one, and
plainly worded. Five hundred pounds would be paid by Mr. Tallington,
solicitor, of Highmarket, to any person or persons who would afford
information which would lead to the arrest and conviction of the
murderer or murderers of the deceased Kitely.

No one was in the bar-parlour of the Grey Mare when Stoner first entered
it, but by the time he had re-read the handbill, two or three men of
the town had come in, and he saw that each carried a copy. One of them,
a small tradesman whose shop was in the centre of the Market Square,
leaned against the bar and read the terms of the reward aloud.

"And whose money might that be?" he asked, half-sneeringly. "Who's
throwing brass round in that free-handed fashion? I should want to know
if the money's safe before I wasted my time in trying to get it."

"Money'll be all right," observed one of the speaker's companions.
"There's Lawyer Tallington's name at the foot o' that bill. He wouldn't
put his name to no offer o' that sort if he hadn't the brass in hand."

"Whose money is it, then?" demanded the first speaker. "It's not a
Government reward. They say that Kitely had no relatives, so it can't be
them. And it can't be that old housekeeper of his, because they say
she's satisfied enough that Jack Harborough's the man, and they've got
him. Queer do altogether, I call it!"

"It's done in Harborough's interest," said a third man. "Either that, or
there's something very deep in it. Somebody's not satisfied and
somebody's going to have a flutter with his brass over it." He turned
and glanced at Stoner, who had come to the bar for his customary
half-pint of ale. "Your folks aught to do with this?" he asked. "Kitely
was Mr. Cotherstone's tenant, of course."

Stoner laughed scornfully as he picked up his tankard.

"Yes, I don't think!" he sneered. "Catch either of my governors wasting
five hundred pence, or five pence, in that way! Not likely!"

"Well, there's Tallington's name to back it," said one of the men. "We
all know Tallington. What he says, he does. The money'll be there--if
it's earned."

Then they all looked at each other silently, surmise and speculation in
the eyes of each.

"Tell you what!" suddenly observed the little tradesman, as if struck
with a clever idea. "It might be young Bent! Five hundred pound is
naught to him. This here young London barrister that's defending
Harborough is stopping with Bent--they're old schoolmates. Happen he's
persuaded Ben