To our surprise he stopped when he came to it, and
pushed open the gate. In another moment we should have lost all
chance of seeing anything more of him except his bent back. With a
couple of strides my friend was behind him. He laid his hand on the
man's shoulder and forced him to turn round. It was an old,
wrinkled face with gentle, rather watery eyes.
We were both so taken aback that for a moment we could say nothing.
My friend stammered out an apology about having mistaken the house,
and rejoined me. At the corner we burst out laughing almost
simultaneously. And then my friend suddenly stopped and stared at
me.
"Hepworth's old clerk!" he said. "Ellenby!"
* * *
It seemed to him monstrous. The man had been more than a clerk.
The family had treated him as a friend. Hepworth's father had set
him up in business. For the murdered lad he had had a sincere
attachment; he had left that conviction on all of them. What was
the meaning of it?
A directory was on the mantelpiece. It was the next afternoon. I
had called upon him in his chambers. It was just an idea that came
to me. I crossed over and opened it, and there was his name,
"Ellenby and Co., Ships' Furnishers," in a court off the Minories.
Was he helping her for the sake of his dead master--trying to get
her away from the man.
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