“Quite in order, and quite ordinary,” answered the stockbroker readily.  “He was sent to me by the manager of the Scottish-American Bank, who knows that I do a considerable business in first-class American securities and investments.  Sir Gilbert told me that he was disposing of a great deal of his property in England and wished to re-invest the proceeds in American stock.  He gave me to understand that he wished to spend most of his time over there in future, as neither he nor his wife cared about Hathercleugh, though they meant to keep it up as the family estate and headquarters.  He placed considerable sums of money in my hands from time to time, and I invested them in accordance with his instructions, handing him the securities as each transaction was concluded.  And—­that’s really all I know.”

Mr. Lindsey got in his word before Mr. Portlethorpe could speak again.

“There are just two questions I should like to ask—­to which nobody can take exception, I think,” he said.  “One is—­I gather that you’ve invested all the money which Sir Gilbert placed in your hands?”

“Yes—­about all,” replied Mr. Paley.  “I have a balance—­a small balance.”

“And the other is this,” continued Mr. Lindsey:  “I suppose all these American securities which he now has are of such a nature that they could be turned into cash at any time, on any market?”

“That is so—­certainly,” assented Mr. Paley.  “Yes, certainly so.”

“Then that’s enough for me!” exclaimed Mr. Lindsey, rising and beckoning me to follow.  “Much obliged to you, sir.”

Without further ceremony he stumped out into the street, with me at his heels, to be followed a few minutes later by Mr. Portlethorpe.  And thereupon began a warm altercation between them which continued until all three of us were stowed away in a quiet corner of the smoking-room in the hotel at which it had been arranged Mr. Gavin Smeaton was to seek us on his arrival—­and there it was renewed with equal vigour; at least, with equal vigour on Mr. Lindsey’s part.  As for me, I sat before the two disputants, my hands in my pockets, listening, as if I were judge and jury all in one, to what each had to urge.

They were, of course, at absolutely opposite poles of thought.  One man was approaching the matter from one standpoint; the other from one diametrically opposed to it.  Mr. Portlethorpe was all for minimizing things, Mr. Lindsey all for taking the maximum attitude.  Mr. Portlethorpe said that even if we had not come to Edinburgh on a fool’s errand—­which appeared to be his secret and private notion—­we had at any rate got the information which Mr. Lindsey wanted, and had far better go home now and attend to our proper business, which, he added, was not to pry and peep into other folks’ affairs.  He was convinced that Sir Gilbert Carstairs was Sir Gilbert Carstairs, and that Mrs. Ralston’s and Mr. Lindsey’s suspicions were all wrong.  He failed to see any connection between Sir Gilbert and the Berwick mysteries and murders; it was ridiculous to suppose it.  As for the yacht incident, he admitted it looked at least strange; but, he added, with a half-apologetic glance at me, he would like to hear Sir Gilbert’s version of that affair before he himself made up his mind about it.