"No; neither you nor the world. Let that pass. On my word of honour, I say to you, Mr. Butterby, that I feel sure Pitman had no hand in the matter for that reason, and for other involved reasons, I wish this information you have given me to remain buried; a secret between you and me. I will take my own time and opportunity for discharging Mr. Brown. Will you promise this? Should you have incurred costs in anyway, I will give you my cheque for the amount." "There has not been much cost as yet," returned the detective, honestly. "We'll let that be for now. What you ask me is difficult, sir. I might get into trouble for it later at headquarters." "Should that turn out to be the case, you can, in self-defence, bring forward my injunctions. Say I stopped proceedings." "Very well," returned Butterby, after a pause of consideration. "Then for the present, sir, we'll say it shall stand so. Of course, if the thing is brought to light through other folks, I must be held absolved from my promise." "Thank you; thank you truly, Mr. Butterby." Bede Greatorex, the naturally haughty-natured man, condescended to shake hands with the detective. Mr. Butterby attended him downstairs, and opened the door for him. It was after he had gained Fleet Street, that Bede came in contact with the shoulders of Roland Yorke, never noticing him, bearing on in his all-powerful abstraction, his face worn, anxious, white, scared, like that of a man, as Roland took occasion to remark, who has met a ghost. Back up the stairs turned Mr. Butterby, and sat down in front of the fire, leaving the gas-burners to light up his back. There, with a hand on either knee, he recalled all the circumstances of John Ollivera's death with mental accuracy, and went over them one by one. That done, he revolved surrounding interests in his silent way, especially the words that had just fallen from Bede Greatorex one single sentence, during the whole reverie, escaping his lips. "Was Louisa Joliffe out that evening, I wonder?" And the clock of St. Clement Danes had moved on an hour and a quarter before he ever lifted his hands or rose from his seat. CHAPTER XXVIII. DISAPPEARED. "I am waiting for that, Mr. Yorke." But for the presence of Bede Greatorex, who sat at his desk in the front office, Roland might have retorted on Mr. Brown that he _might_ wait, for he felt in just as bad a humour as it was well possible for Roland, or anybody else, to feel. Ceasing his covert grumbling to Hurst, who had the convenient gift of listening and writing away by steam at one and the same time, Roland's pen resumed its task.