We went out into the hall. There, twisting his cap in his hands, stood a big, brown-bearded man. CHAPTER XIV SOLOMON FISH It needed but one glance at Scarterfield's visitor to assure me that he was a person who had used the sea. There was the suggestion of salt water and strong winds all over him, from his grizzled hair and beard to his big, brawny hands and square set build; he looked the sort of man who all his life had been looking out across wide stretches of ocean and battling with the forces of Nature in her roughest moods. Just then there was questioning in his keen blue eyes--he was obviously wondering, with all the native suspicion of a simple soul, what Scarterfield might be after. "You're asking for me?" said the detective. The man glanced from one to the other of us; then jerked a big thumb in the direction of some region beyond the open door behind his burly figure. "Mrs. Ormthwaite," he said, bending a little towards Scarterfield. "She said as how there was a gentleman stopping in this here house as was making inquiries, d'ye see, about Netherfield Baxter, as used to live hereabouts. So I come along." Scarterfield contrived to jog my elbow. Without a word, he turned towards the door of the smoking room, motioning his visitor to follow. We all went into the corner wherein, on the previous afternoon, Scarterfield had told me of his investigations and discoveries at Blyth. Evidently I was now to hear more. But Scarterfield asked for no further information until he had provided our companion with refreshment in the shape of a glass of rum and a cigar, and his first question was of a personal sort. "What's your name, then?" he inquired. "Fish," replied the visitor, promptly. "Solomon. As everybody is aware." "Blyth man, no doubt," suggested Scarterfield. "Born and bred, master," said Fish. "And lived here always--'cepting when I been away, which, to be sure, has been considerable. But whether north or south, east or west, always make for the old spot when on dry land. That is to say--when in this here country." "Then you'd know Netherfield Baxter?" asked Scarterfield. Fish waved his cigar. "As a baby--as a boy--as a young man," he declared. "Cut many a toy boat for him at one stage, taught him to fish at another, went sailing with him in a bit of a yawl that he had when he was growed up. Know him? Did I know my own mother!" "Just so," said Scarterfield, understandingly. "To be sure! You know Baxter quite well, of course." He paused a moment, and then leant across the table round which the three of us were sitting. "And when did you see him last?" he asked. Fish, to my surprise, laughed. It was a queer laugh. There was incredulity, uncertainty, a sense of vagueness in it; it suggested that he was puzzled.