was questioning in his keen blue eyes--he was
obviously wondering, with all the native suspicion of a simple soul,
what Scarterfield might be after.

"You're asking for me?" said the detective.

The man glanced from one to the other of us; then jerked a big thumb
in the direction of some region beyond the open door behind his burly
figure.

"Mrs. Ormthwaite," he said, bending a little towards Scarterfield.
"She said as how there was a gentleman stopping in this here house as
was making inquiries, d'ye see, about Netherfield Baxter, as used to
live hereabouts. So I come along."

Scarterfield contrived to jog my elbow. Without a word, he turned
towards the door of the smoking room, motioning his visitor to follow.
We all went into the corner wherein, on the previous afternoon,
Scarterfield had told me of his investigations and discoveries at
Blyth. Evidently I was now to hear more. But Scarterfield asked for no
further information until he had provided our companion with
refreshment in the shape of a glass of rum and a cigar, and his first
question was of a personal sort.

"What's your name, then?" he inquired.

"Fish," replied the visitor, promptly. "Solomon. As everybody is
aware."

"Blyth man, no doubt," suggested Scarterfield.

"Born and bred, master," said Fish. "And lived here always--'cepting
when I been away, which, to be sure, has been considerable. But
whether north or south, east or west, always make for the old spot
when on dry land. That is to say--when in this here country."

"Then you'd know Netherfield Baxter?" asked Scarterfield.

Fish waved his cigar.

"As a baby--as a boy--as a young man," he declared. "Cut many a toy
boat for him at one stage, taught him to fish at another, went sailing
with him in a bit of a yawl that he had when he was growed up. Know
him? Did I know my own mother!"

"Just so," said Scarterfield, understandingly. "To be sure! You know
Baxter quite well, of course." He paused a moment, and then leant
across the table round which the three of us were sitting. "And when
did you see him last?" he asked.

Fish, to my surprise, laughed. It was a queer laugh. There was
incredulity, uncertainty, a sense of vagueness in it; it suggested
that he was puzzled.

"Aye, once?" said he. "That's just it, master. And I asks you--and
this other gent, which I takes him to be a friend o' yours, and
confidential--I asks you, can a man trust his own eyes and his own
ears? Can he now, s