“I don’t think,” said Hunter, after the detective had received his instructions and gone, “that my brother would quite approve time spent in discovering Wing’s mother. He doesn’t believe that affair had anything to do with the murder.” “How can any sensible man?” Henry Matthewson demanded impatiently; “but we don’t know where the enquiry is going to land us nor what help we may want before we’re through. If the judge’s statement is true, this woman has a high position to lose and has great influence with her husband, who holds a strong place politically. It can’t be a matter of much trouble to unravel that part of the affair, and it may give us some one whom we can use advantageously in case of an emergency. It may bring to our aid a force that naturally would be glad to crush us. I’ll take the risk at any rate!” “All right,” said Hunter. “I’m agreeable, though I thought it proper to state my brother’s position.” Cranston entered upon his work at once and with zeal. His first visit was to Millbank and the Parlin house, where, as has been said, he searched from top to bottom. He plied Mrs. Parlin with questions that finally got from her the story of the package of papers, which she was not conscious of having seen until his questions stirred her memory to recall a picture of the room the night before the murder. Then came out clearly and distinctly the package of papers lying on the desk. It was, however, equally certain that they were gone, and of this he was able to satisfy himself without letting Mrs. Parlin understand that he attached any importance to the matter. The task was left him of ascertaining whether Trafford or McManus had them. The episode of the writing-pad convinced him that Trafford was the man, and that the pad was simply a cover to the removal of the papers that were resting on it. It was this that caused the annoyance to which Mrs. Parlin had referred. He went over the ground under the consciousness that eyes at least as capable of seeing as his own had preceded him, and that there was little chance that anything had escaped them and less chance that, if there had, he would be able to discover it. It irritated him that men who wanted real service should call him in at so late an hour, and then seem to take it for granted that they had done all that was necessary. “Oldbeg has been here a good many years,” he said carelessly to Mrs. Parlin, who insisted on attending him in his investigation. “He’s been with us about six years; one year before the judge died.” “You have always found him faithful?” “There has been nothing particular to complain of. He’s been steady and has worked hard and usually shown good temper.” “Usually,” Cranston repeated. “Then sometimes he hasn’t.” “He has his off-days, the same as the rest of us; days when things don’t go right and he gets surly. But those spells pass quickly and he’s always sorry for them, seemingly. There aren’t any of us smooth-feathered all the time.”