"I can only say," I replied, "that it must have been put there, for I never touched it."

"Who would put it there?"

"Hawkesbury, I suppose. When he and his friend dragged me up stairs my desk was left open."

"Can you describe this Masham?"

I could, and did.

"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 fict.i.tious 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 s...o...b..ack who--"

"A s...o...b..ack!" 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 s...o...b..ack."

"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."