Cotherstone made no answer. He walked past Mallalieu and looked into the outer office. The clerk had gone, and the place was only half-lighted. But Cotherstone closed the door with great care, and when he went back to Mallalieu he sank his voice to a whisper. "Bad news!" he said. "Bad--bad news!" "What about?" asked Mallalieu. "Private? Business?" Cotherstone put his lips almost close to Mallalieu's ear. "That man Kitely--my new tenant," he whispered. "He's met us--you and me--before!" Mallalieu's rosy cheeks paled, and he turned sharply on his companion. "Met--us!" he exclaimed. "Him! Where?--when?" Cotherstone got his lips still closer. "Wilchester!" he answered. "Thirty years ago. He--knows!" Mallalieu dropped into the nearest chair: dropped as if he had been shot. His face, full of colour from the keen air outside, became as pale as his partner's; his jaw fell, his mouth opened; a strained look came into his small eyes. "Gad!" he muttered hoarsely. "You--you don't say so!" "It's a fact," answered Cotherstone. "He knows everything. He's an ex-detective. He was there--that day." "Tracked us down?" asked Mallalieu. "That it?" "No," said Cotherstone. "Sheer chance--pure accident. Recognized us--after he came here. Aye--after all these years! Thirty years!" Mallalieu's eyes, roving about the room, fell on the decanter. He pulled himself out of his chair, found a clean glass, and took a stiff drink. And his partner, watching him, saw that his hands, too, were shaking. "That's a facer!" said Mallalieu. His voice had grown stronger, and the colour came back to his cheeks. "A real facer! As you say--after thirty years! It's hard--it's blessed hard! And--what does he want? What's he going to do?" "Wants to blackmail us, of course," replied Cotherstone, with a mirthless laugh. "What else should he do? What could he do? Why, he could tell all Highmarket who we are, and----" "Aye, aye!--but the thing is here," interrupted Mallalieu. "Supposing we do square him?--is there any reliance to be placed on him then? It 'ud only be the old game--he'd only want more." "He said an annuity," remarked Cotherstone, thoughtfully. "And he added significantly, that he was getting an old man." "How old?" demanded Mallalieu. "Between sixty and seventy," said Cotherstone. "I'm under the impression that he could be squared, could be satisfied. He'll have to be! We can't let it get out--I can't, any way. There's my daughter to think of." "D'ye think I'd let it get out?" asked Mallalieu. "No!--all I'm thinking of is if we really can silence him. I've heard of cases where a man's paid blackmail for years and years, and been no better for it in the end." "Well--he's coming here tomorrow afternoon some time," said Cotherstone. "We'd better see him--together. After all, a hundred a year--a couple of hundred a year--'ud be better than--exposure." Mallalieu drank off his whisky and pushed the glass aside.