“Another thing,” continued Mrs. Ralston:  “in my few visits to Hathercleugh since he came, I have found out that while he is very well posted up in certain details of our family history, he is unaccountably ignorant of others with which he ought to have been perfectly familiar.  I found out, too, that he is exceedingly clever in avoiding subjects in which his ignorance might be detected.  But, clever as he is, he has more than once given me grounds for suspicion.  And I tell you plainly, Mr. Portlethorpe, that since he has been selling property to the extent you report, you ought, at this juncture, and as things are, to find out how money matters stand.  He must have realized vast amounts in cash!  Where is it!”

“At his bankers’—­in Newcastle, my dear madam!” replied Mr. Portlethorpe.  “Where else should it be?  He has not yet made the purchase he contemplated, so of course the necessary funds are waiting until he does.  I cannot but think that you and Mr. Lindsey are mistaken, and that there will be some proper and adequate explanation of all this, and—­”

“Portlethorpe!” exclaimed Mr. Lindsey, “that’s no good.  Things have gone too far.  Whether this man’s Sir Gilbert Carstairs or an impostor, he did his best to murder my clerk, and we suspect him of the murder of Crone, and he’s going to be brought to justice—­that’s flat!  And your duty at present is to fall in with us to this extent—­you must adopt Mrs. Ralston’s suggestion, and ascertain how money matters stand.  As Mrs. Ralston rightly says, by the sale of these properties a vast amount of ready money must have been accumulated, and at this man’s disposal, Portlethorpe!—­we must know if it’s true!”

“How can I tell you that?” demanded Mr. Portlethorpe, who was growing more and more nervous and peevish.  “I’ve nothing to do with Sir Gilbert Carstairs’ private banking account.  I can’t go and ask, point blank, of his bankers how much money he has in their hands!”

“Then I will!” exclaimed Mr. Lindsey.  “I know where he banks in Newcastle, and I know the manager.  I shall go this very night to the manager’s private house, and tell him exactly everything that’s transpired—­I shall tell him Mrs. Ralston’s and my own suspicions, and I shall ask him where the money is.  Do you understand that?”

“The proper course to adopt!” said Mrs. Ralston.  “The one thing to do.  It must be done!”

“Oh, very well—­then in that case I suppose I’d better go with you,” said Mr. Portlethorpe.  “Of course, it’s no use going to the bank—­they’ll be closed; but we can, as you say, go privately to the manager.  And we shall be placed in a very unenviable position if Sir Gilbert Carstairs turns up with a perfectly good explanation of all this mystery.”

Mr. Lindsey pointed a finger at me.

“He can’t explain that!” he exclaimed.  “He left that lad to drown!  Is that attempted murder, or isn’t it?  I tell you, I’ll have that man in the dock—­never mind who he is!  Hugh, pass me the railway guide.”