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Neale had read all about Starmidge's activities in both cases, and of the hairbreadth escape he had gone through in connection with the second. And he had formed an idea of him which he now saw to be a totally erroneous one. For Starmidge did not look at all like a detective in Neale's opinion.
"Who is he? Will he do what I want?" "He's all right fellow who's just been promoted, and, of course, he's naturally keen," replied Starmidge's companion. "Name of Gandam. That was a pretty good and full description of the man you want followed, Starmidge," he went on, with a smile. "You don't leave much out!"
According to Starmidge's ideas, the bankers, if they really believed Horbury to have absconded, if certain securities of theirs really were missing, if they really thought that Horbury had carried them off, and the Countess of Ellersdeane's jewels with him, ought to have placed every information in their power at the disposal of the police: it was suspicious, and strange, and not at all proper, that they didn't.
One of the London morning journals had been making a great feature of the Scarnham affair from the moment Parkinson, on Starmidge's inspiration, had supplied the Press with its details, and it had that day printed an exhaustive résumé of the entire history of the case, brought up to the discovery of Frederick Hollis's body.
The superintendent and the detective listened silently to Neale's account of the meeting with Creasy, and Betty, watching Starmidge's face, saw that he was quietly taking in all the points of importance. "Is this tin-man to be depended upon?" he asked, when Neale had finished. "Is he known?" "I know him," answered Polke. "He's come to this neighbourhood for many years.
"Then come on," said Starmidge, dropping into a chair by the editorial desk. "I'll tell you all about it." Polke listened admiringly while the detective carefully narrated the facts of what was henceforth to be known as the Scarnham Mystery. Nothing appeared to have escaped Starmidge's observation and attention.
In obedience to Starmidge's wish, he looked steadily at the dead man and turned away. "You don't know him? never saw him during the five years you were at the bank?" whispered the detective. "Think! make certain, now." "Never saw him in my life!" declared Neale, stepping back. "I neither know him nor anything about him." "I wanted you to make sure," said Starmidge.
They followed Starmidge's story point by point, nodding every now and then as he drew their attention to particular passages, and the detective saw that they comprehended all he said. He made an end at last and Mr. Vanderkiste, a white-bearded, benevolent-looking gentleman, looked at Mr. Mullineau, a little, rosy-faced man, and shook his head.
The two detectives were immediately shown into a morning room in which sat a little, middle-aged lady in a widow's cap and weeds, who looked at her visitors half-timidly, half-welcomingly. She sat by a small table on which lay a heap of newspapers, and Starmidge's sharp eyes saw at once that she had been reading the published details of the Scarnham affair.
At half-past seven that evening Starmidge and Easleby stepped out of a London express at Ecclesborough, and walked out to the front of the station to get a taxi-cab for Scarnham. The newsboys were rushing across the station square with the latest editions of the evening papers, and Starmidge's quick ear caught the meaning of their unfamiliar North-country shoutings.
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