“Pitt would be able to testify to the truth of what Stephen Radcliffe says. We might hear it all from him.”
“And need not bother further about this confounded Gibraltar Terrace. The thought did not strike me before, Johnny. We’ll go up to Dale’s the first thing after breakfast.”
The Squire chartered a cab: he was in too much of a fever to look out for an omnibus: and by ten o’clock Dr. Dale’s was reached. The doctor was not at home, but we saw some one that the servant called Mr. Lichfield.
“Pitt?” said Mr. Lichfield—who was a tall, strong young man in a tweed suit of clothes, and had black hair parted down the middle—“Oh, he was my predecessor here. He has left.”
“Where’s he gone?” asked the Squire.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Dr. Dale does not know; for I have once or twice heard him wonder what had become of Pitt. Pitt grew rather irregular in his habits, I fancy, and the doctor discharged him.”
“How long ago?”
“About a year, I think. I have not the least idea where Pitt is now: would be happy to tell you if I knew.”
So, there we were again—baffled. The Squire went back in the cab to the Castle and Falcon, rubbing his face furiously, and giving things in general a few hard words.