“A watch repairer; a man of estimable character.”

“And Sylvester Chubb?”

“A farmer who, to support his mother, wife, and seven children, works from morning till sundown on his farm, and from sundown till 11 o’clock at night on little fancy articles he cuts out from wood and sells in Boston.”

“John Barker, Thomas Elder, Timothy Sinn?”

“All good men; I can vouch for every one of them.”

“And John Zabel, James Zabel?”

“Irreproachable, both of them.  Famous shipbuilders once, but the change to iron shipbuilding has thrown them out of business.  Pity, too, for they were remarkable builders.  By the by, Fenton, we don’t see them at church or on the docks any more.”

“No, they keep very much to themselves; getting old, like ourselves, Talbot.”

“Lively boys once.  We must hunt them up, Fenton.  Can’t bear to see old friends drop away from good company.  But this isn’t business.  You need not pause over their names, Knapp.”

But Knapp had slipped out.

We will follow him.

Walking briskly down the street, he went up the steps of a certain house and rang the bell.  A gentleman with a face not entirely unknown to us came to the door.

The detective did not pause for preliminaries.

“Are you Mr. Crane?” he asked,—­“the gentleman who ran against a man coming out of Mrs. Webb’s house last night?”

“I am Mr. Crane,” was the slightly surprised rejoinder, “and I was run against by a man there, yes.”

“Very well,” remarked the detective, quietly, “my name is Knapp.  I have been sent from Boston to look into this matter, and I have an idea that you can help me more than any other man here in Sutherlandtown.  Who was this person who came in contact with you so violently?  You know, even if you have been careful not to mention any names.”

“You are mistaken.  I don’t know; I can’t know.  He wore a sweeping beard, and walked and acted like a man no longer young, but beyond that—–­”

“Mr. Crane, excuse me, but I know men.  If you had no suspicion as to whom that person was you would not look so embarrassed.  You suspect, or, at least, associate in your own mind a name with the man you met.  Was it either of these you see written here?”

Mr. Crane glanced at the card on which the other had scribbled a couple of names, and started perceptibly.

“You have me,” said he; “you must be a man of remarkable perspicacity.”

The detective smiled and pocketed his card.  The names he thus concealed were John Zabel, James Zabel.

“You have not said which of the two it was,” Knapp quietly suggested.

“No,” returned the minister, “and I have not even thought.  Indeed, I am not sure that I have not made a dreadful mistake in thinking it was either.  A glimpse such as I had is far from satisfactory; and they are both such excellent men—–­”