to England by the illness of a relative, and that he had hitherto failed to send any address to which his letters could be forwarded.  Hearing this, and having exhausted his funds, Sharon had returned to London.  It now rested with Moody to decide whether the course of the inquiry should follow the horse-dealer next.  Here was the cash account, showing how the money had been spent.  And there was Sharon, with his pipe in his mouth and his dog on his lap, waiting for orders.

Moody wisely took time to consider before he committed himself to a decision.  In the meanwhile, he ventured to recommend a new course of proceeding which Sharon’s report had suggested to his mind.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that we have taken the roundabout way of getting to our end in view, when the straight road lay before us.  If Mr. Hardyman has passed the stolen note, you know, as well as I do, that he has passed it innocently.  Instead of wasting time and money in trying to trace a stranger, why not tell Mr. Hardyman what has happened, and ask him to give us the number of the note?  You can’t think of everything, I know; but it does seem strange that this idea didn’t occur to you before you went to France.”

“Mr. Moody,” said Old Sharon, “I shall have to cut your acquaintance.  You are a man without faith; I don’t like you.  As if I hadn’t thought of Hardyman weeks since!” he exclaimed contemptuously.  “Are you really soft enough to suppose that a gentleman in his position would talk about his money affairs to me?  You know mighty little of him if you do.  A fortnight since I sent one of my men (most respectably dressed) to hang about his farm, and see what information he could pick up.  My man became painfully acquainted with the toe of a boot.  It was thick, sir; and it was Hardyman’s.”

“I will run the risk of the boot,” Moody replied, in his quiet way.

“And put the question to Hardyman?”

“Yes.”

“Very good,” said Sharon.  “If you get your answer from his tongue, instead of his boot, the case is cleared up—­unless I have made a complete mess of it.  Look here, Moody!  If you want to do me a good turn, tell the lawyer that the guinea-opinion was the right one.  Let him know that he was the fool, not you, when he buttoned up his pockets and refused to trust me.  And, I say,” pursued Old Sharon, relapsing into his customary impudence, “you’re in love, you know, with that nice girl.  I like her myself.  When you marry her invite me to the wedding.  I’ll make a sacrifice; I’ll brush my hair and wash my face in honor of the occasion.”

Returning to his lodgings, Moody found two letters waiting on the table. 
One of them bore the South Morden postmark.  He opened that letter first.