But he went to the door, opened it, and looked around. It was now broad daylight, and in the outer room of the Sheffield Police Station there were several constables on duty.

“Inspector Bowes about?” Shelley asked the nearest one of these men.

“Ay! Do you want to see him?” asked the policeman.

“Right away.”

“I’ll get him.” And get him the constable did, for in less than a minute Bowes was with them again.

Shelley explained: “Mr. Fairhurst’s memory has played him a nasty trick.”

“H’m.” A non-committal grunt was Bowes’s only contribution to the discussion at this stage. Typically Yorkshire phlegm characterised him, and he was resolute in showing no emotion, even when these crazy folk from London (as he thought of them) began to get excited and worked up with what they so fondly imagined was important information.

“Yes.” Shelley saw that he would have to explain the whole affair before any information would be granted him. “He remembered that the house was called Black something. It may be Black Manor or anything. All that Mr. Fairhurst remembers is that the word ‘Black’ comes into the title somewhere. Now, do you know of anywhere in or near Penistone that has such a name?”

“Let me see, now.” Inspector Bowes winkled up his ruddy brow in the effort at thought. He scratched his head and muttered to himself, his face growing more and more blank as the moments passed. Then he turned to them again.

“Can’t say I remember any house or farm of the name,” he said. “But then you must recall that I’m a Sheffield lad, born and bred. Maybe somebody from Penistone would be able to tell more than I can about the places there. It may be some sort of place of the name there—but it might happen that I had never heard of it, you see.”

“Have you any Penistone men here?” asked Shelley. “It would save time; we shouldn’t have to hunt around Penistone when we got there.”

“That’s true,” admitted Bowes, and thought once more. This time, however, his brow quickly cleared, and he smiled cheerily. “As it happens, we have,” he said. “There’s a Constable Cartwright. He’s only just joined the force, as it happens, and his home is in Penistone, so that he’ll be able to tell us where the place is, if anybody could.”

“Is he on duty at the moment?” asked Shelley eagerly.

“Ay,” answered the other, without a trace of excitement. “I’ll just call him in, and you can question him if you want to.”

Cartwright, on being called in, turned out to be a raw-boned young man, freckled and tanned. He stood awkwardly on one foot, and looked from one to the other of the four men who faced him. Inspector Bowes he knew, his expression seemed to say, but who on earth were these strangers?