iled. In fact, according to the folks who lived near her in
Brighton, she'd completely disappeared, with the child, five years
before. So there wasn't a clue to Maitland. He served his time--made a
model prisoner--they did find that much out!--earned the maximum
remission, was released, and vanished. And for that very reason there's
a theory about him in this very town to this very day!"

"What?" asked Spargo.

"This. That he's now living comfortably, luxuriously abroad on what he
got from the bank," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "They say that the
sister-in-law was in at the game; that when she disappeared with the
child, she went abroad somewhere and made a home ready for Maitland,
and that he went off to them as soon as he came out. Do you see?"

"I suppose that was possible," said Spargo.

"Quite possible, sir. But now," continued the old gentleman,
replenishing the glasses, "now we come on to the Chamberlayne story.
It's a good deal more to do with the Maitland story than appears at
first sight, I'll tell it to you and you can form your own conclusions.
Chamberlayne was a man who came to Market Milcaster--I don't know from
where--in 1886--five years before the Maitland smash-up. He was then
about Maitland's age--a man of thirty-seven or eight. He came as clerk
to old Mr. Vallas, the rope and twine manufacturer: Vallas's place is
still there, at the bottom of the High Street, near the river, though
old Vallas is dead. He was a smart, cute, pushing chap, this
Chamberlayne; he made himself indispensable to old Vallas, and old
Vallas paid him a rare good salary. He settled down in the town, and he
married a town girl, one of the Corkindales, the saddlers, when he'd
been here three years. Unfortunately she died in childbirth within a
year of their marriage. It was very soon after that that Chamberlayne
threw up his post at Vallas's, and started business as a stock-and-
share broker. He'd been a saving man; he'd got a nice bit of money with
his wife; he always let it be known that he had money of his own, and
he started in a good way. He was a man of the most plausible manners:
he'd have coaxed butter out of a dog's throat if he'd wanted to. The
moneyed men of the town believed in him--I believed in him myself, Mr.
Spargo--I'd many a transaction with him, and I never lost aught by
him--on the contrary, he did very well for me. He did well for most of
his clients--there were, of course, ups and downs, but on the whole he
s