“He was buried yesterday,” remarked Mr. Lindsey.  “It’s a pity you didn’t telegraph to some of us.”

“The lawyer I went to, sir, said, ‘Go yourself!’” replied Mrs. Hanson.  “So I set off—­first thing this morning.”

“Let me have a look at those papers,” said Mr. Lindsey.

He motioned me to his side, and together we looked through two or three documents which the woman produced.

The most important was a certified copy of James Gilverthwaite’s birth certificate, which went to prove that this man had been born in Liverpool about sixty-two years previously; that, as Mr. Lindsey was quick to point out, fitted in with what Gilverthwaite had told my mother and myself about his age.

“Well,” he said, turning to Mrs. Hanson, “you can answer some questions, no doubt, about your brother, and about matters in relation to him.  First of all, do you know if any of your folks hailed from this part?”

“Not that I ever heard of, sir,” she replied.  “No, I’m sure they wouldn’t.  They were all Lancashire folks, on both sides.  I know all about them as far back as my great-grandfather’s and great-grandmother’s.”

“Do you know if your brother ever came to Berwick as a lad?” asked Mr. Lindsey, with a glance at me.

“He might ha’ done that, sir,” said Mrs. Hanson.  “He was a great, masterful, strong lad, and he’d run off to sea by the time he was ten years old—­there’d been no doing aught with him for a couple of years before that.  I knew that when he was about twelve or thirteen he was on a coasting steamer that used to go in and out of Sunderland and Newcastle, and he might have put in here.”

“To be sure,” said Mr. Lindsey.  “But what’s more important is to get on to his later history.  You say you’ve never seen him for thirty years, or more?  But have you never heard of him?”

She nodded her head with decision at that question.

“Yes,” she replied, “I have heard of him—­just once.  There was a man, a neighbour of ours, came home from Central America, maybe five years ago, and he told us he’d seen our James out there, and that he was working as a sub-contractor, or something of that sort, on that Panama Canal there was so much talk about in them days.”

Mr. Lindsey and I looked at each other.  Panama!—­that was the password which James Gilverthwaite had given me.  So—­here, at any rate, was something, however little, that had the makings of a clue in it.

“Aye!” he said, “Panama, now?  He was there?  And that’s the last you ever heard?”

“That’s the very last we ever heard, sir,” she answered.  “Till, of course, we saw these pieces in the papers this last day or two.”

Mr. Lindsey twisted round on her with a sharp look.

“Do you know aught of that man, John Phillips, whose name’s in the papers too?” he asked.

“No, sir, nothing!” she replied promptly.  “Never heard tell of him!”