“The only difficulty,” Shelley explained, “is that Mr. Fairhurst was never given the address—or if he was he has completely forgotten it, since it was eight or nine years ago.”

“Was it in Penistone itself, or somewhere outside the town?” asked Inspector Bowes, turning towards Henry and addressing him for the first time.

“That’s the trouble,” answered Henry, smiling. “I really can’t remember anything about the house. You see, it wasn’t as if I ever visited it. It was only that I was once invited there, and I never accepted the invitation. I’ve never been in Penistone, and I shouldn’t recognise the house if I saw it. It’s all,” he concluded, “rather difficult, and I’m only sorry that I can’t help more.”

“So is Mr. Shelley, I’ll be bound,” said Inspector Bowes.

“Oh, I don’t know,” smiled Shelley. “After all, we’ve been very lucky to get hold of the information which Mr. Fairhurst has already given us, you know.”

“Have you got any idea at all about this place?” asked Inspector Bowes, but then interrupted before Henry had time to reply. “Here we are at the station, Mr. Shelley. May as well make ourselves comfortable in front of a fire, as talk out here in the cold, you know.”

“Agreed,” said Shelley. So they left the car, walked over the cobbled pavement into a cosy little room with a roaring fire in the grate.

“Now, Mr. Fairhurst,” said Inspector Bowes, when they had settled themselves down in this room, pipes well alight, and feet inside the fender. “I think you were just going to answer that question of mine about whether you had any idea at all about this place.”

Henry smiled weakly. “But in a very disappointing way, I fear, Inspector,” he said. “You see, I don’t know anything at all about it.”

Shelley quickly interposed: “But that really shouldn’t matter much, you know. I imagine that youngish men with black beards aren’t so common in Yorkshire as they are—say, in Chelsea.”

“That’s true,” returned Bowes. “Still, I’d say it’ll be a matter of some hours before we get anywhere at all. You know, our men, patrolling the moors here, are bound to be few and far between; so that it may be some time before any news comes through.”

“What do you suggest we do?” asked Shelley.

“I should say a bit of sleep wouldn’t do you any harm,” replied the other.

“That’s true,” returned Shelley. “I must say that for my part I’m dog-tired after all this rushing about the country. What do you say, folks?”

Cunningham and Henry Fairhurst agreed.

“Sorry I can’t offer you a bedroom,” the local man went on; “but there are plenty of cushions about; and, with the chairs and the couch, you should be able to make yourselves comfortable for a few hours.”

“Quite,” said Shelley.