Scarterfield had told me of his investigations and discoveries at Blyth. Evidently I was now to hear more. But Scarterfield asked for no further information until he had provided our companion with refreshment in the shape of a glass of rum and a cigar, and his first question was of a personal sort.
"What's your name, then?" he inquired.
"Fish," replied the visitor, promptly. "Solomon. As everybody is aware."
"Blyth man, no doubt," suggested Scarterfield.
"Born and bred, master," said Fish. "And lived here always—'cepting when I been away, which, to be sure, has been considerable. But whether north or south, east or west, always make for the old spot when on dry land. That is to say—when in this here country."
"Then you'd know Netherfield Baxter?" asked Scarterfield.
Fish waved his cigar.
"As a baby—as a boy—as a young man," he declared. "Cut many a toy boat for him at one stage, taught him to fish at another, went sailing with him in a bit of a yawl that he had when he was growed up. Know him? Did I know my own mother!"
"Just so," said Scarterfield, understandingly. "To be sure! You know Baxter quite well, of course." He paused a moment, and then leant across the table round which the three of us were sitting. "And when did you see him last?" he asked.
Fish, to my surprise, laughed. It was a queer laugh. There was incredulity, uncertainty, a sense
