“I’ve insisted on the police setting every bit of available machinery to work in an effort to lay hands on him,” replied Mr. Lindsey.  “Murray not only communicated all that Hollins told us last night to the Glasgow police this morning, first thing, but he’s sent a man over there with the fullest news; he’s wired the London authorities, and he’s asked for special detective help.  He’s got a couple of detectives from Newcastle—­all’s being done that can be done.  And for you too, Hugh, my lad!” he added, turning suddenly to me.  “Whatever the police are doing in the other direction, they’re doing in yours.  For, ugly as it may sound and seem, there’s nothing like facing facts, and I’m afraid, I’m very much afraid, that this disappearance of Maisie Dunlop is all of a piece with the rest of the villainy that’s been going on—­I am indeed!”

I pushed my plate away at that, and got on my feet.  I had been dreading as much myself, all day, but I had never dared put it into words.

“You mean, Mr. Lindsey, that she’s somehow got into the hands of—­what?—­who?” I asked him.

“Something and somebody that’s at the bottom of all this!” he answered, shaking his head.  “I’m afraid, lad, I’m afraid!”

I went away from all of them then, and nobody made any attempt to stop me, that time—­maybe they saw in my face that it was useless.  I left the house, and went—­unconsciously, I think—­away through the town to my mother’s, driving my nails into the palms of my hands, and cursing Sir Gilbert Carstairs—­if that was the devil’s name!—­between my teeth.  And from cursing him, I fell to cursing myself, that I hadn’t told at once of my seeing him at those crossroads on the night I went the errand for Gilverthwaite.

It had been late when Smeaton and I had got to Mr. Lindsey’s, and the night was now fallen on the town—­a black, sultry night, with great clouds overhead that threatened a thunderstorm.  Our house was in a badly-lighted part of the street, and it was gloomy enough about it as I drew near, debating in myself what further I could do—­sleep I knew I should not until I had news of Maisie.  And in the middle of my speculations a man came out of the corner of a narrow lane that ran from the angle of our house, and touched me on the elbow.  There was a shaft of light just there from a neighbour’s window; in it I recognized the man as a fellow named Scott that did odd gardening jobs here and there in the neighbourhood.

“Wisht, Mr. Hugh!” said he, drawing me into the shadows of the lane; “I’ve been waiting your coming; there’s a word I have for you—­between ourselves.”

“Well?” said I.

“I hear you’re promising ten pounds—­cash on the spot—­to the man that can give you some news of your young lady?” he went on eagerly.  “Is it right, now?”

“Can you?” I asked.  “For if you can, you’ll soon see that it’s right.”

“You’d be reasonable about it?” he urged, again taking the liberty to grip my arm.  “If I couldn’t just exactly give what you’d call exact and definite news, you’d consider it the same thing if I made a suggestion, wouldn’t you, now, Mr. Hugh?—­a suggestion that would lead to something?”