Mallett paused in his writing at this point and underlined the last two sentences heavily. He continued:

“James breakfasted at eight-thirty, and would leave the house between nine and half-past. He always carried a small bag or suitcase with him. (Compare Roach’s statement.) C. would finish his work in the morning and not see him again till next day. Sometimes James would say he would not be home that night, and C. would find the bedroom empty in the morning. He is vague as to how often this happened, but thinks it may have been two or three times a week. The one thing that sticks in his mind is that it was a soft job. James never left any personal belongings lying about. Never had any visitors, so far as he knows. C. was unable to recognize a photograph of Ballantine when shown to him.”

Here the document ended, but it was not the end of the interview. Something else passed between the inspector and Crabtree, which did not appear on the note, but which remained clearly etched on Mallett’s retentive memory.

When Crabtree had finished his account, given with a compelling air of sincerity, Mallett said:

“There are just two more points I should like to know. Where did you stay at Spellsborough on Friday night?”

Crabtree shook his head, and a look of distrust came into his eyes.

“I can’t tell yer that,” he said. “There’s a widder down there, see? And I don’t want my old woman up ’ere to ’ear of it.”

“You understand”, persisted Mallett, “that it may be important for you to be able to say where you were on Friday night?”

Crabtree became sullen. “I won’t do it, and that’s that,” he muttered.

Mallett did not press the point.

“The only other question is: how did you get this job with Mr. James?”

Crabtree answered this readily enough, though it was clear that his friendliness had vanished.

“Mr. ’Arper asked me if I wanted it, and I took it.”

“That’s the Mr. Harper in Inglewood, Browne’s?”

“Just so.”

“How did you know him?”

“Know ’im?” repeated Crabtree. “Of course I knew ’im. Didn’t I teach ’im ’ow to ’andle a dinghy when ’is father was alive? Afore ’e lost all his money?”

Mallett drew a bow at a venture.

“Didn’t he lose his money in a bank smash?” he asked.

“That’s right—Fanshawe’s Bank. Everything went then, ’ouse and ’orses—even the yacht. That was a fair tragedy, guv’nor,” he went on, his eyes glazing with memories. “The prettiest little racing schooner you ever saw. She was bought by a gent up on the Clyde, and he’s ruined ’er. Cut down ’er masts, raised ’er bulwarks—she’s nothing but a regular old family barge now. It’s enough to make a man cry. . . .”