“Now, Cartwright,” said Shelley, “I understand that you come from Penistone?”

“Ay.”

“That’s your home, is it?”

“Ay.”

“Lived there all your life?”

“Ay.”

“So I suppose that you’ll know pretty well everyone in the place, where they live, and so on.”

“Ay.”

Cartwright, Shelley told himself with an inward smile, was clearly a man of few words.

“Well, then, I want you to think and then answer me to the best of your ability,” Shelley said, and again the young man said “Ay.”

“Do you know a house or farm or something in or near Penistone the name of which begins with the word ‘Black’?” asked Shelley.

There was dead silence for a few moments. They all looked at the awkward young man and waited for him to make up his mind about the matter. It seemed an endless time, while he stood awkwardly by, before he made up his mind, and found his tongue.

“Ay,” he said. “I remember them, but which one would you want?”

“Which one? Is there more than one house of that name?” asked Shelley.

“Ay.”

“What are they called?”

“There’s Blackdown House, and there’s Blackthorn Farm, and there’s Black Horse Inn. That’s three, anyhow.”

“Should think we could cut out the inn, in any case,” was Shelley’s comment. “But what about the other two? Either of them strike a familiar chord in your memory, Mr. Fairhurst?”

Henry shook his head helplessly. “Not an atom of remembrance of either of them, Mr. Shelley,” he admitted.

“Ah, well, that’s one of the perils of a detective’s job,” said Shelley in playful ruefulness. “His best witness always seems to let him down at the moment when it is most necessary that he should not.”

“But what do you propose to do?” asked Inspector Bowes.

“If you’ll be so kind as to lend us this young man for an hour or two, I propose to have a look at both of the houses mentioned,” Shelley explained. “I think it’s pretty certain that we’ll find Mr. Wallace in one of them.”

“Certainly,” answered the local man. “Cartwright, you’ll go with Inspector Shelley and show him where the two houses are. Got that?”

“Ay, sir.”

“And don’t you dare to do anything foolish. Inspector Shelley has come from Scotland Yard, and the man you’re helping him to catch is a murderer. Do you get that, Cartwright, my lad?”

“Ay, sir.” There was not a movement in his impassive face, not a quiver of a muscle to show the excitement which young Constable Cartwright was feeling. To think, he told himself, that he was working with a man from Scotland Yard! And in a murder case, too!

“There’s a car at your service, Mr. Shelley,” Inspector Bowes told him. “It’ll be round in a moment now. And the driver will take you to the door.”