“Then—­have you come purposely to see me about it?” he asked.

“Not at all!” said I.  “I was passing along this street below, and I saw your name on the door, and I remembered it—­and so I just came up.”

“Oh!” he said, looking at me rather blankly.  “You’re staying in Dundee—­taking a holiday?”

“I came to Dundee in a fashion I’d not like to follow on any other occasion!” said I.  “If a man hadn’t lent me this suit of clothes and a sovereign, I’d have come ashore in my undergarments and without a penny.”

He stared at me more blankly than ever when I let this out on him, and suddenly he laughed.

“What riddle’s all this?” he asked.  “It sounds like a piece out of a story-book—­one of those tales of adventure.”

“Aye, does it?” said I.  “Only, in my case, Mr. Smeaton, fact’s been a lot stranger than fiction!  You’ve read all about this Berwick mystery in the newspapers?”

“Every word—­seeing that I was mentioned,” he answered.

“Then I’ll give you the latest chapter,” I continued.  “You’ll know my name when you hear it—­Hugh Moneylaws.  It was I discovered Phillips’s dead body.”

I saw that he had been getting more and more interested as we talked—­at the mention of my name his interest obviously increased.  And suddenly he pulled a box of cigars towards him, took one out, and pushed the box to me.

“Help yourself, Mr. Moneylaws—­and go ahead,” he said.  “I’m willing to hear as many chapters as you like of this story.”

I shook my head at the cigars and went on to tell him of all that had happened since the murder of Crone.  He was a good listener—­he took in every detail, every point, quietly smoking while I talked, and never interrupting me.  And when I had made an end, he threw up his head with a significant gesture that implied much.

“That beats all the story-books!” he exclaimed.  “I’m glad to see you’re safe, anyway, Mr. Moneylaws—­and your mother and your young lady’ll be glad too.”

“They will that, Mr. Smeaton,” I said.  “I’m much obliged to you.”

“You think that man really meant you to drown?” he asked.

“What would you think yourself, Mr. Smeaton?” I replied.  “Besides—­didn’t I see his face as he got himself and his yacht away from me?  Yon man is a murderer!”

“It’s a queer, strange business,” he remarked, nodding his head.  “You’ll be thinking now, of course, that it was he murdered both Phillips and Crone—­eh?”

“Aye, I do think that!” said I.  “What else?  And he wanted to silence me because I’m the only living person that could let out about seeing him at the cross-roads that night and could prove that Crone saw him too.  My own impression is that Crone went straight to him after his talk with me—­and paid the penalty.”

“That’s likely,” he assented.  “But what do you think made him turn on you so suddenly, yesterday, when things looked like going smoothly about everything, and he’d given you that stewardship—­which was, of course, to stop your mouth?”