“Surely your agent could get some information out of Medler’s clerk; it’s in his trade to do that kind of thing, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, sir; I don’t deny that I might put a man on to the clerk, and it might answer.  On the other hand, such a gentleman’s clerk would be likely to be uncommon well trained and uncommon little trusted.”

“But we want to know so little,” Gilbert exclaimed impatiently; “only where this man lives, and who lives with him.”

“Yes,” murmured Mr. Proul, rubbing his chin thoughtfully; “it ain’t much, as you say, and it might be got out of the clerk, if the clerk knows it; but as to Mrs. Holbrook having got away from Hampshire and come to London, that’s more than I can believe.  I worked that business harder and closer than ever I worked any business yet.  You told me to spare neither money nor time, and I didn’t spare either; though it was more a question of time than money, for my expenses were light enough, as you know.  I don’t believe Mrs. Holbrook could have got away from Malsham station up to the time when I left Hampshire.  I’m pretty certain she couldn’t have left the place any other way than by rail; I’m more than certain she couldn’t have been living anywhere in the neighbourhood when I was hunting for her.  In short, it comes to this—­I stick to my old opinion, that the poor lady was drowned in Malsham river.”

This was just what Gilbert, happily for his own peace, could not bring himself to believe.  He was ready to confide in Mr. Medler as a model of truth and honesty, rather than admit the possibility of Marian’s death.

“We have this man Medler’s positive assertion, that Mrs. Holbrook is with her father, you see, Mr. Proul,” he said doubtfully.

“That for Medler’s assertion!” exclaimed the detective contemptuously; “there are lawyers in London who will assert anything for a consideration.  Let him produce the lady; and if he does produce her, I give him leave to say that Thomas Henry Proul is incapable of his business; or, putting it in vulgar English, that T.H.P. is a duffer.  Of course I shall carry out any business you like to trust me with, Mr. Fenton, and carry it out thoroughly.  I’ll set a watch upon Mr. Medler’s offices, and I’ll circumvent him by means of his clerk, if I can; but it’s my rooted conviction that Mrs. Holbrook never left Hampshire.”

This was discouraging; and with that ready power to adapt itself to circumstances which is a distinguishing characteristic of the human mind, Gilbert Fenton began to entertain a very poor opinion of the worthy Proul’s judgment.  But not knowing any better person whose aid he could enlist in this business, he was fain to confide his chances of success to that gentleman, and to wait with all patience for the issue of events.  Much of this dreary interval of perpetual doubt and suspense was spent beside John Saltram’s sick bed.  There were strangely mingled feelings in the watcher’s breast; a pitying regret that struggled continually with his natural anger; a tender remembrance of past friendship, which he despised as a shameful weakness in his nature, but could not banish from his mind, as he sat in the stillness of the sick-room, watching the helpless creature who had once kept as faithful a vigil for him.