Holymead and
her letters. I've had his shop watched day and night since he
disappeared, but he keeps close to his burrow, and I've not been able to
get on his track."
"I'd give up watching for him if I were you," said Crewe, as he flicked
the ash of his cigar into the fireplace. "You're not likely to find him
now. As a matter of fact, he has left the country."
"Hill left the country?" echoed Rolfe. "I think you are mistaken there,
Mr. Crewe. He had no money; how could he get away?"
Crewe selected another cigar from his case and lighted it before
answering.
"The fact is, I advanced him the money," he said. "Technically it's a
loan, but I do not think any of it will be paid back."
Rolfe stared hard at Crewe to see if he was joking.
"What on earth made you do that?" he demanded at length. "Hill may be the
actual murderer for all we know."
"Not at all," was the reply. "Before I helped him to leave England I
satisfied myself that he had absolutely nothing to do with the murder. He
does not know who shot Sir Horace Fewbanks, though, of course, he still
half believes that it was Birchill. When I got in touch with him after
his disappearance he was in a pitiable state of fright--waking or
sleeping, he couldn't get his mind off the gallows.
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