“What?” Shelley almost jumped out of his seat as he yelled the question. “Did you say his cottage at Penistone?”

Henry looked puzzled. “Yes; what of it?” he asked.

“Have you any idea where Penistone is?” the detective asked.

Henry shook his head.

“Somewhere in the West Riding,” he said. “That’s all I knew.”

“Less than twelve miles from Sheffield,” said Shelley. “And it was in Sheffield that he was seen with Miss Arnell yesterday evening.”

“Heavens!” Henry looked amazed. “Then…then…it is the last lap.”

“The last lap,” said Shelley with a grim smile.

The train roared on through the darkness. Sparks flew thickly from its chimney, and the other passengers, unconscious of the messenger of the law who was speeding in it towards the place where he was to meet a murderer, did their best to sleep.

Chapter XIX

Chapter XIX

The Chase Begins

Sheffield railway station is not an especially attractive place at any time. At four o’clock in the morning, with lights shining dimly through the gloom, Shelley thought that it looked the most dismal place on earth.

They were met by an excited police inspector, who began talking in quick, sharp sentences as soon as they had reached the car which was waiting outside the station.

“Don’t know where they’ve gone yet,” he said. “Seems they went out Barnsley way. Out over the moors, that is. We’ve got a crowd of men on the trail. News soon, I hope.”

Shelley looked at him for a moment with a twinkling eye.

“Might they be going to a place called Penistone?” he asked.

The local man gazed at him in amazement. “How did you hear about that, now?” he asked. “For that’s roughly the direction that they would be going. About twelve miles out. They’d be there long ago.”

“That’s cheerful hearing, anyway,” answered Shelley, with quite a happy smile that belied the sarcastic tones of his voice. “The fact is that we have a gentleman with us”—he indicated Henry Fairhurst—“who knew the man in the past.”

“Is that so, now?” The local man indicated the liveliest interest.

“Yes,” returned Shelley. “And, what’s more, he was once invited to spend a week-end with the rascal at Penistone.”

“Eh, that’s grand!”

“Looks as if we’re pretty close on his trail, I think; don’t you?” asked Shelley.

“Ay; it does that,” responded the other heartily. His name, it seemed, was Bowes; and he had been in the Sheffield Constabulary for more years than he cared to reckon. At any rate, Shelley thought, he would prove a very useful ally; for he claimed to know the countryside like the back of his hand—a very useful asset in such a case as the present one, since it seemed probable that they would have to do a good deal of chasing and tracking over the hills.