"Thank you, sir," said Easleby. "Just so! Well, sir, my friend here—Detective-Sergeant Starmidge—has been down at Scarnham in charge of this case from the first, and he's formed some ideas about this Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke. Last night Gabriel Chestermarke travelled up to town from Ecclesborough—Mr. Starmidge arranged for him to be shadowed when he arrived at St. Pancras. A man of ours—not quite as experienced as he might be, you understand, sir—did shadow him—and lost him. He lost him here at your theatre, Mr. Castlemayne."
"Ah!" said the lessee, half indifferently. "Got amongst the audience, I suppose?"
"No, sir," replied Easleby. "Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke, sir, entered your stage-door at about eleven-thirty—walked straight in. But he never came out of that door—so he must have left by another exit."
Mr. Leopold Castlemayne suddenly sat up very erect and rigid. His face flushed a little, his lips parted; he looked from one man to the other.
"Mr.—Gabriel—Chestermarke!" he said. "Entered my stage-door—eleven-thirty—last night? Here!—describe him!"
Easleby glanced at Starmidge. And Starmidge, as if he were describing a picture, gave a full and accurate account of Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke's appearance from head to foot.
The lessee suddenly jumped from his chair, walked over to a door, opened it, and looked into an inner room. Evidently satisfied, he closed the door again, came back, seated himself, thrust his hands in his pockets, and looked at the detectives.
"All in confidence—strict confidence?" he said. "All right, then!—I understand. I tell you, I don't know any Gabriel Chestermarke, banker, of Scarnham! The man you've described—the man who came here last night—is Godwin Markham, the Conduit Street money-lender—damn him!"