“Just a little more patience,” Hewitt said. “I don’t think there will be much difficulty in finding him. He believes himself safe. As soon as my friend told me what the Bank manager had said, I went round to Roofe’s office to ascertain his whereabouts, prepared with an excuse for the interview in case I should find him in. It was a small office rather, over a shop in Leadenhall Street. When I asked for Mr. Roofe, the clerk informed me that he was at home confined to his room by a bad cold, and had not been at the office since Tuesday--the next day but one before the body was discovered. I appeared to be disappointed, and asked if I could send him a message. Yes, I could, the clerk told me. All letters were being sent to him, and he was sending business instructions daily to the office from Chadwell Heath. I saw that the address had slipped inadvertently from the clerk’s mouth, for it is a general rule, I know, in city offices to keep the principals’ addresses from casual callers. So I said no more, but contented myself with the information I had got. I took the first opportunity of looking at a suburban directory, and then I found the name of Mr. Roofe’s house at Chadwell Heath. It is Scarby Lodge.”
“I must be off, then, at once,” Truscott said, “and make careful inquiries as to his movements. And those cinders--bless my soul, they’re as precious as diamonds now! How shall we keep them from damage?”
“Oh, the glass shade will do, I fancy. But wait a moment; let us review things thoroughly. I will run rapidly over what I suggest has happened between Roofe and Pullin, and you shall stop me if you see any flaw in the argument. It’s best to make our impressions clear and definite. Now we will suppose that the _Egret_ has been lost, and Pullin has come home to claim the reward of his infamy. We will suppose it is £2,000. He goes to Roofe and demands it. Roofe says he can’t possibly pay just then; he is very hard up, and the insurance money of the _Egret_ has only just saved him from bankruptcy. Pullin insists on having his money. But, says Roofe, that is impossible, because he hasn’t got it. A cheque for the amount would be dishonoured. The plunder of the underwriters has all been used to keep things going. Roofe says plainly that Pullin must wait for the money. Pullin can’t reveal the conspiracy without implicating himself, and Roofe knows it. He promises to pay in a certain time, and gives Pullin an acknowledgment of the debt, an I O U, perhaps, or something of that kind, and with that Pullin has to be contented, and, having no money, he has to go away on another voyage, this time in a ship belonging to somebody else, because it would look worse than ever if Roofe gave him another berth at once. He makes his voyage and he returns, and asks for his money again. But Roofe is as hard up as ever. He cannot pay, and he cannot refuse to pay. It is ruin either way. He knows that Pullin will stand no more delay, and may do something desperate, so Roofe does something desperate himself. He tells Pullin that he must not call at his office, nor must anybody see them together anywhere for fear of suspicion. He suggests that he, Roofe, should call at Pullin’s lodgings late one night, and bring the money. Pullin is to let him in himself, so that nobody may see him. Pullin consents, and thus assists in the concealment of his own murder. He stands at the front door smoking his pipe (you remember that Mrs. Beckle told me so), waiting for Roofe. When Roofe comes, Pullin takes him very quietly up to his room without attracting attention. Roofe, on his part, has prepared things by feigning a bad cold and going to bed early, going out--perhaps through the window--when all his household is quiet. There are plenty of late trains from Chadwell Heath that would bring him to Stratford.