“Not just now, my lads!” said he good-humouredly.  “You’ve got plenty enough to go on with—­you’ve heard plenty in there this morning to keep your readers going for a bit.  Not a word, Hugh!  And as for you, gentlemen, if you want to do something towards clearing up this mystery, and assisting justice, there’s something you can do—­and nobody can do it better.”

“What’s that?” asked one of them eagerly.

“Ask through your columns for the relations, friends, acquaintances, anybody who knows them or aught about them, of these two men, James Gilverthwaite and John Phillips,” replied Mr. Lindsey.  “Noise it abroad as much as you like and can!  If they’ve folk belonging to them, let them come forward.  For,” he went on, giving them a knowing look, “there’s a bigger mystery in this affair than any one of us has any conception of, and the more we can find out the sooner it’ll be solved.  And I’ll say this to you young fellows:  the press can do more than the police.  There’s a hint for you!”

Then he led me off, and we got into the trap in which he and I had driven out from Berwick, and as soon as we had started homeward he fell into a brown study and continued in it until we were in sight of the town.

“Hugh, my lad!” he suddenly exclaimed, at last starting out of his reverie.  “I’d give a good deal if I could see daylight in this affair!  I’ve had two-and-twenty years’ experience of the law, and I’ve known some queer matters, and some dark matters, and some ugly matters in my time; but hang me if I ever knew one that promises to be as ugly and as dark and as queer as this does—­that’s a fact!”

“You’re thinking it’s all that, Mr. Lindsey?” I asked, knowing him as I did to be an uncommonly sharp man.

“I’m thinking there’s more than meets the eye,” he answered.  “Bloody murder we know there is—­maybe there’ll be more, or maybe there has been more already.  What was that deep old fish Gilverthwaite after?  What took place between Phillips’s walking out of that inn at Coldstream Bridge and your finding of his body?  Who met Phillips?  Who did him to his death?  And what were the two of ’em after in this corner of the country?  Black mystery, my lad, on all hands!”

I made no answer just then.  I was thinking, wondering if I should tell him about my meeting with Sir Gilbert Carstairs at the cross-roads.  Mr. Lindsey was just the man you could and would tell anything to, and it would maybe have been best if I had told him of that matter there and then.  But there’s a curious run of caution and reserve in our family.  I got it from both father and mother, and deepened it on my own account, and I could not bring myself to be incriminating and suspicioning a man whose presence so near the place of the murder might be innocent enough.  So I held my tongue.

“I wonder will all the stuff in the newspapers bring any one forward?” he said, presently.  “It ought to!—­if there is anybody.”