“‘Tom, old man, we’ve been too good friends in the past to quarrel now,’ he says. ‘Let us forget and forgive, and shake hands on it. I was so riled when you came up to me in that state, before all the crowd too, that I lost my head. I’m sorry if I spoke too harshly, but you must allow it was a bit rough on me. Let us both bury the hatchet.’ “I don’t think I’m a very vindictive man, except when somebody plays the real dirty on me,” urged Newcombe in his own defence. “And I was forced to admit to myself it was a trifle rough on him, as he said. Well, after a bit, we made it up and agreed to be friends again. He seemed awfully relieved, and proposed I should go out to dinner with him, not to one of the swagger places, which he knew I shouldn’t care for, but to a quiet little restaurant in Soho. “We went there, and I had a splendid dinner, and as much drink as I cared to take. He drank plenty too, but his head was always harder than mine, and he would be sitting up in his chair when I was under the table. When I got home, I felt a bit muddled, and when I woke in the morning I knew I had had a warm night. But it wasn’t till the middle of the day that I began to feel really queer. I heard the doctor whispering to the landlady, and I caught the word ‘poisoned.’ When I was able to think things over, I began to tumble to what had happened. I understood why he had been so devilish civil. I had given him away in a sense twice. He was afraid of me, and thought there would be no peace for him till I was out of the way. The dirty dog! The dirty dog! I must try and not think of it more than I can help. It makes me see red when I do.” There was a long silence after this rather furious outburst. Grewgus broke it with the question: “And have you any ideas as to what he has been doing all these years in England?” Newcombe indulged in a rather cunning smile. “That’s not quite in the contract, is it, mister? I ought to ask a bit more for that, but still you have played fair and square with me, I don’t mind answering you. Mark you, I have never been able to get a word out of Stormont; he swears through thick and thin he’s on the square. But I’ve done a little spying on my own account, and I’ve come to the conclusion he’s after the same old game, but much bigger game. There’s no legitimate business done in that tinpot office in the city. There’s nobody there but himself and a man named Whitehouse, a solemn-looking sort of cove who puts in an appearance about three or four times a week. Have you come across Whitehouse?” The detective nodded. “Yes, I know a little about him, not very much. A very old friend of Stormont’s, according to Stormont’s account.” He did not tell him that the man carried on a solicitor’s business also, under the name of Glenthorne. It was a fixed policy with him to obtain confidences, not to make them.