"I think that is how it must have been failing the other thought--that Mr. Bede Greatorex took the cheque abroad and dropped it," said the manager with quiet decision. "Of course. And unless I'm mistaken, Mr. Bede thinks the same. I should like to have three minutes' chat with you some evening, Mr. Brown, all by our two selves. You are naturally anxious for discovery, so am I: there's no knowing but what something or other may come out between us." Perhaps to any eye save the watchful one of a police-officer, the slight hesitation before replying might have passed unnoticed. Mr. Brown had no particular wish to be questioned; it was no affair of his, and he thought the detective and Mr. Bede Greatorex quite enough to manage the matter without him. But when his answer came, it was spoken readily. "Whenever you please. I am generally at home by eight o'clock." He gave his new address--Mrs. Jones's. At which the crafty detective expressed surprise, inwardly knowing the very day and hour when Mr. Brown had moved in. "There! Do you live there? The Joneses and I used to be old acquaintances; knew 'em well when they were at Helstonleigh. Knew Dicky must be making a mess of it long before the smash came. You'll see me then, Mr. Brown, one of these first evenings." "Don't be in a hurry, Butterby," spoke Roland, who had been amusing himself by trying how far he could tilt his stool backwards without capsizing, while he listened. "It's not old Galloway, it's Arthur Channing." "Is there anything so remarkable in Arthur Channing's coming to London? questioned Butterby. "To me there is. I tell you it is a red-letter day in my life, and I have not had many such since I sailed from Port Natal. If I were not in this confounded old office, with one master in the next room and another there"--flinging a ball of paper at the manager--"I should sing and dance and leap my joy off. Three copies have I begun to take of a musty old will, and spoilt 'em all. Brown says I'm out of my senses; ask him." "You never were famous for _not_ spoiling copies--or for particular industry, either, you know, Mr. Yorke." The rejoinder rather nettled Roland. "I'd rather be famous for nothing than for what _you_ are famed for in Helstonleigh, Butterby--taking up the wrong man. It was not your fault that Arthur Channing didn't get transported." "Nor yours," quietly retorted Mr. Butterby. "There! Go on. Bring it all out. If you've come to do it, do it, Butterby. I told you to, the other night. And when Arthur Channing is in London, you put up a prayer every morning not to meet him at Charing Cross. The sight of him couldn't be pleasant to your mind, and passers-by might see your brow redden: which for a bold, fear-nothing police-detect----" "Is Mr. Bede Greatorex in?"