He twirled his hat as he spoke. He was, in fact, trying to get the
responsibility of his suspicions lightened by sharing them with
Trenholme at this eleventh hour, but his hearer was not so quickly
roused.

"If you believe that," he said coolly, "you ought to give information to
the police."

"The police know all that I know. They've heard the people preaching and
singing in the streets. I can't make them believe the story if they
don't. They'd not go with me one step on a night like this--not one
step."

There was a short silence. Trenholme was weighing probabilities. On the
whole, he thought the police were in the right of it, and that this
young man was probably carried away by a certain liking for novel
excitement.

"In any case," he said aloud, "I don't see what I can do in the matter."

Harkness turned to leave as abruptly as he had come in. "If you don't, I
see what I can do. I'm going along there to see if I can find them."

"As you are in a way responsible for the old man, perhaps that is your
duty," replied Trenholme, secretly thinking that on such roads and under
such skies the volatile youth would not go very far.

A blast of wind entered the house door as Harkness went out of it,
scattering Trenholme's papers, causing his study lamp to flare up
suddenly, and almost extinguishing it.