“Yes,” interrupted Hazlewood.  “I have been puzzled about that man ever since you mentioned him before.  His name I am somehow familiar with.”

“I’ll explain that to you in a minute,” said Pettifer, and his wife leaned forward suddenly in her chair.  She did not interrupt but she sat with a look of keen expectancy upon her face.  She did not know whither Pettifer was leading them but she was now sure that it was to some carefully pondered goal.

“I have more than once briefed Thresk myself.  He’s a man of the highest reputation at the Bar, straightforward, honest; he enjoys a great practice, he is in Parliament with a great future in Parliament.  In a word he is a man with everything to lose if he lied as a witness in a trial.  And yet—­I am not satisfied.”

Mr. Pettifer’s voice sank to a low murmur.  He sat at his desk staring out in front of him through the window.

“Why?” asked Hazlewood.  But Pettifer did not answer him.  He seemed not to hear the question.  He went on in the low quiet voice he had used before, rather like one talking to himself than to a companion.

“I should very much like to put a question or two to Mr. Thresk.”

“Then why don’t you?” exclaimed Mrs. Pettifer.  “You know him.”

“Yes.”  Mr. Hazlewood eagerly seconded his sister.  “Since you know him you are the very man.”

Pettifer shook his head.

“It would be an impertinence.  For although I look upon Dick as a son I am not his father.  You are, Hazlewood, you are.  He wouldn’t answer me.”

“Would he answer me?” asked Hazlewood.  “I don’t know him at all.  I can’t go to him and ask if he told the truth.”

“No, no, you can’t do that,” Pettifer answered, “nor do I mean you to.  I want to put my questions myself in my own way and I thought that you might get him down to Little Beeding.”

“But I have no excuse,” cried Hazlewood, and Mrs. Pettifer at last understood the plan which was in her husband’s mind, which had been growing to completion since the night when he had dined at Little Beeding.

“Yes, you have an excuse,” she cried, and Pettifer explained what it was.

“You collect miniatures.  Some time ago you bought one of Marie Antoinette at Lord Mirliton’s sale.  You asked a question as to its authenticity in Notes and Queries.  It was answered—­”

Mr. Hazlewood broke in excitedly: 

“By a man called Thresk.  That is why the name was familiar to me.  But I could not remember.”  He turned upon his sister.  “It is your fault, Margaret.  You took my copy of Notes and Queries away with you.  Dick noticed it and told me.”

“Dick!” Pettifer exclaimed in alarm.  But the alarm passed.  “He cannot have guessed why.”

Mrs. Pettifer was clear upon the point.

“No.  I took the magazine because of a remark which Robert made to you.  Dick did not hear it.  No, he cannot have guessed why.”