“Aye, that’ll be the way of it,” said Murray.  “Let’s be getting all the information we can during the day, and I’ll settle with the coroner’s officer for the inquest at yon inn where you’ve taken him—­it can’t be held before tomorrow morning.  Mr. Lindsey,” he went on, “what are you going to do as regards this man that’s lying dead upstairs?  Mrs. Moneylaws says the doctor had been twice with him, and’ll be able to give a certificate, so there’ll be no inquest about him; but what’s to be done about his friends and relations?  It’s likely there’ll be somebody, somewhere.  And—­all that money on him and in his chest?”

Mr. Lindsey shook his head and smiled.

“If you think all this’ll be done in hole-and-corner fashion, superintendent,” he said, “you’re not the wise man I take you for.  Lord bless you, man, the news’ll be all over the country within forty-eight hours!  If this Gilverthwaite has folk of his own, they’ll be here fast as crows hurry to a new-sown field!  Let the news of it once out, and you’ll wish that such men as newspaper reporters had never been born.  You can’t keep these things quiet; and if we’re going to get to the bottom of all this, then publicity’s the very thing that’s needed.”

All this was said in the presence of my mother, who, being by nature as quiet a body as ever lived, was by no means pleased to know that her house was, as it were, to be made a centre of attraction.  And when Mr. Lindsey and the police had gone away, and she began getting some breakfast ready for me before my going to meet Chisholm at the station, she set on to bewail our misfortune in ever taking Gilverthwaite into the house, and so getting mixed up with such awful things as murder.  She should have had references with the man, she said, before taking him in, and so have known who she was dealing with.  And nothing that either I or Maisie—­who was still there, staying to be of help, Tom Dunlop having gone home to tell his father the great news—­could say would drive out of her head the idea that Gilverthwaite, somehow or other, had something to do with the killing of the strange man.  And, womanlike, and not being over-amenable to reason, she saw no cause for a great fuss about the affair in her own house, at any rate.  The man was dead, she said, and let them get him put decently away, and hold his money till somebody came forward to claim it—­all quietly and without the pieces in the paper that Mr. Lindsey talked about.

“And how are we to let people know anything about him if there isn’t news in the papers?” I asked.  “It’s only that way that we can let his relatives know he’s dead, mother.  You’re forgetting that we don’t even know where the man’s from!”

“Maybe I’ve a better idea of where he was from, when he came here, than any lawyer-folk or police-folk either, my man!” she retorted, giving me and Maisie a sharp look.  “I’ve eyes in my head, anyway, and it doesn’t take me long to see a thing that’s put plain before them.”