The truth was—if you want to analyse the sources—I was vastly relieved to be able to get in touch with my own people. Within an hour, perhaps sooner, they would have the news, and I knew well that they would lose no time in setting off to me. And finding myself just then in the neighbourhood of the North British Railway Station, I went in and managed to make out that if Mr. Lindsey was at the office when my wire arrived, and acted promptly in accordance with it, he and they could reach Dundee by a late train that evening. That knowledge, of course, made me in a still more light-hearted mood. But there was another source of my satisfaction and complaisance: things were in a grand way now for my revenge on Sir Gilbert Carstairs, and what had been a mystery was one no longer.
I went back to the dock where I had left the tramp-steamer, and told its good-natured skipper what I had done, for he was as much interested in the affair as if he had been my own brother. And that accomplished, I left him again and went sight-seeing, having been wonderfully freshened up and restored by my good sleep of the morning. I wandered up and down and about Dundee till I was leg-weary, and it was nearly six o'clock of the afternoon. And at that time, being in Bank Street, and looking about me for some place where I could get a cup of tea and a bite of food, I chanced by sheer accident to see a name on a brass plate, fixed amongst more of the same sort, on the outer door of a suite of offices. That name was Gavin Smeaton. I recalled it at once—and, moved by a sudden impulse, I went climbing up a lot of steps to Mr. Gavin Smeaton's office.
Chapter XXI. Mr. Gavin Smeaton
I walked into a room right at the top of the building, wherein a young man of thirty or thereabouts was sitting at a desk, putting together a quantity of letters which a lad, standing at his side, was evidently about to carry to the post. He was a good-looking, alert, businesslike sort of young man this, of a superior type of countenance, very well dressed, and altogether a noticeable person. What first struck me about him was, that though he gave me a quick glance when, having first tapped at his door and walked inside his office, I stood there confronting him, he finished his immediate concern before giving me any further attention. It was not until he had given all the letters to the lad and bade him hurry off to the post, that he turned to me with another sharp look and one word of interrogation.
"Yes?" he said.
"Mr. Gavin Smeaton?" asked I.
"That's my name," he answered. "What can I do for you?"
Up to that moment I had not the least idea as to the exact reasons which had led me to climb those stairs. The truth was I had acted on impulse. And now that I was actually in the presence of a man who was obviously a very businesslike and matter-of-fact sort of person, I felt awkward and tongue-tied. He was looking me over all the time as if there was a wonder in his mind about me, and when I was slow in answering he stirred a bit impatiently in his chair.
"My business hours are over for the day," he said. "If it's business—"
"It's not business in the ordinary sense, Mr. Smeaton," I made shift to get out. "But it is business for all that. The fact is—you'll remember that the Berwick police sent you a telegram some days ago asking did you know anything about a man named John Phillips?"
He showed a sudden interest at that, and he regarded me with a slight smile.
"You aren't a detective?" he inquired.
"No—I'm a solicitor's clerk," I replied. "From Berwick—my principal, Mr. Lindsey, has to do with that case."
He nodded at a pile of newspapers, which stood, with a heavy book on top of it, on a side table near his desk.
"So I see from these papers," he remarked. "I've read all I could about the affairs of both Phillips and Crone, ever since I heard that my name and address had been found on Phillips. Has any further light been thrown on that? Of course, there was nothing much in my name and address being found on the man, nor would there be if they were found on any man. As you see, I'm a general agent for various sorts of foreign merchandise, and this man had likely been recommended to me—especially if he was from America."
"There's been no further light on that matter, Mr. Smeaton," I answered. He had pointed me to a chair at his desk side by that time, and we were mutually inspecting each other. "Nothing more has been heard on that point."
"Then—have you come purposely to see me about it?" he asked.
"Not at all!" said I. "I was passing along this street below, and I saw your name on the door, and I remembered it—and so I just came up."
"Oh!" he said, looking at me rather blankly. "You're staying in Dundee—taking a holiday?"
"I came to Dundee in a fashion I'd not like to follow on any other occasion!" said I. "If a man hadn't lent me this suit of clothes and a sovereign, I'd have come ashore in my undergarments and without a penny."
He stared at me more blankly than ever when I let this out on him, and suddenly he laughed.
"What riddle's all this?" he asked. "It sounds like a piece out of a story-book—one of those tales of adventure."
"Aye, does it?" said I. "Only, in my case, Mr. Smeaton, fact's been a lot stranger than fiction! You've read all about this Berwick mystery in the newspapers?"
"Every word—seeing that I was mentioned," he answered.
"Then I'll give you the latest chapter," I continued. "You'll know my name when you hear it—Hugh Moneylaws. It was I discovered Phillips's dead body."
I saw that he had been getting more and more interested as we talked—at the mention of my name his interest obviously increased. And suddenly he pulled a box of cigars towards him, took one out, and pushed the box to me.
"Help yourself, Mr. Moneylaws—and go ahead," he said. "I'm willing to hear as many chapters as you like of this story."
I shook my head at the cigars and went on to tell him of all that had happened since the murder of Crone. He was a good listener—he took in every detail, every point, quietly smoking while I talked, and never interrupting me. And when I had made an end, he threw up his head with a significant gesture that implied much.
"That beats all the story-books!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad to see you're safe, anyway, Mr. Moneylaws—and your mother and your young lady'll be glad too."
"They will that, Mr. Smeaton," I said. "I'm much obliged to you."
"You think that man really meant you to drown?" he asked.
"What would you think yourself, Mr. Smeaton?" I replied. "Besides—didn't I see his face as he got himself and his yacht away from me? Yon man is a murderer!"
"It's a queer, strange business," he remarked, nodding his head. "You'll be thinking now, of course, that it was he murdered both Phillips and Crone—eh?"
"Aye, I do think that!" said I. "What else? And he wanted to silence me because I'm the only living person that could let out about seeing him at the cross-roads that night and could prove that Crone saw him too. My own impression is that Crone went straight to him after his talk with me—and paid the penalty."
"That's likely," he assented. "But what do you think made him turn on you so suddenly, yesterday, when things looked like going smoothly about everything, and he'd given you that stewardship—which
