The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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newspapers?" asked Eldrick.
"No," said Byner. "Because we'd no knowledge of his having come so far North. We advertised in the Midland papers. But then, all the London papers, daily and weekly, that we used come down to Yorkshire."
"Parrawhite," said Eldrick reflectively, "was a big newspaper reader. He used to go to the Free Library reading-room a great deal. I begin to think he must certainly be dead—or locked up. However, in supplement of your endeavours, I did a little work of my own last night. There you are!" he went on, picking up the local papers and handing them over. "I put that in—we'll see if any response comes. But now a word, Mr. Byner, since you've come to me. You have heard me mention my late clerk—Pratt?"
"Yes," answered Byner.
"Pratt has left us, and is in business as a sort of estate agent in the next street," continued Eldrick. "Now I have particular reasons—most particular reasons!—why Pratt should remain in absolute ignorance of your presence in the town. If you should happen to come across him—as you may, for though there are a quarter of a million of us here, it's a small place, compared with London—don't let him know your business."
"I'm not very likely to do that, Mr. Eldrick," remarked Byner quietly.
"Aye, but you don't take my meaning," said Eldrick eagerly. "I mean this—it's just possible that Pratt may see that advertisement of yours, and that he may write to your firm. In that case, as he's here, and you're here, your partner would send his letter to you. Don't deal with it—here. Don't—if you should come across Pratt, even let him know your name!"
"When I've a job of this sort," replied Byner, "I don't let anybody know my name—except people like you. When I register at one of your hotels presently, I shall be Mr. Black of London. But—if this Pratt wanted to give any information about Parrawhite, he'd give it to you, surely, now that you've advertised."
"No, he wouldn't!" asserted Eldrick. "Why? Because he's told me all he knows—or says he knows—already!"
The inquiry agent looked keenly at the solicitor for a moment during which they both kept silence. Then Byner smiled.
"You said—'or says he knows,'" he remarked. "Do you think he didn't tell the truth about Parrawhite?"
"I should say—now—it's quite likely he didn't," answered Eldrick. "The truth is, I'm making some inquiry myself about Pratt—and I don't want this to interfere with it. You keep me informed of what you find out, and I'll help you all I can while you're here. It may be——"
A clerk came into the room and looked at his master.
"Mr. George Pickard, of the Green Man at Whitcliffe, sir," he said.
"Well?" asked Eldrick.
"Wants to see you about that advertisement in the paper this morning, sir," continued the clerk.
Eldrick looked at Byner and smiled significantly. Then he turned towards the door.
"Bring Mr. Pickard in," he said.
Chapter XVIII. The Confiding Landlord
The clerk presently ushered in a short, thick-set, round-faced man, apparently of thirty to thirty-five years of age, whose chief personal characteristics lay in a pair of the smallest eyes ever set in a human countenance and a mere apology for a nose. But both nose and eyes combined somehow to communicate an idea of profound inquiry as the round face in which they were placed turned from the solicitor to the man from London, and a podgy forefinger was lifted to a red forehead.
"Servant, gentlemen," said the visitor. "Fine morning for the time of year!"
"Take a chair, Mr. Pickard," replied Eldrick. "Let me see—from the Green Man, at Whitcliffe, I believe?"
"Landlord, sir—had that house a many years," answered Pickard, as he took a seat near the wall. "Seven year come next Michaelmas, any road."
"Just so—and you want to see me about the advertisement in this morning's paper?" continued Eldrick. "What about it—now?"
The landlord looked at Eldrick and then at Eldrick's companion. The solicitor understood that look: it meant that what his caller had to say was of a private nature.
"It's all right, Mr. Pickard," he remarked reassuringly. "This gentleman is here on just the same business—whatever you say will be treated as confidential—it'll go no further. You've something to tell about my late clerk, James Parrawhite."
Pickard, who had been nervously fingering a white billycock hat, now put it down on the floor and thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers as if to keep them safe while he talked.
"It's like this here," he answered. "When I saw that there advertisement in the paper this mornin', says I to my missus, 'I'll away,' I says, 'an' see Lawyer Eldrick about that there, this very day!' 'Cause you see, Mr. Eldrick, there is summat as I can tell about yon man 'at you mention—James Parrawhite. I've said nowt about it to nobody, up to now, 'cause it were private business atween him and me, as it were, but I lost money over it, and of course, ten pound is ten pound, gentlemen."
"Quite so," agreed Eldrick, "And you shall have your ten pounds if you can tell anything useful."
"I don't know owt about it's being useful, sir, nor what use is to be made on it," said Pickard, "but I can tell you a bit o' truth, and you can do what you like wi' what I tell. But," he went on, lowering his voice and glancing at the door by which he had just entered, "there's another name 'at 'll have to be browt in—private, like. Name, as it so happens, o' one o' your clerks—t' head clerk, I'm given to understand—Mr. Pratt."
Eldrick showed no sign of surprise. But he continued to look significantly at Byner as he turned to the landlord.
"Mr. Pratt has left me," he said. "Left me three weeks ago. So you needn't be afraid, Mr. Pickard—say anything you like."
"Oh, I didn't know," remarked Pickard. "It's not oft that I come down in t' town, and we don't hear much Barford news up our way. Well, it's this here, Mr. Eldrick—you know where my place is, of course?"
Eldrick nodded, and turned to Byner.
"I'd better explain to you," he said. "Whitcliffe is an outlying part of the town, well up the hills—a sort of wayside hamlet with a lot of our famous stone quarries in its vicinity. The Green Man, of which our friend here is the landlord, is an old-fashioned tavern by the roadside—where people are rather fond of dropping in on a Sunday, I fancy, eh, Mr. Pickard?"
"You're right, sir," replied the landlord. "It makes a nice walk out on a Sunday. And it were on a Sunday, too, 'at I got to know this here James Parrawhite as you want to know summat about. He began coming to my place of a Sunday evenin', d'ye see, gentlemen?—he'd walk across t' valley up there to Whitcliffe and stop an hour or two, enjoyin' hisself. Well, now, as you're no doubt well aweer, Mr. Eldrick, he were a reight hand at talkin', were yon Parrawhite—he'd t' gift o' t' gab reight enough, and talked well an' all. And of course him an' me, we hed bits o' conversation at times, 'cause he come to t' house reg'lar and sometimes o' week-nights an' all. An' he tell'd me 'at he'd had a deal o' experience i' racin' matters—whether it were true or not, I couldn't say, but——"
"True enough!" said Eldrick. "He had."
"Well, so he said," continued Pickard, "and he was allus tellin' me 'at he could make a pile o' brass on t' turf if he only had capital. An' i' t' end, he persuaded me to start what he called investin' money with him i' that way—i' plain language, it meant givin' him brass to put on horses 'at he said was goin' to win, d'ye understand?"
"Perfectly," replied Eldrick. "You gave him various amounts which he was to stake for you."
"Just so, sir! And at first," said Pickard, with a shake of the head, "at first I'd no great reason to grumble. He cert'ny wor a good hand at spottin' a winner. But as time went on, I' t' greatest difficulty in gettin'