Of course, I knew nothing about it, and as the man wouldn’t give me the least information I packed him off pretty sharply.  And the next thing I heard was of the murder of John Phillips.  I didn’t connect that with the visit of the mysterious man at first; but of course I read the account of the inquest, and Mr. Ridley’s evidence, and then I began to see there was some strange business going on, though I couldn’t even guess at what it could be.  And I did nothing, and said nothing—­there seemed nothing, then, that I could do or say, though I meant to come forward later—­until I saw the affair of Crone in the newspapers, and I knew then that there was more in the matter than was on the surface.  So, when I learnt that a man named Carter had been arrested on the charge of murdering Crone, I came to Berwick, and went to the court to hear what was said when Carter was put before the magistrates.  I got a quiet seat in the court—­and maybe you didn’t see me.”

“I did!” I exclaimed.  “I remember you perfectly, Mr. Elphinstone.”

“Aye!” he said with an amused smile.  “You’re the lad that’s had his finger in the pie pretty deep—­you’re well out of it, my man!  Well—­there I was, and a man sitting by me that knew everybody, and before ever the case was called this man pointed out Sir Gilbert Carstairs coming in and being given a seat on the bench.  And I knew that there was a fine to-do, and perhaps nobody but myself knowing of it, for the man pointed out to me was no Sir Gilbert Carstairs, nor any Carstairs at all—­not he!  But—­I knew him!”

“You knew him!” exclaimed Mr. Lindsey.  “Man!—­that’s the first direct bit of real illumination we’ve had!  And—­who is he, then, Mr. Elphinstone?”

“Take your time!” answered Mr. Elphinstone.  “We’ll have to go back a bit:  you’ll put the police court out of your mind a while.  It’s about—­I forget rightly how long since, but it was just after I gave up the stewardship that I had occasion to go up to London on business of my own.  And there, one morning, as I was sauntering down the lower end of Regent Street, I met Gilbert Carstairs, whom I’d never seen since he left home.  He’d his arm in mine in a minute, and he would have me go with him to his rooms in Jermyn Street, close by—­there was no denying him.  I went, and found his rooms full of trunks, and cases, and the like—­he and a friend of his, he said, were just off on a sort of hunting-exploration trip to some part of Central America; I don’t know what they weren’t going to do, but it was to be a big affair, and they were to come back loaded up with natural-history specimens and to make a pile of money out of the venture, too.  And he was telling me all about it in his eager, excitable way when the other man came in, and I was introduced to him.  And, gentlemen, that’s the man I saw—­under the name of Sir Gilbert Carstairs—­on the bench at Berwick only the other day!  He’s changed, of course—­more than I should have