‘I had better introduce myself more fully, Mr Clayton,’ said Tanner. ‘I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard, and I am trying to trace a family named Dale, who, I understand, formerly lived here.’ Mr Clayton led the way to a delightfully situated arbour, and waved his guests to easy chairs, but the vicar excused himself on the ground that his part in the affair was complete. On his departure Tanner produced the photograph and explained his business to his host. ‘The Dales? Yes, I knew them well. They lived at the other end of the village for many years, until indeed John Dale, the father, died. Then they moved into Gateshead. They weren’t left too well off, I’m afraid. But I don’t know that any of them are alive now.’ ‘What did the family consist of?’ ‘The mother and two sons. She died some years after her husband—you have the date on your inscription.’ ‘And can you tell me anything about the sons?’ ‘Yes, I remember them well. They were very like each other—good looking, with taking manners, well dressed and all that, but a couple of rotters at heart. They were always out for what they could get, and there was drink and gambling and worse. When they cleared out they weren’t much loss.’ ‘Place too hot to hold them?’ ‘In Edward’s case, I think so. Edward was the younger. He was in debt heavily, I know, and he slipped off quietly one night to the States, and was never heard of again.’ ‘And the other?’ ‘The elder brother, Tom, was a bad lot too. He had a tragic end. He was drowned. But I don’t think anyone mourned for him. He had well-nigh broken his young wife’s heart in the three years they were married.’ Tanner was like a bloodhound on a hot scent. This was very interesting. He remembered that Sir William Ponson had married a Mrs Dale from this part of the country, whose husband had been drowned on his way to Canada. It looked like as if the Tom Dale of whom Mr Clayton had been speaking might have been this man. ‘What was the business of the Dale brothers?’ he asked. ‘They were both in the same firm—the Eagle Ironworks. You know it maybe—in Gateshead? It was Peter Howard’s then. I remember young Ponson joining it—poor fellow, he’s gone now—it was he that made it. When he started as office boy there was just one small shed and about a dozen men, and now it’s a company employing over a thousand hands. A wonderful change.’ ‘Wonderful indeed, Mr Clayton.’ ‘Ay. A man of my years can look back over great changes. That’s more than a young fellow like you can do, eh, Mr Tanner?’ ‘It’s true, sir. And you say Tom was drowned?’ ‘Yes. He got a sudden call. He was in the _Numidian_. You wouldn’t remember about her?’ ‘I don’t think so.’