimented by his superior officers, and even by a great and bewigged Judge on the Bench, he gained greater credit still; was spoken of with bated breath, by criminals acquainted, by experience, with some of the intricacies of the Yard; and sagely nodded over by those in authority. Then, one lucky chance following another, he rose up, by dint of that hard expressionless face, to something greater still; and, steering clear of blunders, and getting other men with brains to secure information for him, blossomed at last into Inspector Tokely, of the Criminal Investigation Department.

Now, this same Inspector Tokely was a native of the small and unimportant village of Bamberton; had come up from it, indeed, as a raw youth, to enter the police force in London. So that, when news came of the murder of poor Patience Miller, and a request that the matter might be investigated, Inspector Tokely, instead of sending a subordinate, determined to combine business with pleasure, and to see his native place. Thus it came about that the great little man descended on the village, early on the afternoon preceding Philip’s night adventure in the garden, and stirred the already startled community of yokels to its depths.

Reversing the copybook maxim, Inspector Tokely determined to take pleasure before business, and to flutter with envy the bosoms of his former acquaintances. Therefore he put up, with some ostentation, at the Chater Arms; and took his expressionless face, with its dependent tuft, into the bar of that hostelry, when some half-dozen village celebrities were assembled in it. Old Betty Siggs, being busy at the moment, and not having set eyes upon him since his boyhood, failed to notice his entry, or to recognise him other than as a casual visitor. The Inspector, looking down from his height of superior importance and criminal experience on the mere hinds on whom Mrs. Siggs was attending, coughed vigorously to attract her attention, and dropped his portmanteau with a bang upon the floor. Mrs. Siggs, smiling and pleasant, came across, and civilly enquired what she could do for him.

“I shall sleep here for a night—possibly two or three,” replied Tokely, in a loud voice, and with a side glance to note the effect of what he said upon the mere hinds before-mentioned. “I am here upon—upon business.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Siggs, briskly. “It ain’t many commercial gents we gets down to Bamberton, sir—’cept by accident. Would you wish to ’ave a meal prepared, sir? P’raps you’d be so good as step this way, sir.”

“I should like something to eat, certainly,” replied the Inspector. “And I am not here on commercial business; quite the contrary. My business is connected with the—the Law.”

“Lor’!” exclaimed Mrs. Siggs, as she led the way into the little parlour; this exclamation not being intended as an echo of the Inspector’s last word, by any means. “I ’ope we shall be able to make you comfortable, sir, w’atever your business may be. This way, sir. P’raps you might like to take a little summink afore your meal, sir?”

Inspector Tokely gave the order for the “little summink,” as well as for the meal, and then turned to Mrs. Siggs as she was leaving the room. “One moment, my good woman,” he said.

Mrs. Siggs hesitated, with her hand on the doorknob, and looked at him curiously—not at all prepossessed in his favour. The Inspector, leaning against the table, and putting his head a little on one side, conveyed into his hard features something as nearly approaching a smile as he was capable of.

“You don’t know me, I suppose?” he said.

Mrs. Siggs shook her head slowly, after looking him up and down for a few moments in some perplexity.

“I see you don’t,” said Tokely, grimly. “Do you remember a lad—a lad of superior intelligence, I might say—who used to be a sort of under-keeper up at the Hall—by name Tokely?” The Inspector smiled a little more.

Mrs. Siggs, after a moment or two of frowning contemplation of the floor, looked up at him with a brightening face. “To be sure I do,” she said. “When I was a gel about ’ere—remember ’im well, I do. Let me see now”—Betty Siggs, immersed in recollections of the past, lost sight of her visitor for a moment completely—“chuckle-headed chap ’e was—with a taste for spyin’ out things wot didn’t concern ’im——”

“He was nothing of the sort,” broke in Tokely, very red in the face. “He was a lad considerably above the average of rustic intelligence—and he made his way in the world, Ma’am, I should like you to know—got his name in the papers, more than once——”

“Ah—lots o’ folks manages to do that, without meanin’ it,” said Betty Siggs, with a little laugh. “I’ve knowed a man to do it by breakin’ a winder.”

“Never mind about that,” said the Inspector, testily. “The young man I’m talking about got on in the world, by sheer merit. I am that young man, Ma’am”—the Inspector tapped himself dramatically on the breast—“now Inspector Tokely, of Scotland Yard!”

Betty Siggs went a little white about the region of her plump cheeks; clasped her hands; and faltered out—“Of—of Scotland Yard.”

“Criminal Investigation Department, Ma’am,” went on the Inspector, tapping himself on the breast again. “Have the goodness, Ma’am, to shut that door.”

Mrs. Siggs put a hand out, to do as she was bidden, never taking her eyes for a moment from the face before her. Indeed, after shutting the door, she stood with her hand upon the knob, as though ready to pull it open in an instant, and scream for assistance, if necessary.

“Now, Ma’am,” began Tokely, wagging his head and a forefinger at her, by way of caution—“I want to ask you a question or two; and I’ll trouble you to be very careful what you say, or what you don’t say. I have been commissioned to enquire into a case, touching a certain female of the name”—he pulled a pocketbook from his coat, and dived into it for a moment—“of the name of Patience Miller. Now, this same Patience Miller——”

Betty Siggs suddenly threw up her hands, and clapped them over her ears. Performing a species of little dance, entirely on her own account, with her two feet, she shut her eyes, and called out—“Stop—stop—it ain’t no use! If you puts me on the rack, and draws me out till I’m as thin as the four-ale over the way (and there can’t be anythink much thinner than that)—you won’t get nothink out of me. I know no more than anybody else—not so much, in fact—and what I does know I ain’t agoin’ to tell.”

“So you defy the Law—do you?” roared Tokely—for, Betty Siggs still keeping her hands tightly pressed upon her ears, there was no other way to make himself heard. But Betty Siggs did not wait to hear an account of whatever terrors might be in store for her; watching her opportunity, she wrenched open the door, and darted through into the bar, where—judging by a confused murmur, which presently sprang up, of heavy rustic tongues, leavened pretty strongly by her own shrill voice—she immediately began to stir up war against Inspector Tokely.

Nor did the Inspector see her again for some time. His meal was served to him by a very pretty black-eyed girl, who—evidently secretly instructed by Mrs. Siggs, returned evasive answers to his questions, and remained in the room as little as possible. The Inspector, having refreshed himself, at his country’s expense, to the very best of his ability—sallied forth again into the bar, with a general view, as he would have expressed it, of “keeping an eye on things.”

There was no one in the bar; but, glancing through a side door, Tokely had a view of a very snug inner room, where three persons were seated, in the glow of a small fire, very comfortably. One of these persons was Mrs. Siggs herself; the second, the black-eyed damsel who had waited upon him; and the third, a man of some sixty years of age, with a round, jolly, innocent face, half hidden by an enormous grey beard and moustache, and faintly illuminated by a pair of sleepy good-tempered blue eyes.

This man was reading a newspaper, following the words and sentences in a sort of low comfortable growl, like the purring of a huge cat by the fire; Mrs. Siggs was stitching away busily, in a sharp energetic fashion, which denoted that her temper had been ruffled; the girl was sitting, with her eyes pensively fixed on the fire, and her hands clasped in her lap.

The room appeared so very comfortable, and the Inspector had so clearly made up his mind to devote the remainder of that day to pleasure, leaving the more serious business of his visit until the morrow, that he advanced his head a little into the room, and enquired whether he might come in.

“You look so very cosy here, you know,” he said, “and I’m quite sure you couldn’t be hard on a lonely man, who has nobody to talk to,” he added, in an appealing tone.

“Depends a good bit on what you want to talk about,” said Mrs. Siggs quickly, without glancing up from her work. “We don’t want no Law ’ere, my friend.”

The man who was reading the paper glanced up mildly, and pushed his chair back a little from the fire. “Them as comes in the way of trade, my angel,” he said as slowly and heavily as though he were spelling the words out of the newspaper in his hand—“’as a right to come where they will, if so be——”

“Oh—I dessay,” interrupted Mrs. Siggs, wrathfully. “W’y don’t you ’ave the ’ole Noah’s Ark in to tea, w’ile you’re about it, an’ ’am to cut the bread and butter for ’em.”

Inspector Tokely, feeling that he had received as much encouragement as he was likely to get, passed into the room, and sat down. After a few moments, he ventured to suggest a little refreshment for himself and his host—even delicately hinting that Mrs. Siggs might be tempted to partake of a glass at his expense. Mrs. Siggs, relenting a little, passed into the bar to get what was required; and the visitor, feeling the necessity for ingratiating himself as much as possible with them all, turned to the girl.

“Your mother, I suppose, Miss?” he asked, edging a little nearer to her.

The girl glanced at him for moment—nodded—and looked again at the fire.

“And a fine looking mother, too,” went on Tokely, feeling that it was more uphill work than he had anticipated. “You, sir”—he turned to the man with the newspaper—“ought to be proud of such a wife and daughter.” This at a venture, for he knew nothing of the relationship they bore to each other.

“W’en I fust drawed near to Betty—t’ other side the earth—there was a matter of nine men—one on ’em nigh on to eighty—a makin’ eyes at ’er, an’ even goin’ so far as to sleep on ’er doorstep. I polished off as many as I could get at, and spoke words of kind advice (as was throwed away on ’im) to the old ’un—an’ drove ’er nigh a ’underd mile to see a parson. An’ she were then as fine a woman—or finer—than any in them parts.” He laid down his newspaper—picked it up again—and finished his remarks. “W’ich so she are now.”

It was at this moment that Betty Siggs came in from the bar, with a little tray, on which stood some glasses and a jug of water; but she no sooner entered the room, than she stopped dead—uttered an exclamation—and let fall the tray and its contents.

Inspector Tokely had had his eyes fixed upon Mr. Siggs, so that he almost faced her as she came in; yet he could have sworn that, in the half glance he had of her, she had been looking straight over his head. Turning swiftly—so soon at least as he had got out of the way of the flowing liquids—he saw that, at the spot to which her eyes had been directed, was a window, partly shrouded by a curtain. Looking at Mrs. Siggs again, however, he came reluctantly to the conclusion that he must have been mistaken; for that excellent woman, with much laughter at her own carelessness, was picking up the glasses, and rearranging them on the tray.

“There’s a butter-fingers for you!” she exclaimed. “Never knowed myself to do that before. It’s tryin’ to do too much at once; that’s wot it is. Howsever, it ain’t no use cryin’ over spilt milk—or spilt spirits; an’ I’m a keepin’ everybody waitin’ for their liquor.”

In a moment, she bustled out again, appearing to be in a much better temper than before—indeed, quite desirous of making herself pleasant to every one, and propitiating the guest as much as possible. On coming back, she was careful to a nicety about mixing his drink, and even suggested he should taste it, to be sure that it was to his liking, before she proceeded to mix the others. Yet there was about all her movements a certain fluttering anxiety which had not been there before.

“’Pon my word, Clara,” she exclaimed suddenly—“I never see sich a girl in all my days! Fancy lightin’ up the gas, an’ never drawin’ the curtain even; wot could you ’ave bin a thinkin’ about?”

She bustled across to the window, and pulled the curtain sharply across it; yet seemed to look out of it for a moment, too, the Inspector thought, before doing so. She came back to her seat—a seat which faced that window—and gaily pledged the two men with her glass. But immediately afterwards, she got up, and moved towards the door.

“Toby, old boy—I wish you’d come and see to this ’ere tap for a minute,” she called out; and Toby Siggs got up heavily, and followed her.

Immediately Inspector Tokely rose also, and strolled—quite casually, as it seemed—across the room. Coming to the window, he said—apparently for the benefit of Clara—“I wonder what sort of a night it is”—and jerked back the curtain again.

Outside the window, however, was nothing but black darkness; after a moment, the Inspector turned away, half making up his mind that he must have been mistaken, and resumed his seat. At the same moment, Mr. and Mrs. Siggs came in, evidently on the best possible terms with each other, from the bar.

Now, it was a curious thing that Mrs. Siggs, after one glance at the bared window, made no further remark about it; nor did Mr. Siggs. Further than that, Toby Siggs suddenly developed an extraordinary liking for the Inspector, and a mad desire to be convivial with him, quite out of keeping with his general character. For he slapped that respected man upon the back; forced his glass upon him; ran out into the bar to fill it himself, the moment it was empty, insisting that it should be at his expense; and altogether woke up wonderfully. More than that, the Inspector, after sipping his renewed glass, pronounced it to be mighty good stuff—but rather stronger, he thought, than the last; however, he drank it, and it seemed to loosen his tongue in an extraordinary fashion.

He mentioned—as between friends—that he had a warrant in his pocket—to be used if necessary—against a certain person whom he would not name; proclaimed himself a cautious man; but hinted at murder, and darkly suggested that a certain person would find him a remarkably tough fellow to get over.

The Inspector had had his glass replenished for the fourth time, and was so well pleased with himself, that he had begun to wag his head, and wink upon Mrs. Siggs, when another strange thing happened. Clara, who had been sitting all this time, looking, for the most part, at the fire, and occasionally at the Inspector, suddenly seemed to cry out; checked the cry with a fit of hysterical laughter, which may have been induced by some remark of Tokely’s; and ran—still laughing in that strange fashion—from the room.

The Inspector, after recovering from the little shock occasioned by Clara’s behaviour, appeared to be falling asleep. Betty Siggs, with a watchful eye upon him, drew nearer to her husband.

“Toby,” she whispered breathlessly, stretching out a hand to draw him towards her, and still keeping an eye upon Tokely—“’e’s come back again. Clara must ’ave seed ’im.”

“Can’t think w’y ’e should be a ’angin’ about ’ere—a shovin’ ’is ’ead into danger like this,” whispered Toby in reply. “’E’s ’ad a long start—an’ might ’ave bin miles away afore this. W’ere’s Clara gone?”

Betty Siggs made a hasty movement with her hand to silence him; for Tokely was waking up again. At the same moment, a noise was heard in the rear of the house, and the next instant a small door in the further corner of the room was thrust open, and Harry Routley burst in. He was wild looking, and in a fearful state of excitement; without pause, he bounded into the middle of the room, and faced the astonished Tokely, who had risen hurriedly to his feet. Betty Siggs must have seen that in his face which appalled her, for she cried out suddenly, and covered her eyes with her hands.

“Is there a man here,” cried Harry, looking round upon them all, “who wants to find the murderer of Patience Miller?”

Before any one could speak, and while the energy of the lad still held them dumb, a figure darted in at the open doorway, and caught him in its arms, and fell at his feet. It was Clara Siggs.

“Harry,” she cried, hiding her face against his leg, and still clutching him desperately—“for the love of God, be silent! For the love of all the good angels—don’t betray him!”

A sort of fierce struggle seemed to go on, for a moment, in the lad’s breast; finally, looking down at her, he stooped, and caught her half roughly by the arm, and released himself—stepping back a little, so that she trailed over the floor after him.

“Harry! Harry!” was all she said, with a sort of sob in her voice.

“Is there a man here who wants the murderer of Patience Miller?” he cried again. “I’ve seen him, not a moment since; I know which way he’s gone. I found him talking with this—this girl. I’ll lead any man to him; I’ll track him down anywhere. Who wants him?”

“I’m your man,” cried Tokely, advancing to him, sobered by the scene he had witnessed. “Who’s the man?”

“Harry! Harry!” wailed the girl again, without rising, or looking up.

The lad seemed to choke down something in his throat, before he spoke. “Dandy Chater,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

“That’s my man,” cried Tokely, bringing his fist down heavily on the table. “And for a thousand pounds I’ll have Dandy Chater to-night, before I sleep! Come on!”

Catching Harry by the arm, and snatching up his own hat, he hurried with him out of the still open door, and vanished in the darkness.