"The numbers of the notes are known. Not one of them has turned up."
"I care nothing about that," cried the boy wildly, "though it shows he hasn't spent them himself. Listen to me, Mr. Lowndes. I believe my father is dead, I believe he has been murdered: and I would rather that than what you say! But you claim to have been his friend? You raised this money for him? Very well; take my hand—here in his room—where I can see him now, all the time I'm talking to you—and swear that you will help me to clear this mystery up! We'll inspan the best detective in town, and take him with us to Dieppe, and never leave him till we get at the truth. I mean to live for nothing else. Swear that you will help me ... swear it here ... in his own room."
The wild voice had come down to a broken whisper. Next moment it had risen again: the man hesitated.
"Swear it! Swear it! Or you may have been my father's friend, but you are none from this hour to my mother and me."
Lowndes spread his hands in an indulgent gesture.
"Very well! I swear to help you to clear up this—mystery—as long as you think it is one."
"That is all I want. Now tell me when the next train starts for town. It used to be nine-twenty?"
"It is still."
"You are returning to London yourself?"
"Yes, by that train."