style="font-size:15px;"> "That is so."
"Catchpole Square leads to nowhere. It is, in a certain sense, out of the world. Can you tell me, of your own knowledge, whether Samuel Boyd keeps sums of money in his house?"
"Of my own positive knowledge I cannot tell you; but I am convinced that he does."
"What we've got to look to in these cases," said Inspector Robson, sagely, "is motive-motive. The mainspring in a watch keeps it going; motive is the mainspring in a man, and it keeps him going. Now, what motive had Samuel Boyd for murdering Abel Death-always supposing, Dick, that there was a murder? He had nothing to gain by it, and it was not he who went to Abel Death's house, but Abel Death who went to his. And went with anger and despair in his heart. Put it the other way-yes, by the Lord!" he cried, as if a light had suddenly broken upon him. "Put it the other way. There was a motive for Abel Death murdering Samuel Boyd. He was poor, and in desperate need of money; his master was rich, and had refused to give it to him. The motive was robbery, by fair means or foul. If this is what occurred Abel Death's disappearance is explained. He's in hiding somewhere, or has managed to get on board a ship bound for foreign parts." He broke off with a laugh. "What nonsense am I talking? My wits are going wool-gathering. You've fairly muddled me, Dick, by the serious way you've spoken of this affair, in which, after all, I don't see anything mysterious. I've known scores of cases where people have disappeared, and have come back after a few days or weeks, or months even, in the most natural manner possible. Be careful of what you do, my lad, or you're likely to get yourself in a tangle."
"I'll be careful, uncle. You will see me at the magistrate's court in the morning. Good night."
"Can't I persuade you to come home with me?" said Inspector Robson, in his kindest tone.
"No; my mind's quite made up on that point."
He walked towards the door, Inspector Robson looking ruefully and affectionately after him, when he turned and said,
"By the way, uncle, have you seen Mr. Reginald lately?"
"Not since last Sunday week, when he dropped in, as usual. Him and Florence went out for a walk together."
"As usual," said Dick, lightly.
"As usual," said Inspector Robson, gravely. "He's a gentlemanly young fellow."
"Yes."
"Been to France and Germany, and to good schools for education."
"Did he tell you that himself?"
"Florence told us."
"Dear little Florence!" Such wistful tenderness and regret in his voice!
"Aunt Rob thinks all the world of him," said Inspector Robson, his voice also charged with tenderness and regret.
"I know she does."
Inspector Robson stepped to Dick's side, and laid his hand caressingly on the young man's shoulder. "Dick! Dick!"
"No nonsense of that sort, uncle," said Dick, gently shaking himself free. "I've been going to ask you once or twice whether you put any other name to Reginald."
"Now you mention it, Dick, I never have."
"Has Aunt Rob, or Florence?"
"Not that I'm aware of. We've always called him Mr. Reginald. It's not a bad name, Dick."
"Not at all a bad name, but most people have two. Good night, uncle."
"Good night, Dick, if you must go." Other words were struggling to his lips, but before he could utter them Dick was off.
"It never struck me before," mused Inspector Robson, sadly. "Can that be the reason-" He did not say the reason of what, and his cogitation ended with, "Poor Dick! I hope not-I hope not!"
CHAPTER XI
DICK REMINGTON REVIEWS THE PAST
Dick Remington also mused as he made his way through the white mist. His thoughts, put into words, ran in this wise:
"Come, old man, let us review the past, and see how we stand. If I'm not mistaken Aunt Rob has hit the nail straight on the head, and Uncle Rob made a clumsy blow at it. But my secret is mine, and I will guard it jealously.
"Dear little Florence! My chum, my comrade, almost from the day of her birth. Boys aren't generally fond of babies, but I was of her from the first; and when as a child she promised to be my wife when she grew up I did not think of it as a thistledown promise that time would lightly blow away. At that age we do not think; our hearts, our souls, are like a prism which leaps into light and colour when light and colour shine upon it. Had I been wiser I might have believed that a more enduring flower than thistledown would grow up in its place, a flower that would bloom and shed its sweetness and fragrance upon me through all the years to come. Thank God I was not wiser, for we were very happy then. It was only when graver responsibilities forced themselves upon me that I knew, as I know now, that she and she alone could bring happiness into my life. Fate willed it otherwise. It can never be.
"Would it have been otherwise had I myself been different from what I am, been firmer of purpose, had won respect and esteem for sterling qualities that are not in my nature? Who can tell? We are the sport of circumstance, and drift, and drift, and drift-as I have drifted. You are quite right, Aunt Rob. Your nephew, Dick Remington, has no stability-but he can keep his secret.
"Does Florence suspect it? Sometimes I have thought she has a fear that the love I bear for her is not the love a brother bears for his sister; sometimes I have thought there was a dumb pity in her eyes as she looked at me. And when, with this impression upon me, I have launched into light speech and manner, as though I were incapable of deeper feeling, I have noticed the relief it gave her to learn that she was mistaken. Of one thing she may be sure. That there is no sacrifice I would hesitate to make to secure her happiness-that she may rely upon me and trust me with implicit confidence-that I am her faithful watchdog, ready to die in her service without hope of reward. Yes, dear Florence-so dear that my heart aches when I think of her-be sure of that.
"She grew into beauty incomparable, and to observe this was a daily delight to me. But I love her chiefly for her gentleness, her purity, her dear womanly ways which find their best expression in her kindness and sweetness to all around her. We lived our quiet life, disturbed only by my harum-scarum habits, and then Mr. Reginald stepped into the picture-Mr. Reginald Boyd, son of Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square. That was before I took service with the old hunks, and it was because of the son that I sought and obtained a situation in the father's office. For I said to myself, 'Here is this young gentleman introducing himself simply as Mr. Reginald, when I, from my previous knowledge of him (of which he was not aware) know him to be the son of that man. What reason has he for the suppression?' There was no acquaintance between us. Happening to be in conversation one day with a constable in the neighbourhood of Catchpole Square a young gentleman passed with a flower in his coat. There was something in him that struck me as bearing a resemblance to myself, the advantage being on his side. A free and easy manner, a certain carelessness of gesture, an apparent disregard of conventionality, a bright smile (which I have not), a grace (which I have not). He gave the constable a friendly word and walked on without looking at me. 'Who is that gentleman?' I inquired. 'Mr. Reginald,' the constable answered, 'son of Samuel Boyd, though you would hardly believe it if you knew the pair of them.' I thought no more of the matter, and saw no more of Mr. Reginald, till he made his appearance one evening in Aunt Rob's house. He did not recognise me, but I knew him immediately.
"We
