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Title: The Herapath Property

Author: J. S. Fletcher

Release Date: May 8, 2008 [EBook #25388]
Last updated: January 31, 2009

Language: English

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                                  THE

                            H E R A P A T H

                            P R O P E R T Y


                                   BY
                             J. S. FLETCHER


                                NEW YORK
                           ALFRED · A · KNOPF
                                MCMXXII




                          COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
                         ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.

                       _Published October, 1921_

                      _Second Printing, May, 1922_

                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

       I JACOB HERAPATH IS MISSING, 9
      II IS IT MURDER? 18
     III BARTHORPE TAKES CHARGE, 27
      IV THE PRESSMAN, 36
       V THE GLASS AND THE SANDWICH, 45
      VI THE TAXI-CAB DRIVER, 54
     VII IS THERE A WILL? 64
    VIII THE SECOND WITNESS, 74
      IX GREEK AGAINST GREEK, 83
       X MR. BENJAMIN HALFPENNY, 91
      XI THE SHADOW, 100
     XII FOR TEN PER CENT, 109
    XIII ADJOURNED, 118
     XIV THE SCOTTISH VERDICT, 127
      XV YOUNG BRAINS, 136
     XVI NAMELESS FEAR, 145
    XVII THE LAW, 154
   XVIII THE ROSEWOOD BOX, 163
     XIX WEAVING THE NET, 172
      XX THE DIAMOND RING, 181
     XXI THE DESERTED FLAT, 190
    XXII YEA AND NAY, 199
   XXIII THE ACCUSATION, 208
    XXIV COLD STEEL, 217
     XXV PROFESSIONAL ANALYSIS, 226
    XXVI THE REMAND PRISON, 235
   XXVII THE LAST CHEQUE, 244
  XXVIII THE HOTEL RAVENNA, 253
    XXIX THE NOTE IN THE PRAYER-BOOK, 263
     XXX THE WHITE-HAIRED LADY, 273
    XXXI THE INTERRUPTED DINNER-PARTY, 283
   XXXII THE YORKSHIRE PROVERB, 290
  XXXIII BURCHILL FILLS THE STAGE, 294
   XXXIV DAVIDGE'S TRUMP CARD, 304
    XXXV THE SECOND WARRANT, 312




                                 THE

                               HERAPATH

                               PROPERTY




CHAPTER I

JACOB HERAPATH IS MISSING


This was the third week of Selwood's secretaryship to Jacob Herapath.
Herapath was a well-known man in London. He was a Member of Parliament,
the owner of a sort of model estate of up-to-date flats, and something
of a crank about such matters as ventilation, sanitation, and lighting.
He himself, a bachelor, lived in one of the best houses in Portman
Square; when he engaged Selwood as his secretary he made him take a
convenient set of rooms in Upper Seymour Street, close by. He also
caused a telephone communication to be set up between his own house and
Selwood's bedroom, so that he could summon his secretary at any hour of
the night. Herapath occasionally had notions about things in the small
hours, and he was one of those active, restless persons who, if they get
a new idea, like to figure on it at once. All the same, during those
three weeks he had not once troubled his secretary in this fashion. No
call came to Selwood over that telephone until half-past seven one
November morning, just as he was thinking of getting out of bed. And the
voice which then greeted him was not Herapath's. It was a rather anxious,
troubled voice, and it belonged to one Kitteridge, a middle-aged man, who
was Herapath's butler.

In the act of summoning Selwood, Kitteridge was evidently interrupted by
some person at his elbow; all that Selwood made out was that Kitteridge
wanted him to go round at once. He dressed hurriedly, and ran off to
Herapath's house; there in the hall, near the door of a room which
Herapath used as a study and business room, he found Kitteridge talking
to Mountain, Herapath's coachman, who, judging by the state of his
attire, had also been called hurriedly from his bed.

"What is it, Kitteridge?" demanded Selwood. "Mr. Herapath ill?"

The butler shook his head and jerked his thumb towards the open door of
the study.

"The fact is, we don't know where Mr. Herapath is, sir," he answered.
"He hasn't slept in his bed, and he isn't in the house."

"Possibly he didn't come home last night," suggested Selwood. "He may
have slept at his club, or at an hotel."

The butler and the coachman looked at each other--then the coachman, a
little, sharp-eyed man who was meditatively chewing a bit of straw,
opened his tightly-compressed lips.

"He did come home, sir," he said. "I drove him home--as usual. I saw him
let himself into the house. One o'clock sharp, that was. Oh, yes, he
came home!"

"He came home," repeated Kitteridge. "Look here, sir." He led the way
into the study and pointed to a small table set by the side of
Herapath's big business desk. "You see that tray, Mr. Selwood? That's
always left out, there, on that table, for Mr. Herapath every night. A
small decanter of whiskey, a syphon, a few sandwiches, a dry biscuit or
two. Well, there you are, sir--he's had a drink out of that glass, he's
had a mouthful or so of sandwiches. Oh, yes, he came home, but he's not
at home now! Charlesworth--the valet, you know, sir--always goes into
Mr. Herapath's room at a quarter past seven every morning; when he went
in just now he found that Mr. Herapath wasn't there, and the bed hadn't
been slept in. So--that's where things stand."

Selwood looked round the room. The curtains had not yet been drawn
aside, and the electric light cast a cold glare on the various
well-known objects and fittings. He glanced at the evidences of the
supper tray; then at the blotting-pad on Herapath's desk; there he might
have left a note for his butler or his secretary. But there was no note
to be seen.

"Still, I don't see that there's anything to be alarmed about,
Kitteridge," he said. "Mr. Herapath may have wanted to go somewhere by a
very early morning train----"

"No, sir, excuse me, that won't do," broke in the butler. "I thought of
that myself. But if he'd wanted to catch a night train, he'd have taken
a travelling coat, and a rug, and a bag of some sort--he's taken nothing
at all in that way. Besides, I've been in this house seven years, and I
know his habits. If he'd wanted to go away by one of the very early
morning trains he'd have kept me and Charlesworth up, making ready for
him. No, sir! He came home, and went out again--must have done.
And--it's uncommonly queer. Seven years I've been here, as I say, and he
never did such a thing before."

Selwood turned to the coachman.

"You brought Mr. Herapath home at one o'clock?" he said. "Alone?"

"He was alone, sir," replied the coachman, who had been staring around him
as if to seek some solution of the mystery. "I'll tell you all that
happened--I was just beginning to tell Mr. Kitteridge here when you come
in. I fetched Mr. Herapath from the House of Commons last night at a
quarter past eleven--took him up in Palace Yard at the usual spot, just as
the clock was striking. 'Mountain,' he says, 'I want you to drive round to
the estate office--I want to call there.' So I drove there--that's in
Kensington, as you know, sir. When he got out he says, 'Mountain,' he
says, 'I shall be three-quarters of an hour or so here--wrap the mare up
and walk her about,' he says. I did as he said, but he was more than
three-quarters--it was like an hour. Then at last he came back to the
brougham, just said one word, 'Home!' and I drove him here, and the clocks
were striking one when he got out. He said 'Good night,' and I saw him
walk up the steps and put his key in the latch as I drove off to our
stables. And that's all I know about it."

Selwood turned to the butler.

"I suppose no one was up at that time?" he inquired.

"Nobody, sir," answered Kitteridge. "There never is. Mr. Herapath, as
you've no doubt observed, is a bit strict in the matter of rules, and
it's one of his rules that everybody in the house must be in bed by
eleven-thirty. No one was ever to sit up for him on any occasion. That's
why this supper-tray was always left ready. His usual time for coming in
when he'd been at the House was twelve o'clock."

"Everybody in the house might be in bed," observed Selwood, "but not
everybody might be asleep. Have you made any inquiry as to whether
anybody heard Mr. Herapath moving about in the night, or leaving the
house? Somebody may have heard the hall door opened and closed, you
know."

"I'll make inquiry as to that, sir," responded Kitteridge, "but I've
heard nothing of the sort so far, and all the servants are aware by now
that Mr. Herapath isn't in the house. If anybody had heard anything----"

Before the butler could say more the study door opened and a girl came
into the room. At sight of her Selwood spoke hurriedly to Kitteridge.

"Have you told Miss Wynne?" he whispered. "Does she know?"

"She may have heard from her maid, sir," replied Kitteridge in low
tones. "Of course they're all talking of it. I was going to ask to see
Miss Wynne as soon as she was dressed."

By that time the girl had advanced towards the three men, and Selwood
stepped forward to meet her. He knew her as Herapath's niece, the
daughter of a dead sister of whom Herapath had been very fond; he knew,
too, that Herapath had brought her up from infancy and treated her as a
daughter. She was at this time a young woman of twenty-one or two, a
pretty, eminently likeable young woman, with signs of character and
resource in eyes and lips, and Selwood had seen enough of her to feel
sure that in any disturbing event she would keep her head. She spoke
calmly enough as the secretary met her.

"What's all this, Mr. Selwood?" she asked. "I understand my uncle is not
in the house. But there's nothing alarming in that, Kitteridge, is
there? Mr. Herapath may have gone away during the night, you know."

"Kitteridge thinks that highly improbable," replied Selwood. "He says
that Mr. Herapath had made no preparation for a sudden journey, has
taken no travelling coat or rug, or luggage of any sort."

"Did he come in from the House?" she asked. "Perhaps not?"

Kitteridge pointed to the supper-tray and then indicated the coachman.

"He came in as usual, miss," he replied. "Or rather an hour later than
usual. Mountain brought him home at one o'clock, and he saw him let
himself in with his latch-key."

Peggie Wynne turned to the coachman.

"You're sure that he entered the house?" she asked.

"As sure as I could be, miss," replied Mountain. "He was putting his key
in the door when I drove off."

"He must have come in," said Kitteridge, pointing to the tray. "He had
something after he got in."

"Well, go and tell the servants not to talk, Kitteridge," said Peggie.
"My uncle, no doubt, had reasons for going out again. Have you said
anything to Mr. Tertius?"

"Mr. Tertius isn't down yet, miss," answered the butler.

He left the room, followed by the coachman, and Peggie turned to
Selwood. "What do you think?" she asked, with a slight show of anxiety.
"You don't know of any reason for this, do you?"

"None," replied Selwood. "And as to what I think, I don't know
sufficient about Mr. Herapath's habits to be able to judge."

"He never did anything like this before," she remarked. "I know that he
sometimes gets up in the middle of the night and comes down here, but I
never knew him to go out. If he'd been setting off on a sudden journey
he'd surely have let me know. Perhaps----"

She paused suddenly, seeing Selwood lift his eyes from the papers
strewn about the desk to the door. She, too, turned in the same
direction.

A man had come quietly into the room--a slightly-built, little man,
grey-bearded, delicate-looking, whose eyes were obscured by a pair of
dark-tinted spectacles. He moved gently and with an air of habitual
shyness, and Selwood, who was naturally observant, saw that his lips and
his hands were trembling slightly as he came towards them.

"Mr. Tertius," said Peggie, "do you know anything about Uncle Jacob? He
came in during the night--one o'clock--and now he's disappeared. Did he
say anything to you about going away early this morning?"

Mr. Tertius shook his head.

"No--no--nothing!" he answered. "Disappeared! Is it certain he came in?"

"Mountain saw him come in," she said. "Besides, he had a drink out of
that glass, and he ate something from the tray--see!"

Mr. Tertius bent his spectacled eyes over the supper tray and remained
looking at what he saw there for a while. Then he looked up, and at
Selwood.

"Strange!" he remarked. "And yet, you know, he is a man who does things
without saying a word to any one. Have you, now, thought of telephoning
to the estate office? He may have gone there."

Peggie, who had dropped into the chair at Herapath's desk, immediately
jumped up.

"Of course we must do that at once!" she exclaimed. "Come to the
telephone, Mr. Selwood--we may hear something."

She and Selwood left the room together. When they had gone, Mr. Tertius
once more bent over the supper tray. He picked up the empty glass,
handling it delicately; he held it between himself and the electric
light over the desk; he narrowly inspected it, inside and out. Then he
turned his attention to the plate of sandwiches. One sandwich had been
taken from the plate and bitten into--once. Mr. Tertius took up that
sandwich with the tips of his delicately-shaped fingers. He held that,
too, nearer the light. And having looked at it he hastily selected an
envelope from the stationery cabinet on the desk, carefully placed the
sandwich within it, and set off to his own rooms in the upper part of
the house. As he passed through the hall he heard Selwood at the
telephone, which was installed in a small apartment at the foot of the
stairs--he was evidently already in communication with some one at the
Herapath Estate Office.

Mr. Tertius went straight to his room, stayed there a couple of minutes,
and went downstairs again. Selwood and Peggie Wynne were just coming
away from the telephone; they looked up at him with faces grave with
concern.

"We're wanted at the estate office," said Selwood. "The caretaker was
just going to ring us up when I got through to him. Something is
wrong--wrong with Mr. Herapath."




CHAPTER II

IS IT MURDER?


It struck Selwood, afterwards, as a significant thing that it was
neither he nor Mr. Tertius who took the first steps towards immediate
action. Even as he spoke, Peggie was summoning the butler, and her
orders were clear and precise.

"Kitteridge," she said quietly, "order Robson to bring the car round at
once--as quickly as possible. In the meantime, send some coffee into the
breakfast-room--breakfast itself must wait until we return. Make haste,
Kitteridge."

Selwood turned on her with a doubtful look.

"You--you aren't going down there?" he asked.

"Of course I am!" she answered. "Do you think I should wait here--wondering
what had happened? We will all go--come and have some coffee, both of you,
while we wait for the car."

The two followed her into the breakfast-room and silently drank the
coffee which she presently poured out for them. She, too, was silent,
but when she had left the room to make ready for the drive Mr. Tertius
turned to Selwood.

"You heard--what?" he asked.

"Nothing definite," answered Selwood. "All I heard was that Mr.
Herapath was there, and there was something seriously wrong, and would
we go down at once."

Mr. Tertius made no comment. He became thoughtful and abstracted, and
remained so during the journey down to Kensington. Peggie, too, said
nothing as they sped along; as for Selwood, he was wondering what had
happened, and reflecting on this sudden stirring up of mystery. There was
mystery within that car--in the person of Mr. Tertius. During his three
weeks' knowledge of the Herapath household Selwood had constantly wondered
who Mr. Tertius was, what his exact relationship was, what his position
really was. He knew that he lived in Jacob Herapath's house, but in a
sense he was not of the family. He seldom presented himself at Herapath's
table, he was rarely seen about the house; Selwood remembered seeing him
occasionally in Herapath's study or in Peggie Wynne's drawing-room. He had
learnt sufficient to know that Mr. Tertius had rooms of his own in the
house; two rooms in some upper region; one room on the ground-floor. Once
Selwood had gained a peep into that ground-floor room, and had seen that
it was filled with books, and that its table was crowded with papers, and
he had formed the notion that Mr. Tertius was some book-worm or antiquary,
to whom Jacob Herapath for some reason or other gave house-room. That
he was no relation Selwood judged from the way in which he was always
addressed by Herapath and by Peggie Wynne. To them as to all the servants
he was Mr. Tertius--whether that was his surname or not, Selwood did not
know.

There was nothing mysterious or doubtful about the great pile of buildings
at which the automobile presently stopped. They were practical and
concrete facts. Most people in London knew the famous Herapath Flats--they
had aroused public interest from the time that their founder began
building them.

Jacob Herapath, a speculator in real estate, had always cherished a
notion of building a mass of high-class residential flats on the most
modern lines. Nothing of the sort which he contemplated, he said,
existed in London--when the opportunity came he would show the building
world what could and should be done. The opportunity came when a parcel
of land in Kensington fell into the market--Jacob Herapath made haste to
purchase it, and he immediately began building on it. The result was a
magnificent mass of buildings which possessed every advantage and
convenience--to live in a Herapath flat was to live in luxury.
Incidentally, no one could live in one who was not prepared to pay a
rental of anything from five to fifteen hundred a year. The gross rental
of the Herapath Flats was enormous--the net profits were enough to make
even a wealthy man's mouth water. And Selwood, who already knew all
this, wondered, as they drove away, where all this wealth would go if
anything had really happened to its creator.

The entrance to the Herapath estate office was in an archway which led
to one of the inner squares of the great buildings. When the car stopped
at it, Selwood saw that there were police within the open doorway. One
of them, an inspector, came forward, looking dubiously at Peggie Wynne.
Selwood hastened out of the car and made for him.

"I'm Mr. Herapath's secretary--Mr. Selwood," he said, drawing the
inspector out of earshot. "Is anything seriously wrong?--better tell me
before Miss Wynne hears. He isn't--dead?"

The inspector gave him a warning look.

"That's it, sir," he answered in a low voice. "Found dead by the
caretaker in his private office. And it's here--Mr. Selwood, it's either
suicide or murder. That's flat!"

Selwood got his two companions inside the building and into a waiting-room.
Peggie turned on him at once.

"I see you know," she said. "Tell me at once what it is. Don't be afraid,
Mr. Selwood--I'm not likely to faint nor to go into hysterics. Neither is
Mr. Tertius. Tell us--is it the worst?"

"Yes," said Selwood. "It is."

"He is dead?" she asked in a low voice. "You are sure? Dead?"

Selwood bent his head by way of answer; when he looked up again the girl
had bent hers, but she quickly lifted it, and except that she had grown
pale, she showed no outward sign of shock or emotion. As for Mr.
Tertius, he, too, was calm--and it was he who first broke the silence.

"How was it?" he asked. "A seizure?"

Selwood hesitated. Then, seeing that he had to deal with two people who
were obviously in full control of themselves, he decided to tell the
truth.

"I'm afraid you must be prepared to hear some unpleasant news," he said,
with a glance at the inspector, who just then quietly entered the room.
"The police say it is either a case of suicide or of murder."

Peggie looked sharply from Selwood to the police official, and a sudden
flush of colour flamed into her cheeks.

"Suicide?" she exclaimed. "Never! Murder? That may be. Tell me what you
have found," she went on eagerly. "Don't keep things back!--don't you
see I want to know?"

The inspector closed the door and came nearer to where the three were
standing.

"Perhaps I'd better tell you what we do know," he said. "Our station was
rung up by the caretaker here at five minutes past eight. He said Mr.
Herapath had just been found lying on the floor of his private room, and
they were sure something was wrong, and would we come round. I came
myself with one of our plain-clothes men who happened to be in, and our
surgeon followed us a few minutes later. We found Mr. Herapath lying
across the hearthrug in his private room, quite dead. Close by----" He
paused and looked dubiously at Peggie. "The details are not pleasant,"
he said meaningly. "Shall I omit them?"

"No!" answered Peggie with decision. "Please omit nothing. Tell us
all."

"There was a revolver lying close by Mr. Herapath's right hand,"
continued the inspector. "One chamber had been discharged. Mr. Herapath
had been shot through the right temple, evidently at close quarters. I
should say--and our surgeon says--he had died instantly. And--I think
that's all I need say just now."

Peggie, who had listened to this with unmoved countenance, involuntarily
stepped towards the door.

"Let us go to him," she said. "I suppose he's still here?"

But there Selwood, just as involuntarily, asserted an uncontrollable
instinct. He put himself between the door and the girl.

"No!" he said firmly, wondering at himself for his insistence. "Don't!
There's no need for that--yet. You mustn't go. Mr. Tertius----"

"Better not just yet, miss," broke in the inspector. "The doctor is
still here. Afterwards, perhaps. If you would wait here while these
gentlemen go with me."

Peggie hesitated a moment; then she turned away and sat down.

"Very well," she said.

The inspector silently motioned the two men to follow him; with his hand
on the door Selwood turned again to Peggie.

"You will stay here?" he said. "You won't follow us?"

"I shall stay here," she answered. "Stop a minute--there's one thing
that should be thought of. My cousin Barthorpe----"

"Mr. Barthorpe Herapath has been sent for, miss--he'll be here
presently," replied the inspector. "The caretaker's telephoned to him.
Now gentlemen."

He led the way along a corridor to a room with which Selwood was
familiar enough--an apartment of some size which Jacob Herapath used as
a business office and kept sacred to himself and his secretary. When he
was in it no one ever entered that room except at Herapath's bidding;
now there were strangers in it who had come there unbidden, and Herapath
lay in their midst, silent for ever. They had laid the lifeless body on
a couch, and Selwood and Mr. Tertius bent over it for a moment before
they turned to the other men in the room. The dead face was calm enough;
there was no trace of sudden fear on it, no signs of surprise or anger
or violent passion.

"If you'll look here, gentlemen," said the police-inspector, motioning
them towards the broad hearthrug. "This is how things were--nothing had
been touched when we arrived. He was lying from there to here--he'd
evidently slipped down and sideways out of that chair, and had fallen
across the rug. The revolver was lying a few inches from his right hand.
Here it is."

He pulled open a drawer as he spoke and produced a revolver which he
carefully handled as he showed it to Selwood and Mr. Tertius.

"Have either of you gentlemen ever seen that before?" he asked. "I
mean--do you recognize it as having belonged to--him? You don't? Never
seen it before, either of you? Well, of course he might have kept a
revolver in his private desk or in his safe, and nobody would have
known. We shall have to make an exhaustive search and see if we can find
any cartridges or anything. However, that's what we found--and, as I
said before, one chamber had been discharged. The doctor here says the
revolver had been fired at close quarters."

Mr. Tertius, who had watched and listened with marked attention, turned
to the police surgeon.

"The wound may have been self-inflicted?" he asked.

"From the position of the body, and of the revolver, there is strong
presumption that it was," replied the doctor.

"Yet--it may not have been?" suggested Mr. Tertius, mildly.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. It was easy to see what his own
opinion was.

"It may not have been--as you say," he answered. "But if he was shot by
some other person--murdered, that is--the murderer must have been
standing either close at his side, or immediately behind him. Of this I
am certain--he was sitting in that chair, at his desk, when the shot was
fired."

"And--what would the immediate effect be?" asked Mr. Tertius.

"He would probably start violently, make as if to rise, drop forward
against the desk and gradually--but quickly--subside to the floor in the
position in which he was found," replied the doctor. "As he fell he
would relinquish his grip on the revolver--it is invariably a tight grip
in these cases--and it would fall--just where it was found."

"Still, there is nothing to disprove the theory that the revolver may
have been placed--where it was found?" suggested Mr. Tertius.

"Oh, certainly it may have been placed there!" said the doctor, with
another shrug of the shoulders. "A cool and calculating murderer may
have placed it there, of course."

"Just so," agreed Mr. Tertius. He remained silently gazing at the
hearthrug for a while; then he turned to the doctor again. "Now, how
long do you think Mr. Herapath had been dead when you were called to the
body?" he asked.

"Quite eight hours," answered the doctor promptly.

"Eight hours!" exclaimed Mr. Tertius. "And you first saw him at----"

"A quarter past eight," said the doctor. "I should say he died just
about midnight."

"Midnight!" murmured Mr. Tertius. "Midnight? Then----"

Before he could say more, a policeman, stationed in the corridor
outside, opened the door of the room, and glancing at his inspector,
announced the arrival of Mr. Barthorpe Herapath.




CHAPTER III

BARTHORPE TAKES CHARGE


The man who strode into the room as the policeman threw the door open for
him immediately made two distinct impressions on the inspector and the
doctor, neither of whom had ever seen him before. The first was that he
instantly conveyed a sense of alert coolness and self-possession; the
second that, allowing for differences of age, he was singularly like the
dead man who lay in their midst. Both were tall, well-made men; both were
clean-shaven; both were much alike as to feature and appearance. Apart
from the fact that Jacob Herapath was a man of sixty and grey-haired, and
his nephew one of thirty to thirty-five and dark-haired, they were very
much alike--the same mould of nose, mouth, and chin, the same strength of
form. The doctor noted this resemblance particularly, and he involuntarily
glanced from the living to the dead.

Barthorpe Herapath bent over his dead uncle for no more than a minute.
His face was impassive, almost stern as he turned to the others. He
nodded slightly to Mr. Tertius and to Selwood; then he gave his
attention to the officials.

"Yes?" he said inquiringly and yet with a certain tone of command. "Now
tell me all you know of this."

He stood listening silently, with concentrated attention, as the
inspector put him in possession of the facts already known. He made no
comment, asked no questions, until the inspector had finished; then he
turned to Selwood, almost pointedly ignoring Mr. Tertius.

"What is known of this in Portman Square, Mr. Selwood?" he inquired.
"Tell me, briefly."

Selwood, who had only met Barthorpe Herapath once or twice, and who had
formed an instinctive and peculiar dislike to him, for which he could
not account, accepted the invitation to be brief. In a few words he told
exactly what had happened at Jacob Herapath's house.

"My cousin is here, then?" exclaimed Barthorpe.

"Miss Wynne is in the larger waiting-room down the corridor," replied
Selwood.

"I will go to her in a minute," said Barthorpe. "Now, inspector, there
are certain things to be done at once. There will, of course, have to be
an inquest--your people must give immediate notice to the coroner.
Then--the body--that must be properly attended to--that, too, you will
see about. Before you go away yourself, I want you to join me in
collecting all the evidence we can get on the spot. You have one of your
detective staff here?--good. Now, have you searched--him?"

The inspector drew open a drawer in the front desk which occupied the
centre of the room, and pointed to some articles which lay within.

"Everything that we found upon him is in there," he answered. "You see
there is not much--watch and chain, pocket articles, a purse, some loose
money, a pocket-book, a cigar-case--that's all. One matter I should have
expected to find, we didn't find."

"What's that?" asked Barthorpe quickly.

"Keys," answered the inspector. "We found no keys on him--not even a
latch-key. Yet he must have let himself in here, and I understand from
the caretaker that he must have unlocked this door after he'd entered by
the outer one."

Barthorpe made no immediate answer beyond a murmur of perplexity.

"Strange," he said after a pause, during which he bent over the open
drawer. "However, that's one of the things to be gone into. Close that
drawer, lock it up, and for the present keep the key yourself--you and I
will examine the contents later. Now for these immediate inquiries. Mr.
Selwood, will you please telephone at once to Portman Square and tell
Kitteridge to send Mountain, the coachman, here--instantly. Tell
Kitteridge to come with him. Inspector, will you see to this arrangement
we spoke of, and also tell the caretaker that we shall want him
presently? Now I will go to my cousin."

He strode off, still alert, composed, almost bustling in his demeanour,
to the waiting-room in which they had left Peggie--a moment later,
Selwood, following him down the corridor, saw him enter and close the
door. And Selwood cursed himself for a fool for hating to think that
these two should be closeted together, for disliking the notion that
Barthorpe Herapath was Peggie Wynne's cousin--and now, probably, her
guardian protector. For during those three weeks in which he had been
Jacob Herapath's secretary, Selwood had seen a good deal of his
employer's niece, and he was already well over the verge of falling in
love with her, and was furious with himself for daring to think of a
girl who was surely one of the richest heiresses in London. He was angry
with himself, too, for disliking Barthorpe, for he was inclined to
cultivate common-sense, and common-sense coldly reminded him that he did
not know Barthorpe Herapath well enough to either like or dislike him.

Half an hour passed--affairs suggestive of the tragedy of the night went
on in the Herapath Estate Office. Two women in the garb of professional
nurses came quietly, and passed into the room where Herapath lay dead. A
man arrayed in dismal black came after them, summoned by the police who
were busy at the telephone as soon as Selwood had finished with it.
Selwood himself, having summoned Kitteridge and Mountain, hung about,
waiting. He heard the police talking in undertones of clues and
theories, and of a coroner's inquest, and the like; now and then he
looked curiously at Mr. Tertius, who had taken a seat in the hall and
was apparently wrapped in meditation. And still Barthorpe Herapath
remained closeted with Peggie Wynne.

A taxi drove up and deposited the butler and the coachman at the door.
Selwood motioned them inside.

"Mr. Barthorpe Herapath wants both of you," he said curtly. "I suppose
he will ask for you presently."

Kitteridge let out an anxious inquiry.

"The master, sir?" he exclaimed. "Is----"

"Good heavens!" muttered Selwood. "I--of course, you don't know. Mr.
Herapath is dead."

The two servants started and stared at each other. Before either could
speak Barthorpe Herapath suddenly emerged from the waiting-room and
looked round the hall. He beckoned to the inspector, who was talking in
low tones with the detective, at a little distance.

"Now, inspector," he said, "will you and your officer come in? And the
caretaker--and you, Kitteridge, and you, Mountain. Mr. Selwood, will you
come in, too?"

He stood at the door while those he had invited inside passed into the
room where Peggie still sat. And as he stood there, and Selwood wound up
the little procession, Mr. Tertius rose and also made as if to join the
others. Barthorpe stopped him by intruding himself between him and the
door.

"This is a private inquiry of my own, Mr. Tertius," he said, with a
meaning look.

Selwood, turning in sheer surprise at this announcement, so pointed and
so unmistakable, saw a faint tinge of colour mount to the elder man's
usually pale cheeks. Mr. Tertius stopped sharply and looked at Barthorpe
in genuine surprise.

"You do not wish me to enter--to be present?" he faltered.

"Frankly, I don't," said Barthorpe, with aggressive plainness. "There
will be a public inquiry--I can't stop you from attending that."

Mr. Tertius drew back. He stood for a moment staring hard at Barthorpe;
then, with a slight, scarcely perceivable bow, he turned away, crossed
the hall, and went out of the front door. And Barthorpe Herapath
laughed--a low, sneering laugh--and following the other men into the
waiting-room, locked the door upon those assembled there. As if he and
they were assembled on some cut-and-dried business matter, he waved them
all to chairs, and himself dropped into one at the head of the table,
close to that in which Peggie was sitting.

"Now, inspector," he began, "you and I must get what we may as well call
first information about this matter. There will be a vast amount of
special and particular investigation later on, but I want us, at the
very outset, while facts are fresh in the mind, to get certain
happenings clearly before us. And for this reason--I understand that the
police-surgeon is of opinion that my uncle committed suicide. With all
respect to him--I'm sorry he's gone before I could talk to him--that
theory cannot be held for an instant! My cousin, Miss Wynne, and I knew
our uncle far too well to believe that theory for a single moment, and
we shall combat it by every means in our power when the inquest is held.
No--my uncle was murdered! Now I want to know all I can get to know of
his movements last night. And first I think we'll hear what the
caretaker can tell us. Hancock," he continued, turning to an elderly man
who looked like an ex-soldier, "I understand you found my uncle's body?"

The caretaker, obviously much upset by the affairs of the morning,
pulled himself up to attention.

"I did, sir," he replied.

"What time was that?"

"Just eight o'clock, sir--that's my usual time for opening the office."

"Tell us exactly how you found him, Hancock."

"I opened the door of Mr. Herapath's private room, sir, to pull up the
blinds and open the window. When I walked in I saw him lying across the
hearth-rug. Then I noticed the--the revolver."

"And of course that gave you a turn. What did you do? Go into the room?"

"No, sir! I shut the door again, went straight to the telephone and rang
up the police-station. Then I waited at the front door till the
inspector there came along."

"Was the front door fastened as usual when you went to it at that time?"

"It was fastened as it always is, sir, by the latch. It was Mr. Herapath's
particular orders that it never should be fastened any other way at night,
because he sometimes came in at night, with his latch-key."

"Just so. Now these offices are quite apart and distinct from the rest
of the building--mark that, inspector! There's no way out of them into
the building, nor any way out of the building into them. In fact, the
only entrance into these offices is by the front door. Isn't that so,
Hancock?"

"That's quite so, sir--only that one door."

"No area entrance or side-door?"

"None, sir--nothing but that."

"And the only tenants in here--these offices--at night are you and your
wife, Hancock?"

"That's all, sir."

"Now, where are your rooms?"

"We've two rooms in the basement, sir--living-room and kitchen--and two
rooms on the top floor--a bedroom and a bathroom."

"On the top-floor. How many floors are there?"

"Well, sir, there's the basement--then there's this--then there's two
floors that's used by the clerks--then there's ours."

"That's to say there are two floors between your bedroom and this ground
floor?"

"Yes, sir--two."

"Very well. Now, about last night. What time did you and your wife go to
bed?"

"Eleven o'clock, sir--half an hour later than usual."

"You'd previously looked round, I suppose?"

"Been all round, sir--I always look into every room in the place last
thing at night--thoroughly."

"Are you and your wife sound sleepers?"

"Yes, sir--both of us. Good sleepers."

"You heard no sound after you got to bed?"

"Nothing, sir--neither of us."

"No recollection of hearing a revolver shot?--not even as if it were a
long way off?"

"No, sir--we never heard anything--nothing unusual, at any rate."

"You heard no sound of doors opening or being shut, nor of any
conveyance coming to the door?"

"No, sir, nothing at all."

"Well, one or two more questions, Hancock. You didn't go into the room
after first catching sight of the body? Just so--but you'd notice
things, even in a hurried glance. Did you notice any sign of a
struggle--overturned chair or anything?"

"No, sir. I did notice that Mr. Herapath's elbow chair, that he always
sat in at his desk, was pushed back a bit, and was a bit on one side as
it were. That was all."

"And the light--the electric light? Was that on?"

"No, sir."

"Then all you can tell us comes to this--that you never heard anything,
and had no notion of what was happening, or had happened, until you came
down in the morning?"

"Just so, sir. If I'd known what was going on, or had gone on, I should
have been down at once."

Barthorpe nodded and turned to the coachman.

"Now, Mountain," he said. "We want to hear your story. Be careful about
your facts--what you can tell us is probably of the utmost importance."




CHAPTER IV

THE PRESSMAN


The coachman, thus admonished, unconsciously edged his chair a little
nearer to the table at which Barthorpe Herapath sat, and looked
anxiously at his interrogator. He was a little, shrewd-eyed fellow, and
it seemed to Selwood, who had watched him carefully during the informal
examination to which Barthorpe had subjected the caretaker, that he had
begun to think deeply over some new presentiment of this mystery which
was slowly shaping itself in his mind.

"I understand, Mountain, that you fetched Mr. Herapath from the House of
Commons last night?" began Barthorpe. "You fetched him in the brougham,
I believe?"

"Yes, sir," answered the coachman. "Mr. Herapath always had the brougham
at night--and most times, too, sir. Never took kindly to the motor,
sir."

"Where did you meet him, Mountain?"

"Usual place, sir--in Palace Yard--just outside the Hall."

"What time was that?"

"Quarter past eleven, exactly, sir--the clock was just chiming the
quarter as he came out."

"Was Mr. Herapath alone when he came out?"

"No sir. He came out with another gentleman--a stranger to me, sir. The
two of 'em stood talking a bit a yard or two away from the brougham."

"Did you hear anything they said?"

"Just a word or two from Mr. Herapath, sir, as him and the other
gentleman parted."

"What were they?--tell us the words, as near as you can remember."

"Mr. Herapath said, 'Have it ready for me tomorrow, and I'll look in at
your place about noon.' That's all, sir."

"What happened then?"

"The other gentleman went off across the Yard, sir, and Mr. Herapath came
to the brougham, and told me to drive him to the estate office--here,
sir."

"You drove him up to this door, I suppose?"

"No, sir. Mr. Herapath never was driven up to the door--he always got
out of the brougham in the road outside and walked up the archway. He
did that last night."

"From where you pulled up could you see if there was any light in these
offices?"

"No, sir--I pulled up just short of the entrance to the archway."

"Did Mr. Herapath say anything to you when he got out?"

"Yes, sir. He said he should most likely be three-quarters of an hour
here, and that I'd better put a rug over the mare and walk her about."

"Then I suppose he went up the archway. Now, did you see anybody about
the entrance? Did you see any person waiting as if to meet him? Did he
meet anybody?"

"I saw no one, sir. As soon as he'd gone up the archway I threw a rug
over the mare and walked her round and round the square across the
road."

"You heard and saw nothing of him until he came out again?"

"Nothing, sir."

"And how long was he away from you?"

"Nearer an hour than three-quarters, sir."

"Were you in full view of the entrance all that time?"

"No, sir, I wasn't. Some of the time I was--some of it I'd my back to
it."

"You never saw any one enter the archway during the time Mr. Herapath
was in the office?"

"No, sir."

"All the same, some one could have come here during that time without
your seeing him?"

"Oh, yes, sir!"

"Well, at last Mr. Herapath came out. Where did he rejoin you?"

"In the middle of the road, sir--right opposite that statue in the
Square gardens."

"Did he say anything particular then?"

"No, sir. He walked sharply across, opened the door, said 'Home' and
jumped in."

"You didn't notice anything unusual about him?"

"Nothing, sir--unless it was that he hung his head down rather as he
came across--same as if he was thinking hard, sir."

"You drove straight home to Portman Square, then. What time did you get
there?"

"Exactly one o'clock, sir."

"You're certain about that time?"

"Certain, sir. It was just five minutes past one when I drove into our
mews."

"Now, then, be careful about this, Mountain. I want to know exactly what
happened when you drove up to the house. Tell us in your own way."

The coachman looked round amongst the listeners as if he were a little
perplexed. "Why, sir," he answered, turning back to Barthorpe, "there
was nothing happened! At least, I mean to say, there was nothing
happened that didn't always happen on such occasions--Mr. Herapath got
out of the brougham, shut the door, said 'Good night,' and went up the
steps, taking his latch-key out of his pocket as he crossed the
pavement, sir. That was all, sir."

"Did you actually see him enter the house?"

"No, sir," replied Mountain, with a decisive shake of the head. "I
couldn't say that I did that. I saw him just putting the key in the
latch as I drove off."

"And that's all you know?"

"That's all I know, sir--all."

Barthorpe, after a moment's hesitation, turned to the police-inspector.

"Is there anything that occurs to you?" he asked.

"One or two things occur to me," answered the inspector. "But I'm not
going to ask any questions now. I suppose all you want at present is to
get a rough notion of how things were last night?"

"Just so," assented Barthorpe. "A rough notion--that's it. Well,
Kitteridge, it's your turn. Who found out that Mr. Herapath wasn't in
the house this morning?"

"Charlesworth, sir--Mr. Herapath's valet," replied the butler. "He
always called Mr. Herapath at a quarter past seven every morning. When
he went into the bedroom this morning Mr. Herapath wasn't there, and the
bed hadn't been slept in. Then Charlesworth came and told me, sir, and
of course I went to the study at once, and then I saw that, wherever Mr.
Herapath might be then, he certainly had been home."

"You judged that from--what?" asked Barthorpe.

"Well, sir, it's been the rule to leave a supper-tray out for Mr.
Herapath. Not much, sir--whisky and soda, a sandwich or two, a dry
biscuit. I saw that he'd had something, sir."

"Somebody else might have had it--eh?"

"Yes, sir, but then you see, I'd had Mountain fetched by that time, and
he told me that he'd seen Mr. Herapath letting himself in at one
o'clock. So of course I knew the master had been in."

Barthorpe hesitated, seemed to ponder matters for a moment, and then
rose. "I don't think we need go into things any further just now," he
said. "You, Kitteridge, and you, Mountain, can go home. Don't talk--that
is, don't talk any more than is necessary. I suppose," he went on,
turning to the inspector when the two servants and the caretaker had
left the room. "I suppose you'll see to all the arrangements we spoke
of?"

"They're being carried out already," answered the inspector. "Of
course," he added, drawing closer to Barthorpe and speaking in lower
tones, "when the body's been removed, you'll join me in making a
thorough inspection of the room? We haven't done that yet, you know, and
it should be done. Wouldn't it be best," he continued with a glance at
Peggie and a further lowering of his voice, "if the young lady went back
to Portman Square?"

"Just so, just so--I'll see to it," answered Barthorpe. "You go and keep
people out of the way for a few minutes, and I'll get her off." He
turned to his cousin when the two officers had left the room and
motioned her to rise. "Now, Peggie," he said, "you must go home. I shall
come along there myself in an hour or two--there are things to be done
which you and I must do together. Mr. Selwood--will you take Miss Wynne
out to the car? And then, please, come back to me--I want your
assistance for a while."

Peggie walked out of the room and to the car without demur or comment.
But as she was about to take her seat she turned to Selwood.

"Why didn't Mr. Tertius come into the room just now?" she demanded.

Selwood hesitated. Until then he had thought that Peggie had heard the
brief exchange of words between Barthorpe and Mr. Tertius at the door.

"Didn't you hear what was said at the door when we were all coming in?"
he asked suddenly, looking attentively at her.

"I heard my cousin and Mr. Tertius talking, but I couldn't catch what
was said," she replied. "If you did, tell me--I want to know."

"Mr. Barthorpe Herapath refused to admit Mr. Tertius," said Selwood.

"Refused?" she exclaimed. "Refused?"

"Refused," repeated Selwood. "That's all I know."

Peggie sat down and gave him an enigmatic look.

"You, of course, will come back to the house when--when you've finished
here?" she said.

"I don't know--I suppose--really, I don't know," answered Selwood. "You
see, I--I, of course, don't know exactly where I am, now. I suppose I
must take my orders from--your cousin."

Peggie gave him another look, more enigmatic than the other.

"That's nonsense!" she said sharply. "Of course, you'll come. Do
whatever it is that Barthorpe wants just now, but come on to Portman
Square as soon as you've done it--I want you. Go straight home, Robson,"
she went on, turning to the chauffeur.

Selwood turned slowly and unwillingly back to the office door as the car
moved off. And as he set his foot on the first step a young man came
running up the entry--not hurrying but running--and caught him up and
hailed him.

"Mr. Selwood?" he said, pantingly. "You'll excuse me--you're Mr.
Herapath's secretary, aren't you?--I've seen you with him. I'm Mr.
Triffitt, of the _Argus_--I happened to call in at the police-station
just now, and they told me of what had happened here, so I rushed along.
Will you tell me all about it, Mr. Selwood?--it'll be a real scoop for
me--I'll hustle down to the office with it at once, and we'll have a
special out in no time. And whether you know it or not, that'll help the
police. Give me the facts, Mr. Selwood!"

Selwood stared at the ardent collector of news; then he motioned him to
follow, and led him into the hall to where Barthorpe Herapath was
standing with the police-inspector.

"This is a newspaper man," he said laconically, looking at Barthorpe.
"Mr. Triffitt, of the _Argus_. He wants the facts of this affair."

Barthorpe turned and looked the new-comer up and down. Triffitt, who had
almost recovered his breath, pulled out a card and presented it with a
bow. And Barthorpe suddenly seemed to form a conclusion.

"All right!" he said. "Mr. Selwood, you know all the facts. Take Mr.
Triffitt into that room we've just left, and give him a résumé of them.
And--listen! we can make use of the press. Mention two matters, which
seem to me to be of importance. Tell of the man who came out of the
House of Commons with my uncle last night--ask him if he'll come
forward. And, as my uncle must have returned to this office after he'd
been home, and as he certainly wouldn't walk here, ask for information
as to who drove him down to Kensington from Portman Square. Don't tell
this man too much--give him the bare outlines on how matters stand."

The reporter wrote at lightning speed while Selwood, who had some
experience of condensation, gave him the news he wanted. Finding that he
was getting a first-class story, Triffitt asked no questions and made no
interruptions. But when Selwood was through with the account, he looked
across the table with a queer glance of the eye.

"I say!" he said. "This is a strange case!"

"Why so strange?" asked Selwood.

"Why? Great Scott!--I reckon it's an uncommonly strange case," exclaimed
Triffitt. "It's about a dead certainty that Herapath was in his own
house at Portman Square at one o'clock, isn't it?"

"Well?" said Selwood.

"And yet according to the doctor who examined him at eight o'clock he'd
been dead quite eight hours!" said Triffitt. "That means he died at
twelve o'clock--an hour before he's supposed to have been at his house!
Queer! But all the queerer, all the better--for me! Now I'm off--for the
present. This'll be on the streets in an hour, Mr. Selwood. Nothing like
the press, sir!"

Therewith he fled, and the secretary suddenly found himself confronting
a new idea. If the doctor was right and Jacob Herapath had been shot
dead at midnight, how on earth could he possibly have been in Portman
Square at one o'clock, an hour later?




CHAPTER V

THE GLASS AND THE SANDWICH


Mr. Tertius, dismissed in such cavalier fashion by Barthorpe Herapath,
walked out of the estate office with downcast head--a superficial
observer might have said that he was thoroughly crestfallen and
brow-beaten. But by the time he had reached the road outside, the two
faint spots of colour which had flushed his cheeks when Barthorpe turned
him away had vanished, and he was calm and collected enough when, seeing
a disengaged taxi-cab passing by, he put up his hand and hailed it. The
voice which bade the driver go to Portman Square was calm enough,
too--Mr. Tertius had too much serious work immediately in prospect to
allow himself to be disturbed by a rudeness.

He thought deeply about that work as the taxi-cab whirled him along; he
was still thinking about it when he walked into the big house in Portman
Square. In there everything was very quiet. The butler was away at
Kensington; the other servants were busily discussing the mystery of
their master in their own regions. No one was aware that Mr. Tertius had
returned, for he let himself into the house with his own latch-key, and
went straight into Herapath's study. There, if possible, everything was
still quieter--the gloom of the dull November morning seemed to be
doubly accentuated in the nooks and corners; there was a sense of
solitude which was well in keeping with Mr. Tertius's knowledge of what
had happened. He looked at the vacant chair in which he had so often
seen Jacob Herapath sitting, hard at work, active, bustling, intent on
getting all he could out of every minute of his working day, and he
sighed deeply.

But in the moment of sighing Mr. Tertius reflected that there was no
time for regret. It was a time--his time--for action; there was a thing
to do which he wanted to do while he had the room to himself. Therefore
he went to work, carefully and methodically. For a second or two he
stood reflectively looking at the supper tray which still stood on the
little table near the desk. With a light, delicate touch he picked up
the glass which had been used and held it up to the light. He put it
down again presently, went quietly out of the study to the dining-room
across the hall, and returned at once with another glass precisely
similar in make and pattern to the one which he had placed aside. Into
that clear glass he poured some whisky, afterwards mixing with it some
soda-water from the syphon--this mixture he poured away into the soil of
a flower-pot which stood in the window. And that done he placed the
second glass on the tray in the place where the first had stood, and
picking up the first, in the same light, gingerly fashion, he went
upstairs to his own rooms at the top of the house.

Five minutes later Mr. Tertius emerged from his rooms. He then carried
in his hand a small, square bag, and he took great care to handle it
very carefully as he went downstairs and into the square. At the corner
of Orchard Street he got another taxi-cab and bade the driver go to
Endsleigh Gardens. And during the drive he took the greatest pains to
nurse the little bag on his knee, thereby preserving the equilibrium of
the glass inside it.

Ringing the bell of one of the houses in Endsleigh Gardens, Mr. Tertius
was presently confronted by a trim parlourmaid, whose smile was ample
proof that the caller was well-known to her.

"Is the Professor in, Mary?" asked Mr. Tertius. "And if he is, is he
engaged?"

The trim parlourmaid replied that the Professor was in, and that she
hadn't heard that he was particularly engaged, and she immediately
preceded the visitor up a flight or two of stairs to a door, which in
addition to being thickly covered with green felt, was set in flanges of
rubber--these precautions being taken, of course, to ensure silence in
the apartment within. An electric bell was set in the door; a moment or
two elapsed before any response was made to the parlourmaid's ring. Then
the door automatically opened, the parlourmaid smiled at Mr. Tertius and
retired; Mr. Tertius walked in; the door closed softly behind him.

The room in which the visitor found himself was a large and lofty one,
lighted from the roof, from which it was also ventilated by a patent
arrangement of electric fans. Everything that met the view betokened
science, order, and method. The walls, destitute of picture or ornament,
were of a smooth neutral tinted plaster; where they met the floor the
corners were all carefully rounded off so that no dust could gather in
cracks and crevices; the floor, too, was of smooth cement; there was no
spot in which a speck of dust could settle in improper peace. A series
of benches ran round the room, and gave harbourings to a collection of
scientific instruments of strange appearance and shape; two large
tables, one at either end of the room, were similarly equipped. And at a
desk placed between them, and just then occupied in writing in a
note-book, sat a large man, whose big muscular body was enveloped in a
brown holland blouse or overall, fashioned something like a smock-frock
of the old-fashioned rural labourer. He lifted a colossal, mop-like head
and a huge hand as Mr. Tertius stepped across the threshold, and his
spectacled eyes twinkled as their glance fell on the bag which the
visitor carried so gingerly.

"Hullo, Tertius!" exclaimed the big man, in a deep, rich voice. "What
have you got there? Specimens?"

Mr. Tertius looked round for a quite empty space on the adjacent bench,
and at last seeing one, set his bag down upon it, and sighed with
relief.

"My dear Cox-Raythwaite!" he said, mopping his forehead with a bandanna
handkerchief which he drew from the tail of his coat. "I am thankful to
have got these things here in--I devoutly trust!--safety. Specimens?
Well, not exactly; though, to be sure, they may be specimens of--I don't
quite know what villainy yet. Objects?--certainly! Perhaps, my dear
Professor, you will come and look at them."

The Professor slowly lifted his six feet of muscle and sinew out of his
chair, picked up a briar pipe which lay on his desk, puffed a great
cloud of smoke out of it, and lounged weightily across the room to his
visitor.

"Something alive?" he asked laconically. "Likely to bite?"

"Er--no!" replied Mr. Tertius. "No--they won't bite. The fact is," he
went on, gingerly opening the bag, "this--er--this, or these are they."

Professor Cox-Raythwaite bent his massive head and shoulders over the
little bag and peered narrowly into its obscurity. Then he started.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "A glass tumbler! And--is it a sandwich? Why,
what on earth----"

He made as if to pull the glass out of the bag, and Mr. Tertius hastily
seized the great hand in an agony of apprehension.

"My dear Cox-Raythwaite!" he said. "Pray don't! Allow me--presently.
When either of these objects is touched it must be in the most, quite
the most, delicate fashion. Of course, I know you have a fairy-like
gentleness of touch--but don't touch these things yet. Let me explain.
Shall we--suppose we sit down. Give me--yes--give me one of your
cigars."

The Professor, plainly mystified, silently pointed to a cigar box which
stood on a corner of his desk, and took another look into the bag.

"A sandwich--and a glass!" he murmured reflectively. "Um! Well?" he
continued, going back to his chair and dropping heavily into it. "And
what's it all about, Tertius? Some mystery, eh?"

Mr. Tertius drew a whiff or two of fragrant Havana before he replied.
Then he too dropped into a chair and pulled it close to his friend's
desk.

"My dear Professor!" he said, in a low, thrilling voice, suggestive of
vast importance, "I don't know whether the secret of one of the most
astounding crimes of our day may not lie in that innocent-looking
bag--or, rather, in its present contents. Fact! But I'll tell you--you
must listen with your usual meticulous care for small details. The truth
is--Jacob Herapath has, I am sure, been murdered!"

"Murdered!" exclaimed the Professor. "Herapath? Murder--eh? Now then,
slow and steady, Tertius--leave out nothing!"

"Nothing!" repeated Mr. Tertius solemnly. "Nothing! You shall hear
all. And this it is--point by point, from last night until--until
the present moment. That is--so far as I know. There may have been
developments--somewhere else. But this is what I know."

When Mr. Tertius had finished a detailed and thorough-going account of
the recent startling discovery and subsequent proceedings, to all of
which Professor Cox-Raythwaite listened in profound silence, he rose,
and tip-toeing towards the bag, motioned his friend to follow him.

"Now, my dear sir," he said, whispering in his excitement as if he
feared lest the very retorts and crucibles and pneumatic troughs should
hear him, "Now, my dear sir, I wish you to see for yourself. First of
all, the glass. I will take it out myself--I know exactly how I put it
in. I take it out--thus! I place it on this vacant space--thus. Look for
yourself, my dear fellow. What do you see?"

The Professor, watching Mr. Tertius's movements with undisguised
interest, took off his spectacles, picked up a reading-glass, bent down
and carefully examined the tumbler.

"Yes," he said, after a while, "yes, Tertius, I certainly see distinct
thumb and finger-marks round the upper part of this glass. Oh, yes--no
doubt of that!"

"Allow me to take one of your clean specimen slides," observed Mr.
Tertius, picking up a square of highly polished glass. "There! I place
this slide here and upon it I deposit this sandwich. Now, my dear
Cox-Raythwaite, favour me by examining the sandwich even more closely
than you did the glass--if necessary."

But the Professor shook his head. He clapped Mr. Tertius on the
shoulder.

"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Good! Pooh!--no need for care there. The
thing's as plain as--as I am. Good, Tertius, good!"

"You see it?" said Mr. Tertius, delightedly.

"See it! Good Lord, why, who could help see it?" answered the Professor.
"Needs no great amount of care or perception to see that, as I said. Of
course, I see it. Glad you did, too!"

"But we must take the greatest care of it," urged Mr. Tertius. "The most
particular care. That's why I came to you. Now, what can we do? How
preserve this sandwich--just as it is?"

"Nothing easier," replied the Professor. "We'll soon fix that. We'll put
it in such safety that it will still be a fresh thing if it remains
untouched until London Bridge falls down from sheer decay."

He moved off to another part of the laboratory, and presently returned
with two objects, one oblong and shallow, the other deep and square,
which on being set down before Mr. Tertius proved to be glass boxes,
wonderfully and delicately made, with removable lids that fitted into
perfectly adjusted grooves.

"There, my dear fellow," he said. "Presently I will deposit the glass in
that, and the sandwich in this. Then I shall adjust and seal the lids in
such a fashion that no air can enter these little chambers. Then through
those tiny orifices I shall extract whatever air is in them--to the most
infinitesimal remnant of it. Then I shall seal those orifices--and there
you are. Whoever wants to see that sandwich or that glass will find both
a year hence--ten years hence--a century hence!--in precisely the same
condition in which we now see them. And that reminds me," he continued,
as he turned away to his desk and picked up his pipe, "that reminds me,
Tertius--what are you going to do about these things being seen?
They'll have to be seen, you know. Have you thought of the police--the
detectives?"

"I have certainly thought of both," replied Mr. Tertius. "But--I think
not yet, in either case. I think one had better await the result of the
inquest. Something may come out, you know."

"Coroners and juries," observed the Professor oracularly, "are good at
finding the obvious. Whether they get at the mysteries and the
secrets----"

"Just so--just so!" said Mr. Tertius. "I quite apprehend you. All the
same, I think we will see what is put before the coroner. Now, what
point suggests itself to you, Cox-Raythwaite?"

"One in particular," answered the Professor. "Whatever medical evidence
is called ought to show without reasonable doubt what time Herapath
actually met his death."

"Quite so," said Mr. Tertius gravely. "If that's once established----"

"Then, of course, your own investigation, or suggestion, or theory about
that sandwich will be vastly simplified," replied the Professor.
"Meanwhile, you will no doubt take some means of observing--eh?"

"I shall use every means to observe," said Mr. Tertius with a significant
smile, which was almost a wink. "Of that you may be--dead certain!"

Then he left Professor Cox-Raythwaite to hermetically seal up the glass
and the sandwich, and quitting the house, walked slowly back to Portman
Square. As he turned out of Oxford Street into Orchard Street the
newsboys suddenly came rushing along with the _Argus_ special.




CHAPTER VI

THE TAXI-CAB DRIVER


Mr. Tertius bought a copy of the newspaper, and standing aside on the
pavement, read with much interest and surprise the story which
Triffitt's keen appetite for news and ready craftsmanship in writing had
so quickly put together. Happening to glance up from the paper in the
course of his reading, he observed that several other people were
similarly employed. The truth was that Triffitt had headed his column:
"MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF MR. HERAPATH, M.P. IS IT SUICIDE OR MURDER?"--and
as this also appeared in great staring letters on the contents bills
which the newsboys were carrying about with them, and as Herapath had
been well known in that district, there was a vast amount of interest
aroused thereabouts by the news. Indeed, people were beginning to
chatter on the sidewalks, and at the doors of the shops. And as Mr.
Tertius turned away in the direction of Portman Square, he heard one
excited bystander express a candid opinion.

"Suicide?" exclaimed this man, thrusting his paper into the hands of a
companion. "Not much! Catch old Jacob Herapath at that game--he was a
deuced deal too fond of life and money! Murder, sir--murder!--that's the
ticket--murder!"

Mr. Tertius went slowly homeward, head bent and eyes moody. He let
himself into the house; at the sound of his step in the hall Peggie
Wynne looked out of the study. She retreated into it at sight of Mr.
Tertius, and he followed her and closed the door. Looking narrowly at
her, he saw that the girl had been shedding tears, and he laid his hand
shyly yet sympathetically on her arm. "Yes," he said quietly, "I've been
feeling like that ever since--since I heard about things. But I don't
know--I suppose we shall feel it more when--when we realize it more, eh?
Just now there's the other thing to think about, isn't there?"

Peggie mopped her eyes and looked at him. He was such a quiet,
unobtrusive, inoffensive old gentleman that she wondered more than ever
why Barthorpe had refused to admit him to the informal conference.

"What other thing?" she asked.

Mr. Tertius looked round the room--strangely empty now that Jacob
Herapath's bustling and strenuous presence was no longer in it--and
shook his head.

"There's one thought you mustn't permit yourself to harbour for a moment,
my dear," he answered. "Don't even for a fraction of time allow yourself
to think that my old friend took his own life! That's--impossible."

"I don't," said Peggie. "I never did think so. It is, as you say,
impossible. I knew him too well to believe that. So, of course,
it's----"

"Murder," assented Mr. Tertius. "Murder! I heard a man in the street
voice the same opinion just now. Of course! It's the only opinion. Yet
in the newspaper they're asking which it was. But I suppose the
newspapers must be--sensational."

"You don't mean to say it's in the newspapers already?" exclaimed
Peggie.

Mr. Tertius handed to her the _Argus_ special, which he had carried
crumpled up in his hand.

"Everybody's reading it out there in the streets," he said. "It's
extraordinary, now, how these affairs seem to fascinate people.
Yes--it's all there. That is, of course, as far as it's gone."

"How did the paper people come to know all this?" asked Peggie, glancing
rapidly over Triffitt's leaded lines.

"I suppose they got it from the police," replied Mr. Tertius. "I don't
know much about such matters, but I believe the police and the Press are
in constant touch. Of course, it's well they should be--it attracts
public notice. And in cases like this, public notice is an excellent
thing. We shall have to hear--and find out--a good deal before we get at
the truth in this case, my dear."

Peggie suddenly flung down the newspaper and looked inquiringly at the
old man.

"Mr. Tertius," she said abruptly, "why wouldn't Barthorpe let you come
into that room down there at the office this morning?"

Mr. Tertius did not answer this direct question at once. He walked away
to the window and stood looking out into the square for a while. When
at last he spoke his voice was singularly even and colourless. He might
have been discussing a question on which it was impossible to feel any
emotion.

"I really cannot positively say, my dear," he replied. "I have known, of
course, for some time that Mr. Barthorpe Herapath is not well disposed
towards me. I have observed a certain coldness, a contempt, on his part.
I have been aware that he has resented my presence in this house. And I
suppose he felt that as I am not a member of the family, I had no right
to sit in council with him and with you."

"Not a member of the family!" exclaimed Peggie. "Why, you came here soon
after I came--all those years ago!"

"I have dwelt under Jacob Herapath's roof, in this house, fifteen
years," said Mr. Tertius, reflectively. "Fifteen years!--yes. Yes--Jacob
and I were--good friends."

As he spoke the last word a tear trickled from beneath Mr. Tertius's
spectacles and ran down into his beard, and Peggie, catching sight of
it, impulsively jumped from her seat and kissed him affectionately.

"Never mind, Mr. Tertius!" she said, patting his shoulders. "You and I
are friends, too, anyway. I don't like Barthorpe when he's like that--I
hate that side of him. And anyhow, Barthorpe doesn't matter--to me. I
don't suppose he matters to anything--except himself."

Mr. Tertius gravely shook his head.

"Mr. Barthorpe Herapath may matter a great deal, my dear," he remarked.
"He is a very forceful person. I do not know what provision my poor
friend may have made, but Barthorpe, you will remember, is his nephew,
and, I believe, his only male relative. And in that case----"

Mr. Tertius was just then interrupted by the entrance of a footman who
came in and looked inquiringly at Peggie.

"There's a taxi-cab driver at the door, miss," he announced. "He says he
would like to speak to some one about the news in the paper about--about
the master, miss."

Peggie looked at Mr. Tertius. And Mr. Tertius quickly made a sign to the
footman.

"Bring the man in at once," he commanded. And, as if to lose no time, he
followed the footman into the hall, and at once returned, conducting a
young man who carried a copy of the _Argus_ in his hand. "Yes?" he said,
closing the door behind them and motioning the man to a seat. "You wish
to tell us something! This lady is Miss Wynne--Mr. Herapath's niece. You
can tell us anything you think of importance. Do you know anything,
then?"

The taxi-cab driver lifted the _Argus_.

"This here newspaper, sir," he answered. "I've just been reading of
it--about Mr. Herapath, sir."

"Yes," said Mr. Tertius gently. "Yes?"

"Well, sir--strikes me as how I drove him, sir, this morning," answered
the driver. "Gentleman of his appearance, anyway, sir--that's a fact!"

Mr. Tertius glanced at Peggie, who was intently watching the caller.

"Ah!" he said, turning again to the driver, "you think you drove either
Mr. Herapath or a gentleman of his appearance this morning. You did not
know Mr. Herapath by sight, then?"

"No, sir. I've only just come into this part--came for the first time
yesterday. But I'm as certain----"

"Just tell us all about it," said Mr. Tertius, interrupting him. "Tell
us in your own way. Everything, you know."

"Ain't so much to tell, sir," responded the driver. "All the same,
soon's I'd seen this piece in the paper just now I said to myself, 'I'd
best go round to Portman Square and tell what I do know,' I says. And
it's like this, sir--I come on this part yesterday--last night it was.
My taxi belongs to a man as keeps half a dozen, and he put me on to
night work, this end of Oxford Street. Well, it 'ud be just about a
quarter to two this morning when a tall, well-built gentleman comes out
of Orchard Street and made for my cab. I jumps down and opens the door
for him. 'You know St. Mary Abbot's Church, Kensington?' he says as he
got in. 'Drive me down there and pull up at the gate.' So, of course, I
ran him down, and there he got out, give me five bob, and off he went.
That's it, sir."

"And when he got out, which way did he go?" asked Mr. Tertius.

"West, sir--along the High Street, past the Town Hall," promptly
answered the driver. "And there he crossed the road. I see him cross,
because I stopped there a minute or two after he'd got out, tinkering at
my engine."

"Can you tell us what this gentleman was like in appearance?" asked Mr.
Tertius.

"Well, sir, not so much as regards his face," answered the driver. "I
didn't look at him, not particular, in that way--besides, he was wearing
one of them overcoats with a big fur collar to it, and he'd the collar
turned high up about his neck and cheeks, and his hat--one of them
slouched, soft hats, like so many gentlemen wears nowadays sir--was well
pulled down. But from what bit I see of him, sir, I should say he was a
fresh-coloured gentleman."

"Tall and well built, you say?" observed Mr. Tertius.

"Yes, sir--fine-made gentleman--pretty near six feet, I should have
called him," replied the driver. "Little bit inclined to stoutness,
like."

Mr. Tertius turned to Peggie.

"I believe you have some recent photographs of Mr. Herapath," he said.
"You might fetch them and let me see if our friend here can recognize
them. You didn't notice anything else about your fare?" he went on,
after Peggie had left the room. "Anything that excited your attention,
eh?"

The driver, after examining the pattern of the carpet for one minute and
studying the ceiling for another, slowly shook his head. But he then
suddenly started into something like activity.

"Yes, there was, sir, now I come to think of it!" he exclaimed. "I
hadn't thought of it until now, but now you mention it, there was. I
noticed he'd a particularly handsome diamond ring on his left hand--an
extra fine one, too, it was."

"Ah!" said Mr. Tertius. "A very fine diamond ring on his left hand? Now,
how did you come to see that?"

"He rested that hand on the side of the door as he was getting in, sir,
and I noticed how it flashed," answered the driver. "There was a lamp
right against us, you see, sir."

"I see," said Mr. Tertius. "He wasn't wearing gloves, then?"

"He hadn't a glove on that hand, sir. He was carrying some papers in
it--a sort of little roll of papers."

"Ah!" murmured Mr. Tertius. "A diamond ring--and a little roll of
papers." He got up from his chair and put a hand in his pocket. "Now, my
friend," he went on, chinking some coins as he withdrew it, "you haven't
told this to any one else, I suppose?"

"No, sir," answered the driver. "Came straight here, sir."

"There's a couple of sovereigns for your trouble," said Mr. Tertius,
"and there'll be more for you if you do what I tell you to do. At
present--that is, until I give you leave--don't say a word of this to a
soul. Not even to the police--yet. In fact, not a word to them until I
say you may. Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to open it--I shall
know where to find you. If you want me, keep an eye open for me in the
square outside, or in the street. When the young lady comes back with
the photographs, don't mention the ring to her. This is a very queer
business, and I don't want too much said just yet. Do as I tell you, and
I'll see you're all right. Understand?"

The driver pocketed his sovereigns, and touched his forehead with a
knowing look.

"All right, sir," he said. "I understand. Depend on me, sir--I shan't
say a word without your leave."

Peggie came in just then with a half a dozen cabinet photographs in her
hand. One by one she exhibited them to the driver.

"Do you recognize any of these?" she asked.

The driver shook his head doubtingly until Peggie showed him a
half-length of her uncle in outdoor costume. Then his eyes lighted up.

"Couldn't swear as to the features, miss," he exclaimed. "But I'd take
my 'davy about the coat and the hat! That's what the gentleman was
wearing as I drove this morning--take my Gospel oath on it."

"He recognizes the furred overcoat and the soft hat," murmured Mr.
Tertius. "Very good--very good! All right, my man--we are much obliged
to you."

He went out into the hall with the driver, and had another word in
secret with him before the footman opened the door. As the door closed
Mr. Tertius turned slowly back to the study. And as he turned he
muttered a word or two and smiled cynically.

"A diamond ring!" he said. "Jacob Herapath never wore a diamond ring in
his life!"




CHAPTER VII

IS THERE A WILL?


When Triffitt hurried off with his precious budget of news Selwood
lingered on the step of the office watching his retreating figure, and
wondering about the new idea which the reporter had put into his mind.
It was one of those ideas which instantly arouse all sorts of vague,
sinister possibilities, but Selwood found himself unable to formulate
anything definite out of any of them. Certainly, if Mr. Herapath died
at, or before, twelve o'clock midnight, he could not have been in
Portman Square at one o'clock in the morning! Yet, according to all the
evidence, he had been there, in his own house, in his own study. His
coachman had seen him in the act of entering the house; there was proof
that he had eaten food and drunk liquor in the house. The doctor must
have made a mistake--and yet, Selwood remembered, he had spoken very
positively. But if he had not made a mistake?--what then? How could
Jacob Herapath be lying dead in his office at Kensington and nibbling at
a sandwich in Portman Square at one and the same hour? Clearly there was
something wrong, something deeply mysterious, something----

At that point of his surmisings and questionings Selwood heard himself
called by Barthorpe Herapath, and he turned to see that gentleman
standing in the hall dangling a bunch of keys, which Selwood instantly
recognized.

"We have just found these keys," said Barthorpe. "You remember the
inspector said he found no keys in my uncle's pockets? We found these
pushed away under some loose papers on the desk. It looks as if he'd put
them on the desk when he sat down, and had displaced them when he fell
out of his chair. Of course, they're his--perhaps you recognize them?"

"Yes," answered Selwood, abruptly. "They're his."

"I want you to come with me while I open his private safe," continued
Barthorpe. "At junctures like these there are always things that have got
to be done. Now, did you ever hear my uncle speak of his will--whether
he'd made one, and, if so, where he'd put it? Hear anything?"

"Nothing," replied Selwood. "I never heard him mention such a thing."

"Well, between ourselves," said Barthorpe, "neither did I. I've done all
his legal work for him for a great many years--ever since I began to
practice, in fact--and so far as I know, he never made a will. More than
once I've suggested that he should make one, but like most men who are
in good health and spirits, he always put it off. However, we must look
over his papers both here and at Portman Square."

Selwood made no comment. He silently followed Barthorpe into the
private room in which his late employer had so strangely met his death.
The body had been removed by that time, and everything bore its usual
aspect, save for the presence of the police inspector and the detective,
who were peering about them in the mysterious fashion associated with
their calling. The inspector was looking narrowly at the fastenings of
the two windows and apparently debating the chances of entrance and exit
from them; the detective, armed with a magnifying glass, was examining
the edges of the door, the smooth backs of chairs, even the surface of
the desk, presumably for finger-marks.

"I shan't disturb you," said Barthorpe, genially. "Mr. Selwood and I
merely wish to investigate the contents of this safe. There's no
likelihood of finding what I'm particularly looking for in any of his
drawers in that desk," he continued, turning to Selwood. "I knew enough
of his habits to know that anything that's in there will be of a purely
business nature--referring to the estate. If he did keep anything that's
personal here, it'll be in that safe. Now, which is the key? Do you
know?"

He handed the bunch of keys to Selwood. And Selwood, who was feeling
strangely apathetic about the present proceedings, took them mechanically
and glanced carelessly at them. Then he started.

"There's a key missing!" he exclaimed, suddenly waking into interest. "I
know these keys well enough--Mr. Herapath was constantly handing them to
me. There ought to be six keys here--the key of this safe, the key of
the safe at Portman Square, the latch-key for this office, the key of
this room, the latch-key of the house, and a key of a safe at the Alpha
Safe Deposit place. That one--the Safe Deposit key--is missing."

Barthorpe knitted his forehead, and the two police officials paused in
their tasks and drew near the desk at which Selwood was standing.

"Are you certain of that?" asked Barthorpe.

"Sure!" answered Selwood. "As I say, I've been handling these keys every
day since I came to Mr. Herapath."

"When did you handle them last?"

"Yesterday afternoon: not so very long before Mr. Herapath went down to
the House. That was in Portman Square. He gave them to me to get some
papers out of the safe there."

"Was that Safe Deposit key there at that time?"

"They were all there--all six. I'm certain of it," asserted Selwood.
"This is the key of this safe," he went on, selecting one.

"Open the safe, then," said Barthorpe. "Another safe at the Alpha, eh?"
he continued, musingly. "I never knew he had a safe there. Did you ever
know him to use it?"

"I've been to it myself," answered Selwood. "I took some documents there
and deposited them, two days ago. There's not very much in this safe,"
he went on, throwing open the door. "It's not long since I tidied it
out--at his request. So far as I know, there are no private papers of
any note there. He never made much use of this safe--in my presence, at
any rate."

"Well, we'll see what there is, anyhow," remarked Barthorpe. He began to
examine the contents of the safe methodically, taking the various papers
and documents out one by one and laying them in order on a small table
which Selwood wheeled up to his side. Within twenty minutes he had gone
through everything, and he began to put the papers back.

"No will there," he murmured. "We'll go on to Portman Square now, Mr.
Selwood. After all, it's much more likely that he'd keep his will in the
safe at his own house--if he made one. But I don't believe he ever made
a will."

Mr. Tertius and Peggie Wynne were still in the study when Barthorpe and
Selwood drove up to the house. The driver of the taxi-cab had just gone
away, and Mr. Tertius was discussing his information with Peggie.
Hearing Barthorpe's voice in the hall he gave her a warning glance.

"Quick!" he said hurriedly. "Attend to what I say! Not a word to your
cousin about the man who has just left us. At present I don't want Mr.
Barthorpe Herapath to know what he told us. Be careful, my dear--not a
word! I'll tell you why later on--but at present, silence--strict
silence!"

Barthorpe Herapath came bustling into the room, followed by Selwood,
who, as it seemed to Peggie, looked utterly unwilling for whatever task
might lay before him. At sight of Mr. Tertius, Barthorpe came to a
sudden halt and frowned.

"I don't want to discuss matters further, Mr. Tertius," he said coldly.
"I thought I had given you a hint already. My cousin and I have private
matters to attend to, and I shall be obliged if you'll withdraw. You've
got private rooms of your own in this house, I believe--at any rate,
until things are settled--and it will be best if you keep to them."

Mr. Tertius, who had listened to this unmoved, turned to Peggie.

"Do you wish me to go away?" he asked quietly.

Barthorpe turned on him with an angry scowl.

"It's not a question of what Miss Wynne wishes, but of what I order," he
burst out. "If you've any sense of fitness, you'll know that until my
uncle's will is found and his wishes ascertained I'm master here, Mr.
Tertius, and----"

"You're not my master, Barthorpe," exclaimed Peggie, with a sudden flash
of spirit. "I know what my uncle's wishes were as regards Mr. Tertius,
and I intend to respect them. I've always been mistress of this house
since my uncle brought me to it, and I intend to be until I find I've no
right to be. Mr. Tertius, you'll please to stop where you are!"

"I intend to," said Mr. Tertius, calmly. "I never had any other
intention. Mr. Barthorpe Herapath, I believe, will hardly use force to
compel me to leave the room."

Barthorpe bit his lips as he glanced from one to the other.

"Oh!" he said. "So that's how things are? Very good, Mr. Tertius. No, I
shan't use physical force. But mind I don't use a little moral force--a
slight modicum of that would be enough for you, I'm thinking!"

"Do I understand that you are using threatening language to me?" asked
Mr. Tertius, mildly.

Barthorpe sneered, and turned to Selwood.

"We'll open this safe now," he said. "You know which is the key, I
suppose," he went on, glaring at Peggie, who had retreated to the
hearthrug and was evidently considerably put out by her cousin's
behaviour. "I suppose you never heard my uncle mention a will? We've
searched his private safe at the office and there's nothing there.
Personally, I don't believe he ever made a will--I never heard of it.
And I think he'd have told me if--"

Mr. Tertius broke in upon Barthorpe's opinions with a dry cough.

"It may save some unnecessary trouble if I speak at this juncture," he
said. "There is a will."

Barthorpe's ruddy cheeks paled in spite of his determined effort to
appear unconcerned. He twisted round on Mr. Tertius with a startled eye
and twitching lips.

"You--you say there is a will!" he exclaimed. "You say--what do you know
about it?"

"When it was made, where it was made, where it now is," answered Mr.
Tertius.

"Where it now is!" repeated Barthorpe. "Where it now--is! And where is
it, I should like to know?"

Mr. Tertius, who had gone up to Peggie, laid his hand reassuringly on
her arm.

"Don't be afraid, my dear," he whispered. "Perhaps," he continued,
glancing at Barthorpe, "I had better tell you when and where it was
made. About six months ago--in this room. One day Mr. Herapath called me
in here. He had his then secretary, Mr. Burchill, with him. He took a
document out of a drawer, told us that it was his will, signed it in our
joint presence, and we witnessed his signature in each other's presence.
He then placed the will in an envelope, which he sealed. I do not know
the terms of the will--but I know where the will is."

Barthorpe's voice sounded strangely husky as he got out one word:

"Where?"

Mr. Tertius took Peggie by the elbow and led her across the room to a
recess in which stood an ancient oak bureau.

"This old desk," he said, "belonged, so he always told me, to Jacob's
great-grandfather. There is a secret drawer in it. Here it is--concealed
behind another drawer. You put this drawer out--so--and here is the
secret one. And here--where I saw Jacob Herapath put it--is the will."

Barthorpe, who had followed these proceedings with almost irrepressible
eagerness, thrust forward a shaking hand. But Mr. Tertius quietly handed
the sealed envelope to Peggie.

"This envelope," he remarked, "is addressed to Miss Wynne."

Barthorpe made an effort and controlled himself.

"Open it!" he said hoarsely. "Open it!"

Peggie fumbled with the seal of the envelope and then, with a sudden
impulse, passed it to Selwood.

"Mr. Selwood!" she exclaimed imploringly. "You--I can't. You open it,
and--"

"And let him read it," added Mr. Tertius.

Selwood, whose nerves had been strung to a high pitch of excitement by
this scene, hastily slit open the envelope, and drew out a folded sheet
of foolscap paper. He saw at a glance that there was very little to
read. His voice trembled slightly as he began a recital of the contents.

      "'This is the last will of me, Jacob Herapath, of 500,
    Portman Square, London, in the County of Middlesex. I
    give, devise, and bequeath everything of which I die
    possessed, whether in real or personal estate, absolutely
    to my niece, Margaret Wynne, now resident with me at the
    above address, and I appoint the said Margaret Wynne the
    sole executor of this my will. And I revoke all former
    wills and codicils. Dated this eighteenth day of April,
    1912.

                                           "'JACOB HERAPATH.'"

Selwood paused there, and a sudden silence fell--to be as suddenly
broken by a sharp question from Barthorpe.

"The Witnesses?" he said. "The witnesses!"

Selwood glanced at the further paragraph which he had not thought it
necessary to read.

"Oh, yes!" he said. "It's witnessed all right." And he went on reading.

      "'Signed by the testator in the presence of us both
    present at the same time who in his presence and in the
    presence of each other have hereunto set our names as
    witnesses.

      "'JOHN CHRISTOPHER TERTIUS, of 500, Portman Square,
            London: Gentleman.

      "'FRANK BURCHILL, of 331, Upper Seymour Street, London:
            Secretary.'"

As Selwood finished, he handed the will to Peggie, who in her turn
hastily gave it to Mr. Tertius. For a moment nobody spoke. Then
Barthorpe made a step forward.

"Let me see that!" he said, in a strangely quiet voice. "I don't want to
handle it--hold it up!"

For another moment he stood gazing steadily, intently, at the signatures
at the foot of the document. Then, without a word or look, he twisted
sharply on his heel, and walked swiftly out of the room and the house.




CHAPTER VIII

THE SECOND WITNESS


If any close observer had walked away with Barthorpe Herapath from the
house in Portman Square and had watched his face and noted his manner,
that observer would have said that his companion looked like a man who was
either lost in a profound day-dream or had just received a shock that had
temporarily deprived him of all but the mechanical faculties. And in point
of strict fact, Barthorpe was both stunned by the news he had just
received and plunged into deep speculation by a certain feature of it. He
hurried along, scarcely knowing where he was going--but he was thinking
all the same. And suddenly he pulled himself up and found that he had
turned down Portman Street and was already in the thick of Oxford Street's
busy crowds. A passer-by into whom he jostled in his absent-mindedness
snarled angrily, bidding him look where he was going--that pulled
Barthorpe together and he collected his wits, asking himself what he
wanted. The first thing that met his gaze on this recovery was a little
Italian restaurant and he straightway made for the door.

"This is what I want," he muttered. "Some place in which to sit down and
think calmly."

He slipped into a quiet corner as soon as he had entered the restaurant,
summoned a waiter with a glance, and for a moment concentrated his
attention on the bill of fare which the man put before him. That slight
mental exercise restored him; when the waiter had taken his simple order
and gone away, Barthorpe was fully himself again. And finding himself in
as satisfactory a state of privacy as he could desire, with none to
overlook or spy on him, he drew from an inner pocket a letter-case which
he had taken from Jacob Herapath's private safe at the estate office and
into which he had cast a hurried glance before leaving Kensington for
Portman Square.

From this letter-case he now drew a letter, and as he unfolded it he
muttered a word or two.

"Frank Burchill, 331, Upper Seymour Street," he said. "Um--but not Upper
Seymour Street any longer, I think. Now let's see what it all is--what
it all means I've got to find out."

The sheet of paper which he was handling was of the sort used by
typists, but the letter itself was written by hand, and Barthorpe
recognized the penmanship as that of his uncle's ex-secretary, Burchill,
second witness to the will which had just been exhibited to him. Then he
read, slowly and carefully, what Burchill had written to Jacob
Herapath--written, evidently, only a few days previously. For there was
the date, plain enough.

                                          "35c, Calengrove Mansions,
                                                 "Maida Vale, W.
                                             "_November 11th_, 19--.

    "DEAR SIR,

      "I don't know that I am particularly surprised that you
    have up to now entirely ignored my letters of the 1st and
    the 5th instant. You probably think that I am not a
    person about whom any one need take much trouble; a mean
    cur, perhaps, who can do no more than snap at a mastiff's
    heels. I am very well aware (having had the benefit of a
    year's experience of your character and temperament) that
    you have very little respect for unmoneyed people and are
    contemptuous of their ability to interfere with the
    moneyed. But in that matter you are mistaken. And to put
    matters plainly, it will pay you far better to keep me a
    friend than to transform me into an enemy. Therefore I
    ask you to consider well and deeply the next sentence of
    this letter--which I will underline.

      "I am in full possession of the secret which you have
    taken such vast pains to keep for fifteen years.

      "I think you are quite competent to read my meaning, and
    I now confidently expect to hear that you will take
    pleasure in obliging me in the way which I indicated to
    you in my previous letters.

                        "Yours faithfully,

                                             "FRANK BURCHILL."

Barthorpe read this communication three times, pausing over every
sentence, seeking to read the meanings, the implications, the subtly
veiled threat. When he folded the square sheet and replaced it in the
letter-case he half spoke one word:

"Blackmail!"

Then, staring in apparent idleness about the little restaurant, with its
gilt-framed mirrors, its red, plush-covered seats, its suggestion of
foreign atmosphere and custom, he idly drummed the tips of his fingers
on the table, and thought. Naturally, he thought of the writer of the
letter. Of course, he said to himself, of course he knew Burchill.
Burchill had been Jacob Herapath's private secretary for rather more
than a year, and it was now about six months since Jacob had got rid of
him. He, Barthorpe, remembered very well why Jacob had quietly dismissed
Burchill. One day Jacob had said to him, with a dry chuckle:

"I'm getting rid of that secretary of mine--it won't do."

"What won't do?" Barthorpe had asked.

"He's beginning to make eyes at Peggie," Jacob had answered with another
chuckle, "and though Peggie's a girl of sense, that fellow's too good
looking to have about a house. I never ought to have had him. However--he
goes."

Barthorpe, as he ate the cutlets and sipped the half-bottle of claret
which the waiter presently brought him, speculated on these facts and
memories. He was not very sure about Burchill's antecedents: he believed
he was a young man of good credentials and high respectability--personally,
he had always wondered why old Jacob Herapath, a practical business man,
should have taken as a private secretary a fellow who looked, dressed,
spoke, and behaved like a play-actor. As it all came within the scope of
things he mused on Burchill and his personal appearance, calling up the
ex-secretary's graceful and slender figure, his oval, olive-tinted face,
his large, dark, lustrous eyes, his dark, curling hair, his somewhat
affected dress, his tall, wide-brimmed hats, his taper fingers, his
big, wide-ended cravats. It had once amused Barthorpe--and many other
people--to see Jacob Herapath and his secretary together; nevertheless,
Jacob had always spoken of Burchill as being thoroughly capable,
painstaking, thorough and diligent. His airs and graces Jacob put down as
a young man's affectations--yet there came the time when they suited Jacob
no longer.

"I catch him talking too much to Peggie," he had added, in that
conversation of which Barthorpe was thinking. "Better get rid of him
before they pass the too-much stage."

So Burchill had gone, and Barthorpe had heard no more of him until now.
But what he had heard now was a revelation. Burchill had witnessed a
will of Jacob Herapath's, which, if good and valid and the only will in
existence, would leave him, Barthorpe, a ruined man. Burchill had
written a letter to Jacob Herapath asking for some favour, reward,
compensation, as the price of his silence about a secret. What secret?
Barthorpe could not even guess at it--but Burchill had said, evidently
knowing what he was talking about, that Jacob Herapath had taken vast
pains to keep it for fifteen years.

By the time Barthorpe had finished his lunch he had come to the
conclusion that there was only one thing for him to do. He must go
straight to Calengrove Mansions and interview Mr. Frank Burchill. In one
way or another he must make sure of him, or, rather--though it was
really the same thing--sure of what he could tell. And on the way there
he would make sure of something else--in order to do which he presently
commissioned a taxi-cab and bade its driver go first to 331, Upper
Seymour Street.

The domestic who answered Barthorpe's double knock at that house shook
her head when he designedly asked for Mr. Frank Burchill. Nobody of that
name, she said. But on being assured that there once had been a lodger
of that name in residence there, she observed that she would fetch her
mistress, and disappeared to return with an elderly lady who also shook
her head at sight of the caller.

"Mr. Burchill left here some time ago," she said. "Nearly six months. I
don't know where he is."

"Did he leave no address to which his letters were to be sent?" asked
Barthorpe, affecting surprise.

"He said there'd be no letters coming--and there haven't been," answered
the landlady. "And I've neither seen nor heard of him since he went."

Something in her manner suggested to Barthorpe that she had no desire to
renew acquaintance with her former lodger. This sent Barthorpe away well
satisfied. It was precisely what he wanted. The three people whom he had
left in Portman Square in all probability knew no other address than
this at which to seek for Burchill when he was wanted; they would seek
him there eventually and get no news. Luckily for himself, Barthorpe
knew where he was to be found, and he went straight off up Edgware Road
to find him.

Calengrove Mansions proved to be a new block of flats in the dip of
Maida Vale; 35c was a top flat in a wing which up to that stage of its
existence did not appear to be much sought after by would-be tenants. It
was some time before Barthorpe succeeded in getting an answer to his
ring and knock; when at last the door was opened Burchill himself looked
out upon him, yawning, and in a dressing-gown. And narrowly and
searchingly as Barthorpe glanced at Burchill he could not see a trace of
unusual surprise or embarrassment in his face. He looked just as any man
might look who receives an unexpected caller.

"Oh!" he said. "Mr. Barthorpe Herapath! Come in--do. I'm a bit late--a
good bit late, in fact. You see, I'm doing dramatic criticism now, and
there was an important _première_ last night at the Hyperion, and I had
to do a full column, and so--but that doesn't interest you. Come in,
pray."

He led the way into a small sitting-room, drew forward an easy-chair,
and reaching down a box of cigarettes from the mantelpiece offered its
contents to his visitor. Barthorpe, secretly wondering if all this
unconcerned behaviour was natural or merely a bit of acting, took a
cigarette and dropped into the chair.

"I don't suppose you thought of seeing me when you opened your door,
Burchill?" he remarked good-humouredly, as he took the match which his
host had struck for him. "Last man in the world you thought of seeing,
eh?"

Burchill calmly lighted a cigarette for himself before he answered.

"Well," he said at last, "I don't know--you never know who's going to
turn up. But to be candid, I didn't expect to see you, and I don't know
why you've come."

Barthorpe slowly produced the letter-case from his pocket, took
Burchill's letter from it, and held it before him.

"That's what brought me here," he said significantly. "That! Of course,
you recognize it."

Burchill glanced at the letter without turning a hair. If he was merely
acting, thought Barthorpe, he was doing it splendidly, and instead of
writing dramatic criticism he ought to put on the sock and buskins
himself. But somehow he began to believe that Burchill was not acting.
And he was presently sure of it when Burchill laughed--contemptuously.

"Oh!" said Burchill. "Ah! So Mr. Jacob Herapath employs legal
assistance--your assistance--in answering me? Foolish--foolish! Or,
since that is, perhaps, too strong a word--indiscreet. Indiscreet--and
unnecessary. Say so, pray, to Mr. Jacob Herapath."

Barthorpe remained silent a moment; then he put the letter back in the
case and gave Burchill a sharp steady look.

"Good gracious, man!" he said quietly. "Are you pretending? Or--haven't
you heard? Say--that--to Jacob Herapath? Jacob Herapath is dead!"

Burchill certainly started at that. What was more he dropped his
cigarette, and when he straightened himself from picking it up his face
was flushed a little.

"Upon my honour!" he exclaimed. "I didn't know. Dead! When? It must have
been sudden."

"Sudden!" said Barthorpe. "Sudden? He was murdered!"

There was no doubt that this surprised Burchill. At any rate, he showed
all the genuine signs of surprise. He stood staring at Barthorpe for a
full minute of silence, and when he spoke his voice had lost something
of its usual affectation.

"Murdered?" he said. "Murdered! Are you sure of that? You are? Good
heavens!--no, I've heard nothing. But I've not been out since two
o'clock this morning, so how could I hear? Murdered----" he broke off
sharply and stared at his visitor. "And you came to me--why?"

"I came to ask you if you remember witnessing my uncle's will," replied
Barthorpe promptly. "Give me a plain answer. Do you remember?"




CHAPTER IX

GREEK AGAINST GREEK


At this direct question, Burchill, who had been standing on the
hearthrug since Barthorpe entered the room, turned away and took a seat
in the corner of a lounge opposite his visitor. He gave Barthorpe a
peculiarly searching look before he spoke, and as soon as he replied
Barthorpe knew that here was a man who was not readily to be drawn.

"Oh," said Burchill, "so I am supposed to have witnessed a will made by
Mr. Jacob Herapath, am I?"

Barthorpe made a gesture of impatience.

"Don't talk rot!" he said testily. "A man either knows that he witnessed
a will or knows that he didn't witness a will."

"Excuse me," returned Burchill, "I don't agree with that proposition. I
can imagine it quite possible that a man may think he has witnessed a
will when he has done nothing of the sort. I can also imagine it just as
possible that a man may have really witnessed a will when he thought he
was signing some much less important document. Of course, you're a
lawyer, and I'm not. But I believe that what I have just said is much
more in accordance with what we may call the truth of life than what
you've said."

"If a man sees another man sign a document and witnesses the signature
together with a third man who had been present throughout, what would
you say was being done?" asked Barthorpe, sneeringly. "Come, now?"

"I quite apprehend your meaning," replied Burchill. "You put it very
cleverly."

"Then why don't you answer my question?" demanded Barthorpe.

Burchill laughed softly.

"Why not answer mine?" he said. "However, I'll ask it in another and
more direct form. Have you seen my signature as witness to a will made
by Jacob Herapath?"

"Yes," replied Barthorpe.

"Are you sure it was my signature?" asked Burchill.

Barthorpe lifted his eyes and looked searchingly at his questioner. But
Burchill's face told him nothing. What was more, he was beginning to
feel that he was not going to get anything out of Burchill that Burchill
did not want to tell. He remained silent, and again Burchill laughed.

"You see," he said, "I can suppose all sorts of things. I can suppose,
for example, that there's such a thing as forging a signature--two
signatures--three signatures to a will--or, indeed, to any other
document. Don't you think that instead of asking me a direct question
like this that you'd better wait until this will comes before the--is it
the Probate Court?--and then let some of the legal gentlemen ask me if
that--that!--is my signature? I'm only putting it to you, you know. But
perhaps you'd like to tell me--all about it?" He paused, looking
carefully at Barthorpe, and as Barthorpe made no immediate answer, he
went on speaking in a lower, softer tone. "All about it," he repeated
insinuatingly. "Ah!"

Barthorpe suddenly flung his cigarette in the hearth with a gesture that
implied decision.

"I will!" he exclaimed. "It may be the shortest way out. Very
well--listen, then. I tell you my uncle was murdered at his office
about--well, somewhere between twelve and three o'clock this morning.
Naturally, after the preliminaries were over, I wanted to find out
if he'd made a will--naturally, I say."

"Naturally, you would," murmured Burchill.

"I didn't believe he had," continued Barthorpe. "But I examined his safe
at the office, and I was going to examine that in his study at Portman
Square when Tertius said in the presence of my cousin, myself, and
Selwood, your successor, that there was a will, and produced one from a
secret drawer in an old bureau----"

"A secret drawer in an old bureau!" murmured Burchill. "How deeply
interesting for all of you!--quite dramatic. Yes?"

"Which, on being inspected," continued Barthorpe, "proved to be a
holograph----"

"Pardon," interrupted Burchill, "a holograph? Now, I am very ignorant.
What is a holograph?"

"A holograph will is a will entirely written in the handwriting of the
person who makes it," replied Barthorpe.

"I see. So this was written out by Mr. Jacob Herapath, and witnessed
by--whom?" asked Burchill.

"Tertius as first witness, and you as second," answered Barthorpe. "Now
then, I've told you all about it. What are you going to tell me?
Come--did you witness this will or not? Good gracious, man!--don't you
see what a serious thing it is?"

"How can I when I don't know the contents of the will?" asked Burchill.
"You haven't told me that--yet."

Barthorpe swallowed an exclamation of rage.

"Contents!" he exclaimed. "He left everything--everything!--to my
cousin! Everything to her."

"And nothing to you," said Burchill, accentuating his habitual drawl.
"Really, how infernally inconsiderate! Yes--now I see that it is
serious. But--only for you."

Barthorpe glared angrily at him and began to growl, almost threateningly.
And Burchill spoke, soothingly and quietly.

"Don't," he said. "It does no good, you know. Serious--yes. Most
serious--for you, as I said. But remember--only serious for you if the
will is--good. Eh?"

Barthorpe jumped to his feet and thrust his hands in his pockets. He
began to pace the room.

"Hang me if I know what you mean, Burchill!" he said. "Is that your
signature on that will or not?"

"How can I say until I see it?" asked Burchill, with seeming innocence.
"Let's postpone matters until then. By the by, did Mr. Tertius say that
it was my signature?"

"What do you mean!" exclaimed Barthorpe. "Why, of course, he said that
he and you witnessed the will!"

"Ah, to be sure, he would say so," assented Burchill. "Of course.
Foolish of me to ask. It's quite evident that we must postpone matters
until this will is--what do you call it?--presented, propounded--what is
it?--for probate. Let's turn to something else. My letter to your uncle,
for instance. Of course, as you've got it, you've read it."

Barthorpe sat down again and stared.

"You're a cool customer, Master Burchill!" he said. "By Jove, you are!
You're playing some game. What is it?"

Burchill smiled deprecatingly.

"What's your own?" he asked. "Or, if that's too pointed a question at
present, suppose we go back to--my letter? Want to ask me anything about
it?"

Barthorpe again drew the letter from the case. He affected to re-read
it, while Burchill narrowly watched him.

"What," asked Barthorpe at last, "what was it that you wanted my uncle
to oblige you with? A loan?"

"If it's necessary to call it anything," replied Burchill suavely, "you
can call it a--well, say a donation. That sounds better--it's more
dignified."

"I don't suppose it matters much what it's called," said Barthorpe
drily. "I should say, from the tone of your letter, that most people
would call it----"

"Yes, but not polite people," interrupted Burchill, "and you and I
are--or must be--polite. So we'll say donation. The fact is, I want to
start a newspaper--weekly--devoted to the arts. I thought your
uncle--now, unfortunately, deceased--would finance it. I didn't want
much, you know."

"How much?" asked Barthorpe. "The amount isn't stated in this letter."

"It was stated in the two previous letters," replied Burchill. "Oh, not
much. Ten thousand."

"The price of your silence, eh?" suggested Barthorpe.

"Dirt cheap!" answered Burchill.

Barthorpe folded up the letter once more and put it away. He helped
himself to another cigarette and lighted it before he spoke again. Then
he leaned forward confidentially.

"What is the secret?" he asked.

Burchill stated and assumed an air of virtuous surprise.

"My dear fellow!" he said. "That's against all the rules--all the rules
of----"

"Of shady society," sneered Barthorpe. "Confound it, man, what do you
beat about the bush so much for? Hang it, I've a pretty good notion of
you, and I daresay you've your own of me. Why can't you tell me?"

"You forget that I offered not to tell for--ten thousand pounds," said
Burchill. "Therefore I should want quite as much for telling. If you
carry ten thousand in cash on you----"

"Is there a secret?" asked Barthorpe. "Sober earnest, now?"

"I have no objection to answering that question," replied Burchill.
"There is!"

"And you want ten thousand pounds for it?" suggested Barthorpe.

"Pardon me--I want a good deal more for it, under the present much
altered circumstances," said Burchill quietly. "There is an old saying
that circumstances alter cases. It's true--they do. I would have taken
ten thousand pounds from your uncle to hold my tongue--true. But--the
case is altered by his death."

Barthorpe pondered over this definite declaration for a minute or two.
Then, lowering his voice, he said:

"Looks uncommonly like--blackmail! And that----"

"Pardon me again," interrupted Burchill. "No blackmail at all--in my
view. I happen to possess information of a certain nature, and----"

Barthorpe interrupted in his turn.

"The thing is," he said, "the only thing is--how long are you and I
going to beat about the bush? Are you going to tell me if you signed
that will I told you of?"

"Certainly not before I've seen it," answered Burchill promptly.

"Will you tell me then?"

"That entirely depends."

"On--what?"

"Circumstances!"

"Have the circumstances got anything to do with this secret?"

"Everything! More than anything--now."

"Now--what?"

"Now that Jacob Herapath is dead. Look here!" continued Burchill,
leaning forward and speaking impressively. "Take my counsel. Leave this
for the moment and come to see me--now, when? Tonight. Come tonight.
I've nothing to do. Come at ten o'clock. Then--I'll be in a position to
say a good deal more. How will that do?"

"That'll do," answered Barthorpe after a moment's consideration.
"Tonight, here, at ten o 'clock."

He got up and made for the door. Burchill got up too, and for a moment
both men glanced at each other. Then Burchill spoke.

"I suppose you've no idea who murdered your uncle?" he said.

"Not the slightest!" exclaimed Barthorpe. "Have you?"

"None! Of course--the police are on the go?"

"Oh, of course!"

"All right," said Burchill. "Tonight, then."

He opened the door for his visitor, nodded to him, as he passed out, and
when he had gone sat down in the easy chair which Barthorpe had vacated
and for half an hour sat immobile, thinking. At the end of that
half-hour he rose, went into his bedroom, made an elaborate toilet, went
out, found a taxi-cab, and drove off to Portman Square.




CHAPTER X

MR. BENJAMIN HALFPENNY


When Barthorpe Herapath left his cousin, Mr. Tertius, and Selwood in
company with the newly discovered will, and walked swiftly out of the
house and away from Portman Square, he passed without seeing it a quiet,
yet smartly appointed coupé brougham which came round the corner from
Portman Street and pulled up at the door which Barthorpe had just
quitted. From it at once descended an elderly gentleman, short, stout,
and rosy, who bustled up the steps of the Herapath mansion and appeared
to fume and fret until his summons was responded to. When the door was
opened to him he bustled inside at the same rate, rapped out the
inquiry, "Miss Wynne at home?--Miss Wynne at home?" several times
without waiting for a reply, and never ceased in his advance to the door
of the study, into which he precipitated himself panting and blowing, as
if he had run hard all the way from his original starting-point. The
three people standing on the hearthrug turned sharply and two of them
uttered cries which betokened pleasure mixed with relief.

"Mr. Halfpenny!" exclaimed Peggie, almost joyfully. "How good of you to
come!"

"We had only just spoken--were only just speaking of you," remarked Mr.
Tertius. "In fact--yes, Mr. Selwood and I were thinking of going round
to your offices to see if you were in town."

The short, stout, and rosy gentleman who, as soon as he had got well
within the room, began to unswathe his neck from a voluminous white silk
muffler, now completed his task and advancing upon Peggie solemnly
kissed her on both cheeks, held her away from him, looked at her, kissed
her again, and then patted her on the shoulder. This done, he shook
hands solemnly with Mr. Tertius, bowed to Selwood, took off his
spectacles and proceeded to polish them with a highly-coloured bandana
handkerchief which he produced from the tail of his overcoat. This
operation concluded, he restored the spectacles to his nose, sat down,
placed his hands, palm downwards, on his plump knees and solemnly
inspected everybody.

"My dear friends!" he said in a hushed, deep voice. "My dear, good
friends! This dreadful, awful, most afflicting news! I heard it but
three-quarters of an hour ago--at the office, to which I happened
by mere chance, to have come up for the day. I immediately ordered
out our brougham and drove here--to see if I could be of any use.
You will command me, my dear friends, in anything that I can do. Not
professionally, of course. No--in that respect you have Mr. Barthorpe
Herapath. But--otherwise."

Mr. Tertius looked at Peggie.

"I don't know whether we shan't be glad of Mr. Halfpenny's professional
services?" he said. "The truth is, Halfpenny, we were talking of seeing
you professionally when you came in. That's one truth--another is that a
will has been found--our poor friend's will, of course."

"God bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Halfpenny. "A will--our poor friend's
will--has been found! But surely, Barthorpe, as nephew, and solicitor--eh?"

Again Mr. Tertius looked at Peggie.

"I suppose we'd better tell Mr. Halfpenny everything," he remarked. "Of
course, Halfpenny, you'll understand that as soon as this dreadful
affair was discovered and the first arrangements had been made,
Barthorpe, as only male relative, began to search for a will. He
resented any interference from me and was very rude to me, but when he
came here and proposed to examine that safe, I told him at once that I
knew of a will and where it was, though I didn't know its terms. And I
immediately directed him to it, and we found it and read it a few
minutes ago with the result that Barthorpe at once quitted the
house--you must have passed him in the square."

"God bless us!" repeated Mr. Halfpenny. "I judge from that, then--but
you had better show me this document."

Mr. Tertius at once produced the will, and Mr. Halfpenny, rising from
his chair, marched across the room to one of the windows where he
solemnly half-chanted every word from start to finish. This performance
over, he carefully and punctiliously folded the document into its
original lines, replaced it in its envelope, and grasping this firmly in
his hand, resumed his seat and motioned everybody to attention.

"My dear Tertius!" he said. "Oblige me by narrating, carefully, briefly,
your recollection of the circumstances under which your signature to
this highly important document was obtained and made."

"Easily done," responded Mr. Tertius. "One night, some months ago, when
our poor friend was at work here with his secretary, a Mr. Frank
Burchill, he called me into the room, just as Burchill was about to
leave. He said: 'I want you two to witness my signature to a paper.'
He----"

"A moment," interrupted Mr. Halfpenny. "He said--'a paper.' Did he not
say 'my will'?"

"Not before the two of us. He merely said a paper. He produced the
paper--that paper, which you now hold. He let us see that it was covered
with writing, but we did not see what the writing was. He folded it
over, laid it, so folded, on that desk, and signed his name. Then we
both signed it in the blank spaces which he indicated: I first, then
Burchill. He then put it into an envelope--that envelope--and fastened
it up. As regards that part of the proceedings," said Mr. Tertius, "that
is all."

"There was, then, another part?" suggested Mr. Halfpenny.

"Yes," replied Mr. Tertius. "There was. Burchill then left--at once. I,
too, was leaving the room when Jacob called me back. When we were alone,
he said: 'That was my will that you've just witnessed. Never mind what's
in it--I may alter it, or some of it, some day, but I don't think I
shall. Now look here, I'm going to seal this envelope, and I'll show you
where I put it when it's sealed.' He then sealed the envelope in two
places, as you see, and afterwards, in my presence, placed it in a
secret drawer, which I'll show to you now. And that done, he said:
'There, Tertius, you needn't mention that to anybody, unless I happen to
be taken off suddenly.' And," concluded Mr. Tertius, as he motioned Mr.
Halfpenny to accompany him to the old bureau, "I never, of course, did
mention it until half an hour ago."

Mr. Halfpenny solemnly inspected the secret drawer, made no remark upon
it, and reseated himself.

"Now," he said, "this Mr. Frank Burchill--the other witness? He left our
old friend?"

"Some little time ago," replied Mr. Tertius.

"Still, we have his address on the will," said Mr. Halfpenny. "I shall
call on Mr. Burchill at once--as soon as I leave here. There is, of
course, no doubt as to the validity of this will. You said just now that
Barthorpe left you as soon as he had seen it. Now, what did Barthorpe
say about it?"

"Nothing!" answered Mr. Tertius. "He went away without a word--rushed
away, in fact."

Mr. Halfpenny shook his head with profound solemnity.

"I am not in the least surprised to hear that," he observed. "Barthorpe
naturally received a great shock. What I am surprised at is--the terms
of the will. Nothing whatever to Barthorpe--his only male relative--his
only brother's only son. Extraordinary! My dear," he continued, turning
to Peggie, "can you account for this? Do you know of anything, any
difference between them, anything at all which would make your uncle
leave his nephew out of his will?"

"Nothing!" answered Peggie. "And I'm very troubled about it. Does it
really mean that I get everything, and Barthorpe nothing?"

"That is the precise state of affairs," answered Mr. Halfpenny. "And it
is all the more surprising when we bear in mind that you two are the
only relations Jacob Herapath had, and that he was a rich man--a very
rich man indeed. However, he doubtless had his reasons. And now, as I
conclude you desire me to act for you, I shall take charge of this will
and lock it up in my safe as soon as I return to the office. On my way,
I shall call at Mr. Burchill's address and just have a word with him.
Tertius, you had better come with me. And--yes, there is another thing
that I should like to have done. Mr. Selwood--are you engaged on any
business?"

"No," replied Selwood, who was secretly speculating on the meaning of
the morning's strange events. "I have nothing to attend to."

"Then will you go to Mr. Barthorpe Herapath's office--in Craven Street,
I think?--and see him personally and tell him that Mr. Benjamin
Halfpenny is in town, has been acquainted with these matters by Mr.
Tertius and Miss Wynne, and would esteem it a favour if he would call
upon him before five o'clock. Thank you, Mr. Selwood. Now, Tertius, you
and I will attend to our business."

Left alone, Peggie Wynne suddenly realized that the world had become a
vastly different world to what it had seemed a few short hours before.
This room, into which Jacob Herapath, bustling and busy, would never
come again, was already a place of dread; nay, the whole house in
which she had spent so many years of comfort and luxury suddenly
assumed a strange atmosphere of distastefulness. It was true that her
uncle had never spent much time in the house. An hour or two in the
morning--yes, but by noon he had hurried off to some Committee at the
House of Commons, and in session time she had never seen him again
that day. But he had a trick of running in for a few minutes at
intervals during the day; he would come for a cup of tea; sometimes he
would contrive to dine at home; whether he was at home or not, his
presence, always alert, masterful, active, seemed to be everywhere in
the place. She could scarcely realize that she would never see him
again. And as she stood looking at his vacant chair she made an effort
to realize what it all really meant to her, and suddenly, for the
first time in her life, she felt the meaning of the usually vague
term--loneliness. In all practical essentials she was absolutely
alone. So far as she knew she had no relations in the world but
Barthorpe Herapath--and there was something--something shadowy and
undefinable--about Barthorpe which she neither liked nor trusted.
Moreover, she had caught a glimpse of Barthorpe's face as he turned
from looking at the will and hurried away, and what she had seen had
given her a strange feeling of fear and discomfort. Barthorpe, she
knew, was not the sort of man to be crossed or thwarted or balked of
his will, and now----

"Supposing Barthorpe should begin to hate me because all the money is
mine?" she thought. "Then--why, then I should have no one! No one of my
own flesh and blood, anyway. Of course, there's Mr. Tertius. But--I must
see Barthorpe. I must tell him that I shall insist on sharing--if it's
all mine, I can do that. And yet--why didn't Uncle Jacob divide it? Why
did he leave Barthorpe--nothing?"

Still pondering sadly over these and kindred subjects Peggie went
upstairs to a parlour of her own, a room in which she did as she liked
and made into a den after her own taste. There, while the November
afternoon deepened in shadow, she sat and thought still more deeply. And
she was still plunged in thought when Kitteridge came softly into the
room and presented a card. Peggie took it from the butler's salver and
glanced half carelessly at it. Then she looked at Kitteridge with some
concern.

"Mr. Burchill?" she said. "Here?"

"No, miss," answered Kitteridge. "Mr. Burchill desired me to present his
most respectful sympathy, and to say that if he could be of any service
to you or to the family, he begged that you would command him. His
address is on this card, miss."

"Very kind of him," murmured Peggie, and laid the card aside on her
writing-table. When Kitteridge had gone she picked it up and looked at
it again. Burchill?--she had been thinking of him only a few minutes
before the butler's entrance; thinking a good deal. And her thoughts had
been disquieted and unhappy. Burchill was the last man in the world that
she wished to have anything to do with, and the fact that his name
appeared on Jacob Herapath's will had disturbed her more than she would
have cared to admit.




CHAPTER XI

THE SHADOW


Mr. Halfpenny, conducting Mr. Tertius to the coupé brougham, installed
him in its further corner, got in himself and bade his coachman drive
slowly to 331, Upper Seymour Street.

"I said slowly," he remarked as they moved gently away, "because I
wanted a word with you before we see this young man. Tertius--what's the
meaning of all this?"

Mr. Tertius groaned dolefully and shook his head.

"There is so much, Halfpenny," he answered, "that I don't quite know
what you specifically mean by this. Do you mean----"

"I mean, first of all, Herapath's murder," said Mr. Halfpenny. "You
think it is a case of murder?"

"I'm sure it's a case of murder--cold, calculated murder," replied Mr.
Tertius, with energy. "Vile murder, Halfpenny."

"And, as far as you know, is there no clue?" asked the old lawyer.
"There's nothing said or suggested in the newspapers. Haven't you any
notion--hasn't Barthorpe any notion?"

Mr. Tertius remained silent for a while. The coupé brougham turned into
Upper Seymour Street.

"I think," he said at last, "yes, I think that when we've made this
call, I shall ask you to accompany me to my friend Cox-Raythwaite's, in
Endsleigh Gardens--you know him, I believe. I've already seen him this
morning and told him--something. When we get there, I'll tell it to you,
and he shall show you--something. After that, we'll hear what your legal
instinct suggests. It is my opinion, Halfpenny--I offer it with all
deference, as a layman--that great, excessive caution is necessary. This
case is extraordinary--very extraordinary. That is--in my opinion."

"It's an extraordinary thing that Jacob Herapath should have made that
will," murmured Mr. Halfpenny reflectively. "Why Barthorpe should be
entirely ignored is--to me--marvellous. And--it may be--significant. You
never heard of any difference, quarrel, anything of that sort, between
him and his uncle?"

"I have not the remotest notion as to what the relations were that
existed between the uncle and the nephew," replied Mr. Tertius. "And
though, as I have said, I knew that the will was in existence, I hadn't
the remotest idea, the faintest notion, of its contents until we took it
out of the sealed envelope an hour or so ago. But----" he paused and
shook his head meaningly.

"Well?" said Mr. Halfpenny.

"I'm very sure, knowing Jacob as I did, that he had a purpose in making
that will," answered Mr. Tertius. "He was not the man to do anything
without good reasons. I think we are here."

The landlady of No. 331 opened its door herself to these two visitors.
Her look of speculative interest on seeing two highly respectable
elderly gentlemen changed to one of inquisitiveness when she heard what
they wanted.

"No, sir," she answered. "Mr. Frank Burchill doesn't live here now. And
it's a queer thing that during the time he did live here and gave me
more trouble than any lodger I ever had, him keeping such strange hours
of a night and early morning, he never had nobody to call on him, as I
recollect of! And now here's been three gentlemen asking for him within
this last hour--you two and another gentleman. And I don't know where
Mr. Burchill lives, and don't want, neither!"

"My dear lady!" said Mr. Halfpenny, mildly and suavely. "I am sure we are
deeply sorry to disturb you--no doubt we have called you away from your
dinner. Perhaps, er, this"--here there was a slight chink of silver in
Mr. Halfpenny's hand, presently repeated in one of the landlady's--"will,
er, compensate you a little? But we are really anxious to see Mr.
Burchill--haven't you any idea where he's gone to live? Didn't he
leave an address for any letters that might come here?"

"He didn't, sir--not that he ever had many letters," answered the
landlady. "And I haven't the remotest notion. Of course, if I had I'd
give the address. But, as I said to the gentleman what was here not so
long ago, I've neither seen nor heard of Mr. Burchill since he left--and
that's six months since."

Mr. Halfpenny contrived to give his companion a nudge of the elbow.

"Is it, indeed, ma'am?" he said. "Ah! That gentleman who called, now?--I
think he must be a friend of ours, who didn't know we were coming. What
was he like, now, ma'am?"

"He was a tallish, fine-built gentleman," answered the landlady.
"Fresh-coloured, clean-shaved gentleman. And for that matter, he can't
be so far away--it isn't more than a quarter of an hour since he was
here. I'll ask my girl if she saw which way he went."

"Don't trouble, pray, ma'am, on my account," entreated Mr. Halfpenny.
"It's of no consequence. We're deeply obliged to you." He swept off his
hat in an old-fashioned obeisance and drew Mr. Tertius away to the coupé
brougham. "That was Barthorpe, of course," he said. "He lost no time,
you see, Tertius, in trying to see Burchill."

"Why should he want to see Burchill?" asked Mr. Tertius.

"Wanted to know what Burchill had to say about signing the will, of
course," replied Mr. Halfpenny. "Well--what next? Do you want me to see
Cox-Raythwaite with you?"

Mr. Tertius, who had seemed to be relapsing into a brown study on the
edge of the pavement, woke up into some show of eagerness. "Yes, yes!"
he said. "Yes, by all means let us go to Cox-Raythwaite. I'm sure that's
the thing to do. And there's another man--the chauffeur. But--yes, we'll
go to Cox-Raythwaite first. Tell your man to drive to the corner of
Endsleigh Gardens--the corner by St. Pancras Church."

Professor Cox-Raythwaite was exactly where Mr. Tertius had left him in
the morning, when the two visitors were ushered into his laboratory. And
for the second time that day he listened in silence to Mr. Tertius's
story. When it was finished, he looked at Mr. Halfpenny, whose solemn
countenance had grown more solemn than ever.

"Queer story, isn't it, Halfpenny?" he said laconically. "How does it
strike you?"

Mr. Halfpenny slowly opened his pursed-up lips.

"Queer?" he exclaimed. "God bless me!--I'm astounded! I--but let me see
these--these things."

"Sealed 'em up not so long ago--just after lunch," remarked the
Professor, lifting his heavy bulk out of his chair. "But you can see 'em
all right through the glass. There you are!" He led the way to a
side-table and pointed to the hermetically-sealed receptacles in which
he had safely bestowed the tumbler and the sandwich brought so gingerly
from Portman Square by Mr. Tertius. "The tumbler," he continued, jerking
a big thumb at it, "will have, of course, to be carefully examined by an
expert in finger-prints; the sandwich, so to speak, affords primary
evidence. You see--what there is to see, Halfpenny?"

Mr. Halfpenny adjusted his spectacles, bent down, and examined the
exhibits with scrupulous, absorbed interest. Again he pursed up his
lips, firmly, tightly, as if he would never open them again; when he did
open them it was to emit a veritable whistle which indicated almost as
much delight as astonishment. Then he clapped Mr. Tertius on the back.

"A veritable stroke of genius!" he exclaimed. "Tertius, my boy, you
should have been a Vidocq or a Hawkshaw! How did you come to think of
it? For I confess that with all my forty years' experience of Law,
I--well, I don't think I should ever have thought of it!"

"Oh, I don't know," said Mr. Tertius, modestly. "I--well, I looked--and
then, of course, I saw. That's all!"

Mr. Halfpenny sat down and put his hands on his knees.

"It's a good job you did see, anyway," he said, ruminatively; "an
uncommonly good job. Well--you're certain of what we may call the
co-relative factor to what is most obvious in that sandwich?"

"Absolutely certain," replied Mr. Tertius.

"And you're equally certain about the diamond ring?"

"Equally and positively certain!"

"Then," said Mr. Halfpenny, rising with great decision, "there is only
one thing to be done. You and I, Tertius, must go at once--at once!--to
New Scotland Yard. In fact, we will drive straight there. I happen
to know a man who is highly placed in the Criminal Investigation
Department--we will put our information before him. He will know
what ought to be done. In my opinion, it is one of those cases which
will require infinite care, precaution, and, for the time being,
secrecy--mole's work. Let us go, my dear friend."

"Want me--and these things?" asked the Professor.

"For the time being, no," answered Mr. Halfpenny. "Nor, at present, the
taxi-cab driver that Tertius has told us of. We'll merely tell what we
know. But take care of these--these exhibits, as if they were the apples
of your eyes, Cox-Raythwaite. They--yes, they may hang somebody!"

Half an hour later saw Mr. Halfpenny and Mr. Tertius closeted with a
gentleman who, in appearance, resembled the popular conception of a
country squire and was in reality as keen a tracker-down of wrong-doers
as ever trod the pavement of Parliament Street. And before Mr. Halfpenny
had said many words he stopped him.

"Wait a moment," he said, touching a bell at his side, "we're already
acquainted, of course, with the primary facts of this case, and I've
told off one of our sharpest men to give special attention to it. We'll
have him in."

The individual who presently entered and who was introduced to the two
callers as Detective-Inspector Davidge looked neither preternaturally
wise nor abnormally acute. What he really did remind Mr. Tertius of was
a gentleman of the better-class commercial traveller persuasion--he was
comfortable, solid, genial, and smartly if quietly dressed. And he and
the highly placed gentleman listened to all that the two visitors had
to tell with quiet and concentrated attention and did not even exchange
looks with each other. In the end the superior nodded as if something
satisfied him.

"Very well," he said. "Now the first thing is--silence. You two
gentlemen will not breathe a word of all this to any one. As you said
just now, Mr. Halfpenny, the present policy is--secrecy. There will be a
great deal of publicity during the next few days--the inquest, and so
on. We shall not be much concerned with it--the public will say that as
usual we are doing nothing. You may think so, too. But you may count on
this--we shall be doing a great deal, and within a very short time from
now we shall never let Mr. Barthorpe Herapath out of our sight until--we
want him."

"Just so," assented Mr. Halfpenny. He took Mr. Tertius away, and when he
had once more bestowed him in the coupé brougham, dug him in the ribs.
"Tertius!" he said, with something like a dry chuckle. "What an
extraordinary thing it is that people can go about the world unconscious
that other folks are taking a very close and warm interest in them! Now,
I'll lay a pound to a penny that Barthorpe hasn't a ghost of a notion
that he's already under suspicion. My idea of the affair, sir, is that
he has not the mere phantasm of such a thing. And yet, from now, as our
friend there observed, Master Barthorpe, sir, will be watched. Shadowed,
Tertius, shadowed!"

Barthorpe Herapath certainly had none of the notions of which Mr.
Halfpenny spoke. He spent his afternoon, once having quitted Burchill's
flat, in a businesslike fashion. He visited the estate office in
Kensington; he went to see the undertaker who had been charged with the
funeral arrangements; he called in at the local police-office and saw
the inspector and the detective who had first been brought into
connection with the case; he made some arrangements with the Coroner's
officer about the necessary inevitable inquest. He did all these things
in the fashion of a man who has nothing to fear, who is unconscious that
other men are already eyeing him with suspicion. And he was quite
unaware that when he left his office in Craven Street that evening he
was followed by a man who quietly attended him to his bachelor rooms in
the Adelphi, who waited patiently until he emerged from them to dine at
a neighbouring restaurant, who himself dined at the same place, and who
eventually tracked him to Maida Vale and watched him enter Calengrove
Mansions.




CHAPTER XII

FOR TEN PER CENT


Mr. Frank Burchill welcomed his visitor with easy familiarity--this might
have been a mere dropping-in of one friend to another, for the very
ordinary purpose of spending a quiet social hour before retiring for the
night. There was a bright fire on the hearth, a small smoking-jacket on
Burchill's graceful shoulders and fancy slippers on his feet; decanters
and glasses were set out on the table in company with cigars and
cigarettes. And by the side of Burchill's easy chair was a pile of
newspapers, to which he pointed one of his slim white hands as the two men
settled themselves to talk.

"I've been reading all the newspapers I could get hold of," he observed.
"Brought all the latest editions in with me after dinner. There's little
more known, I think, than when you were here this afternoon."

"There's nothing more known," replied Barthorpe. "That is--as far as I'm
aware."

Burchill took a sip at his glass and regarded Barthorpe thoughtfully
over its rim.

"In strict confidence," he said, "have you got any idea whatever on the
subject?"

"None!" answered Barthorpe. "None whatever! I've no more idea of who it
was that killed my uncle than I have of the name of the horse that'll
win the Derby of year after next! That's a fact. There isn't a clue."

"The police are at work, of course," suggested Burchill.

"Of course!" replied Barthorpe, with an unconcealed sneer. "And a lot of
good they are. Whoever knew the police to find out anything, except by a
lucky accident?"

"Just so," agreed Burchill. "But then--accidents, lucky or otherwise,
will happen. You can't think of anybody whose interest it was to get
your esteemed relative out of the way?"

"Nobody!" said Barthorpe. "There may have been somebody. We want to know
who the man was who came out of the House with him last night--so far we
don't know. It'll all take a lot of finding out. In the meantime----"

"In the meantime, you're much more concerned and interested in the will,
eh?" said Burchill.

"I'm much more concerned--being a believer in present necessities--in
hearing what you've got to say to me now that you've brought me here,"
answered Barthorpe, coolly. "What is it?"

"Oh, I've a lot to say," replied Burchill. "Quite a lot. But you'll have
to let me say it in my own fashion. And to start with, I want to ask you
a few questions. About your family history, for instance."

"I know next to nothing about my family history," said Barthorpe; "but
if my knowledge is helpful to what we--or I--want to talk about, fire
ahead!"

"Good!" responded Burchill. "Now, just tell me what you know about Mr.
Jacob Herapath, about his brother, your father, and about his sister,
who was, of course, Miss Wynne's mother. Briefly--concisely."

"Not so much," answered Barthorpe. "My grandfather was a medical
man--pretty well known, I fancy--at Granchester, in Yorkshire; I, of
course, never knew or saw him. He had three children. The eldest was
Jacob, who came to his end last night. Jacob left Granchester for
London, eventually began speculating in real estate, and became--what he
was. The second was Richard, my father. He went out to Canada as a lad,
and did there pretty much what Jacob did here in London----"

"With the same results?" interjected Burchill.

Barthorpe made a wry face.

"Unfortunately, no!" he replied. "He did remarkably well to a certain
point--then he made some most foolish and risky speculations in American
railroads, lost pretty nearly everything he'd made, and died a poorish
man."

"Oh--he's dead, then?" remarked Burchill.

"He's dead--years ago," replied Barthorpe. "He died before I came to
England. I, of course, was born out there. I----."

"Never mind you just now," interrupted Burchill. "Keep to the earlier
branches of the family. Your grandfather had one other child?"

"A daughter," assented Barthorpe. "I never saw her, either. However, I
know that her name was Susan. I also know that she married a man named
Wynne--my cousin's father, of course. I don't know who he was or
anything about him."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing--nothing at all: My Uncle Jacob never spoke of him to
me--except to mention that such a person had once existed. My cousin
doesn't know anything about him, either. All she knows is that her
father and mother died when she was about--I think--two years old, and
that Jacob then took charge of her. When she was six years old, he
brought her to live with him. That was about the time I myself came to
England."

"All right," said Burchill. "Now, we'll come to you. Tell about
yourself. It all matters."

"Well, of course, I don't know what you're getting at," replied
Barthorpe. "But I'm sure you do. Myself, eh? Well, I was put to the Law
out there in Canada. When my father died--not over well off--I wrote to
Uncle Jacob, telling him all about how things were. He suggested that I
should come over to this country, finish my legal training here, and
qualify. He also promised--if I suited him--to give me his legal work.
And, of course, I came."

"Naturally," said Burchill. "And that's--how long ago?"

"Between fifteen and sixteen years," answered Barthorpe.

"Did Jacob Herapath take you into his house?" asked Burchill, continuing
the examination which Barthorpe was beginning to find irksome as well as
puzzling. "I'm asking all this for good reasons--it's necessary, if you're
to understand what I'm going to tell you."

"Oh, as long as you're going to tell me something I don't mind telling you
anything you like to ask," replied Barthorpe. "That's what I want to be
getting at. No--he didn't take me into the house. But he gave me a very
good allowance, paid all my expenses until I got through my remaining
examinations and stages, and was very decent all around. No--I fixed up in
the rooms which I've still got--a flat in the Adelphi."

"But you went a good deal to Portman Square?"

"Why, yes, a good deal--once or twice a week, as a rule."

"Had your cousin--Miss Wynne--come there then?"

"Yes, she'd just about come. I remember she had a governess. Of course,
Peggie was a mere child then--about five or six. Must have been six,
because she's quite twenty-one now."

"And--Mr. Tertius?"

Burchill spoke the name with a good deal of subtle meaning, and
Barthorpe suddenly looked at him with a rising comprehension.

"Tertius?" he answered. "No--Tertius hadn't arrived on the scene then.
He came--soon after."

"How soon after?"

"I should say," replied Barthorpe, after a moment's consideration, "I
should say--from my best recollection--a few months after I came to
London. It was certainly within a year of my coming."

"You remember his coming?"

"Not particularly. I remember that he came--at first, I took it, as a
visitor. Then I found he'd had rooms of his own given him, and that he
was there as a permanency."

"Settled down--just as he has been ever since?"

"Just! Never any difference that I've known of, all these years."

"Did Jacob ever tell you who he was?"

"Never! I never remember my uncle speaking of him in any particular
fashion--to me. He was simply--there. Sometimes, you saw him; sometimes,
you didn't see him. At times, I mean, you'd meet him at dinner--other
times, you didn't."

Burchill paused for a while; when he asked his next question he seemed
to adopt a more particular and pressing tone.

"Now--have you the least idea who Tertius is?" he asked.

"Not the slightest!" affirmed Barthorpe. "I never have known who he is.
I never liked him--I didn't like his sneaky way of going about the
house--I didn't like anything of him--and he never liked me. I always
had a feeling--a sort of intuition--that he resented my presence--in
fact, my existence."

"Very likely," said Burchill, with a dry laugh. "Well--has it ever
struck you that there was a secret between Tertius and Jacob Herapath?"

Barthorpe started. At last they were coming to something definite.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "So--that's the secret you mentioned in that
letter?"

"Never mind," replied Burchill. "Answer my question."

"No, then--it never did strike me."

"Very well," said Burchill. "There is a secret."

"There is?"

"There is! And," whispered Burchill, rising and coming nearer to his
visitor, "it's a secret that will put you in possession of the whole of
the Herapath property! And--I know it."

Barthorpe had by this time realized the situation. And he was thinking
things over at a rapid rate. Burchill had asked Jacob Herapath for ten
thousand pounds as the price of his silence; therefore----

"And, of course, you want to make something out of your knowledge?" he
said presently.

"Of course," laughed Burchill. He opened a box of cigars, selected one
and carefully trimmed the end before lighting it. "Of course!" he
repeated. "Who wouldn't? Besides, you'll be in a position to afford me
something when you come into all that."

"The will?" suggested Barthorpe.

Burchill threw the burnt-out match into the fire.

"The will," he said slowly, "will be about as valuable as that--when
I've fixed things up with you. Valueless!"

"You mean it?" exclaimed Barthorpe incredulously. "Then--your signature?"

"Look here!" said Burchill. "The only thing between us is--terms! Fix
up terms with me, and I'll tell you the whole truth. And then--you'll
see!"

"Well--what terms?" demanded Barthorpe, a little suspiciously. "If you
want money down----"

"You couldn't pay in cash down what I want, nor anything like it," said
Burchill. "I may want an advance that you can pay--but it will only be
an advance. What I want is ten per cent. on the total value of Jacob
Herapath's property."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Barthorpe. "Why I believe he'll cut up for a
good million and a half!"

"That's about the figure--as I've reckoned it," assented Burchill. "But
you'll have a lot left when you've paid me ten per cent."

Barthorpe fidgeted in his chair.

"When did you find out this secret?" he asked.

"Got an idea of it just before I left Jacob, and worked it all out, to
the last detail, after I left," replied Burchill. "I tell you this for a
certainty--when I've told you all I know, you'll know for an absolute
fact, that the Herapath property is--yours!"

"Well!" said Barthorpe. "What do you want me to do?"

Burchill moved across to a desk and produced some papers.

"I want you to sign certain documents," he said, "and then I'll tell you
the whole story. If the story's no good, the documents are no good.
How's that?"

"That'll do!" answered Barthorpe. "Let's get to business."

It was one o'clock in the morning when Barthorpe left Calengrove
Mansions. But the eyes that had seen him enter saw him leave, and the
shadow followed him through the sleeping town until he, too, sought his
own place of slumber.




CHAPTER XIII

ADJOURNED


Ever since Triffitt had made his lucky scoop in connection with the
Herapath Mystery he had lived in a state of temporary glory, with strong
hopes of making it a permanent one. Up to the morning of the event, which
gave him a whole column of the _Argus_ (big type, extra leaded), Triffitt,
as a junior reporter, had never accomplished anything notable. As he was
fond of remarking, he never got a chance. Police-court cases--county-court
cases--fires--coroners' inquests--street accidents--they were all exciting
enough, no doubt, to the people actively concerned in them, but you never
got more than twenty or thirty lines out of their details. However, the
chance did come that morning, and Triffitt made the most of it, and
the news editor (a highly exacting and particular person) blessed him
moderately, and told him, moreover, that he could call the Herapath case
his own. Thenceforth Triffitt ate, drank, smoked, and slept with the
case; it was the only thing he ever thought of. But at half-past one on
the afternoon of the third day after what one may call the actual start
of the affair, Triffitt sat in a dark corner of a tea-shop in Kensington
High Street, munching ham sandwiches, sipping coffee, and thinking
lugubriously, if not despairingly. He had spent two and a half hours in
the adjacent Coroner's Court, listening to all that was said in evidence
about the death of Jacob Herapath, and he had heard absolutely nothing
that was not quite well known to him when the Coroner took his seat,
inspected his jurymen, and opened the inquiry. Two and a half hours, at
the end of which the court adjourned for lunch--and the affair was just
as mysterious as ever, and not a single witness had said a new thing, not
a single fresh fact had been brought forward out of which a fellow could
make good, rousing copy!

"Rotten!" mumbled Triffitt into his cup. "Extra rotten! Somebody's keeping
something back--that's about it!"

Just then another young gentleman came into the alcove in which Triffitt
sat disconsolate--a pink-cheeked young gentleman, who affected a tweed
suit of loud checks and a sporting coat, and wore a bit of feather in
the band of his rakish billycock. Triffitt recognized him as a
fellow-scribe, one of the youthful bloods of an opposition journal, whom
he sometimes met on the cricket-field; he also remembered that he had
caught a glimpse of him in the Coroner's Court, and he hastened to make
room for him.

"Hullo!" said Triffitt.

"What-ho!" responded the pink young gentleman. He beckoned knowingly to
a waitress, and looked at her narrowly when she came. "Got such a thing
as a muffin?" he asked.

"Muffins, sir--yes, sir," replied the waitress, "Fresh muffins."

"Pick me out a nice, plump, newly killed muffin" commanded Triffitt's
companion. "Leave it in its natural state--that is to say, cold--split
it in half put between the halves a thick, generous slice of that cold
ham I see on your counter, and produce it with a pot of fresh--and very
hot--China tea. That's all."

"Plenty too, I should think!" muttered Triffitt. "Fond of indigestion,
Carver?"

"I don't think you've ever been in Yorkshire, have you, Triffitt?" asked
Mr. Carver, settling himself comfortably. "You haven't had that
pleasure?--well, if you'd ever gone to a football match on a Saturday
afternoon in a Yorkshire factory district, you'd have seen men selling
muffin-and-ham sandwiches--fact! And I give you my word that if you want
something to fill you up during the day, something to tide over the
weary wait between breakfast and dinner, a fat muffin with a thick slice
of ham is the best thing I know."

"I don't want anything to fill me up," grunted Triffitt. "I want
something cheering--at present. I've been listening with all my ears for
something new in that blessed Herapath case all the morning, and, as you
know, there's been nothing!"

"Think so?" said Carver. "Um--I should have said there was a good deal,
now."

"Nothing that I didn't know, anyway," remarked Triffitt. "I got all that
first thing; I was on the spot first."

"Oh, it was you, was it?" said Carver, with professional indifference.
"Lucky man! So you've only been hearing----"

"A repetition of what I'd heard before," answered Triffitt. "I knew all
that evidence before I went into court. Caretaker--police--folks from
Portman Square--doctor--all the lot! And I guess there'll be nothing
this afternoon--the thing'll be adjourned."

"Oh, that's of course," assented Carver, attacking his muffin sandwich.
"There'll be more than one adjournment of this particular inquest,
Triffitt. But aren't you struck by one or two points?"

"I'm struck by this," replied Triffitt. "If what the police-surgeon
says--and you noticed how positive he was about it--if what he says is
true, that old Herapath was shot, and died, at, or just before
(certainly not after, he positively asserted), twelve o'clock midnight,
it was not he who went to Portman Square!"

"That, of course, is obvious," said Carver. "And it's just as obvious
that whoever went to Portman Square returned from Portman Square to that
office. Eh?"

"That hasn't quite struck me," replied Triffitt. "How is it just as
obvious?"

"Because whoever went to Portman Square went in old Herapath's
fur-trimmed coat and his slouch hat, and the fur trimmed coat and slouch
hat were found in the office," answered Carver. "It's absolutely plain,
that. I put it like this. The murderer, having settled his man, put on
his victim's coat and hat, took his keys, went to Portman Square, did
something there, went back to the office, left the coat and hat, and
hooked it. That, my son, is a dead certainty. There's been little--if
anything--made of all that before the Coroner, and it's my impression,
Triffitt, that somebody--somebody official, mind you--is keeping
something back. Now," continued Carver, dropping his voice to a
confidential whisper, "I'm only doing a plain report of this affair for
our organ of light and leading, but I've read it up pretty well, and
there are two things I want to know, and I'll tell you what, Triffitt,
if you like to go in with me at finding them out--two can always work
better than one--I'm game!"

"What are the two things?" asked Triffitt, cautiously. "Perhaps I've got
'em in mind also."

"The first's this," replied Carver. "Somebody--some taxi-cab driver or
somebody of that sort--must have brought the man who personated old
Jacob Herapath back to, or to the neighbourhood of, the office that
morning. How is it that somebody hasn't been discovered? You made a
point of asking for him in the _Argus_. Do you know what I think? I
think he has been discovered, and he's being kept out of the way. That's
point one."

"Good!" muttered Triffitt. "And point two?"

"Point two is--where is the man who came out of the House of Commons
with Jacob Herapath that night, the man that the coachman Mountain
described? In my opinion," asserted Carver, "I believe that man's been
found, too, and he's being kept back."

"Good again!" said Triffitt. "It's likely. Well, I've a point. You
heard the evidence about old Herapath's keys? Yes--well, where's the key
of that safe that he rented at the Safe Deposit place. That young
secretary, Selwood, swore that it was on the little bunch the day of the
murder, that he saw it at three o'clock in the afternoon. What did Jacob
Herapath do with it between then and the time of the murder?"

"Yes--that's a great point," asserted Carver. "We may hear something of
that this afternoon--perhaps of all these points."

But when they went back to the densely crowded court it was only to find
that they--and an expectant public--were going to hear nothing more for
that time. As soon as the court re-assembled, there was some putting
together of heads on the part of the legal gentlemen and the Coroner;
there were whisperings and consultations and noddings and veiled hints,
palpable enough to everybody with half an eye; then the Coroner
announced that no further evidence would be taken that day, and
adjourned the inquest for a fortnight. Such of the public as had
contrived to squeeze into the court went out murmuring, and Triffitt and
Carver went out too and exchanged meaning glances.

"Just what I expected!" said Carver. "I reckon the police are at the
bottom of all that. A fortnight today we'll be hearing something
good--something sensational."

"I don't want to wait until a fortnight today," growled Triffitt. "I
want some good, hot stuff--now!"

"Then you'll have to find it for yourself, very soon," remarked Carver.
"Take my tip--you'll get nothing from the police."

Triffitt was well aware of that. He had talked to two or three police
officials and detectives that morning, and had found them singularly
elusive and uncommunicative. One of them was the police-inspector who
had been called to the Herapath Estate Office on the discovery of the
murder; another was the detective who had accompanied him. Since the
murder Triffitt had kept in touch with these two, and had found them
affable and ready to talk; now, however, they had suddenly curled up
into a dry taciturnity, and there was nothing to be got out of them.

"Tell you what it is," he said suddenly. "We'll have to go for the
police!"

"How go for the police?" asked Carver doubtfully.

"Throw out some careful hints that the police know more than they'll
tell at present," answered Triffitt, importantly. "That's what I shall
do, anyhow--I've got _carte blanche_ on our rag, and I'll make the
public ear itch and twitch by breakfast-time tomorrow morning! And after
that, my boy, you and I'll put our heads together, as you suggest, and
see if we can't do a bit of detective work of our own. See you tomorrow
at the usual in Fleet Street."

Then Triffitt went along to the _Argus_ office, and spent the rest of
the afternoon in writing up a breezy and brilliant column about the
scene at the inquest, intended to preface the ordinary detailed report.
He wound it up with an artfully concocted paragraph in which he threw
out many thinly veiled hints and innuendoes to the effect that the
police were in possession of strange and sensational information and
that ere long such a dramatic turn would be given to this Herapath
Mystery that the whole town would seethe with excitement. He preened his
feathers gaily over this accomplishment, and woke earlier than usual
next morning on purpose to go out before breakfast and buy the _Argus_.
But when he opened that enterprising journal he found that his column
had been woefully cut down, and that the paragraph over which he had so
exercised his brains was omitted altogether. Triffitt had small appetite
for breakfast that morning, and he went early to the office and made
haste to put himself in the way of the news editor, who grinned at sight
of him.

"Look here, Master Triffitt," said the news editor, "there's such a
thing as being too smart--and too previous. I was a bit doubtful about
your prognostications last night, and I rang up the C.I.D. about 'em.
Don't do it again, my son!--you mean well, but the police know their job
better than you do. If they want to keep quiet for a while in this
matter, they've good reasons for it. So--no more hints. See?"

"So they do know something?" muttered Triffitt sourly. "Then I was
right, after all!"

"You'll be wrong, after all, if you stick your nose where it isn't
wanted," said the news editor. "Just chuck the inspired prophet game for a
while, will you? Keep to mere facts; you'll be alarming the wrong people,
if you don't. Off you go now! and do old Herapath's funeral--it's at noon,
at Kensal Green. There'll be some of his fellow M.P.'s there, and so on.
Get their names--make a nice, respectable thing of it on conventional
lines. And no fireworks! This thing's to lie low at present."

Triffitt went off to Kensal Green, scowling and cogitating. Of course
the police knew something! But--what? What they knew would doubtless
come out in time, but Triffitt had a strong desire to be beforehand with
them. In spite of the douche of cold water which the news editor had
just administered, Triffitt knew his _Argus_. If he could fathom the
Herapath Mystery in such a fashion as to make a real great, smashing,
all-absorbing feature of a sensational discovery, the _Argus_ would
throw police precaution and official entreaties to the first wind that
swept down Fleet Street. No!--he, Triffitt, was not to be balked. He
would do his duty--he would go and see Jacob Herapath buried, but he
would also continue his attempt to find out how it was that that burial
came to be. And as he turned into the cemetery and stared at its weird
collection of Christian and pagan monuments he breathed a fervent prayer
to the Goddesses of Chance and Fortune to give him what he called
"another look-in."




CHAPTER XIV

THE SCOTTISH VERDICT


If Triffitt had only known it, the Goddesses of Chance and Fortune were
already close at hand, hovering lovingly and benignly above the crown of
his own Trilby hat. Triffitt, of course, did not see them, nor dream
that they were near; he was too busily occupied in taking stock of the
black-garmented men who paid the last tribute of respect (a conventional
phrase which he felt obliged to use) to Jacob Herapath. These men were
many in number; some of them were known to Triffitt, some were not. He
knew Mr. Fox-Crawford, an Under-Secretary of State, who represented the
Government; he knew Mr. Dayweather and Mr. Encilmore, and Mr. Camford
and Mr. Wallburn; they were all well-known members of Parliament. Also,
he knew Mr. Barthorpe Herapath, walking at the head of the procession of
mourners. Very soon he had quite a lengthy list of names; some others,
if necessary, he could get from Selwood, whom he recognized as the
cortège passed him by. So for the time being he closed his note-book and
drew back beneath the shade of a cypress-tree, respectfully watching. In
the tail-end of the procession he knew nobody; it was made up, he
guessed, of Jacob Herapath's numerous clerks from the estate offices,
and----

But suddenly Triffitt saw a face in that procession. The owner of that
face was not looking at Triffitt; he was staring quietly ahead, with the
blank, grave demeanour which people affect when they go to funerals. And
it was as well that he was not looking at Triffitt, for Triffitt, seeing
that face, literally started and even jumped a little, feeling as if the
earth beneath him suddenly quaked.

"Gad!" exclaimed Triffitt under his breath. "It is! It can't be! Gad,
but I'm certain it is! Can't be mistaken--not likely I should ever
forget him!"

Then he took off the Trilby hat, which he had resumed after the coffin
had passed, and he rubbed his head as men do when they are exceedingly
bewildered or puzzled. After which he unobtrusively followed the
procession, hovered about its fringes around the grave until the last
rites were over, and eventually edged himself up to Selwood as the
gathering was dispersing. He quietly touched Selwood's sleeve.

"Mr. Selwood!" he whispered. "Just a word. I know a lot of these
gentlemen--the M.P.'s and so on--but there are some I don't know. Will
you oblige me, now?--I want to get a full list. Who are the two elderly
gentlemen with Mr. Barthorpe Herapath--relatives, eh?"

"No--old personal friends," answered Selwood, good-naturedly turning
aside with the little reporter. "One is Mr. Tertius--Mr. J. C.
Tertius--a very old friend of the late Mr. Herapath's; the other is Mr.
Benjamin Halfpenny, the solicitor, also an old friend."

"Oh, I know of his firm," said Triffitt, busily scribbling. "Halfpenny
and Farthing, of course--odd combination, isn't it? And that burly
gentleman behind them, now--who's he?"

"That's Professor Cox-Raythwaite, the famous scientist," answered
Selwood. "He's also an old friend. The gentleman he's speaking to is Sir
Cornelius Debenham, chairman of the World Alliance Association, with
which Mr. Herapath was connected, you know."

"I know--I know," answered Triffitt, still busy. "Those two behind him,
now--middle-aged parties?"

"One's Mr. Frankton, the manager, and the other's Mr. Charlwood, the
cashier, at the estate office," replied Selwood.

"They'll go down in staff and employees," said Triffitt. "Um--I've got a
good list. By the by, who's the gentleman across there--just going up to
the grave--the gentleman who looks like an actor? Is he an actor?"

"That? Oh!" answered Selwood. "No--that's Mr. Frank Burchill, who used
to be Mr. Herapath's secretary--my predecessor."

"Oh!" responded Triffitt. He had caught sight of Carver a few yards off,
and he hurried his notebook into his pocket, and bustled off. "Much
obliged to you, Mr. Selwood," he said with a grin. "Even we with all our
experience, don't know everybody, you know--many thanks." He hastened
over to Carver who was also busy pencilling, and drew him away into the
shelter of a particularly large and ugly monument. "I say!" he
whispered. "Here's something! Shove that book away now--I've got all the
names--and attend to me a minute. Don't look too obtrusively--but do you
see that chap--looks like an actor--who is just coming away from the
graveside--tall, well-dressed chap?"

Carver looked across. His face lighted up.

"I know that man," he said. "I've seen him at the club--he's been in
once or twice, though he's not a member. He does theatre stuff for the
_Magnet_. His name's Burchill."

Triffitt dropped his friend's arm.

"Oh!" he said. "So you know him--by sight, anyhow? And his name's
Burchill, eh? Very good. Let's get."

He walked Carver out of the cemetery, down the Harrow Road, and turned
into the saloon bar of the first tavern that presented itself.

"I'm going to have some ale and some bread and cheese," he observed, "and
if you'll follow suit, Carver, we'll sit in that corner, and I'll tell
you something that'll make your hair curl. Two nice plates of bread and
cheese, and two large tankards of your best bitter ale, if you please,"
he continued, approaching the bar and ringing a half-crown on it. "Yes,
Carver, my son--that will curl your hair for you. And," he went on, when
they had carried their simple provender over to a quiet corner, "about
that chap now known as Burchill--Burchill. Mr.--Frank--Burchill; late
secretary to the respected gentleman whose mortal remains have just been
laid to rest. Ah!"

"What's the mystery?" asked Carver, setting down his tankard. "Seems to be
one, anyway. What about Burchill?"

"Speak his name softly," answered Triffitt. "Well, my son, I suddenly
saw--him--this morning, and I just as suddenly remembered that I'd seen
him before!"

"You had, eh?" said Carver. "Where?"

Triffitt sank his voice to a still lower whisper.

"Where?" he said. "Where? In the dock!"

Carver arrested the progress of a lump of bread and cheese and turned in
astonishment.

"In the dock?" he exclaimed. "That chap? Good heavens! When--where?"

"It's a longish story," answered Triffitt. "But you've got to hear it if
we're going into this thing--as we are. Know, then, that I have an
aunt--Eliza. My aunt--maternal aunt--Eliza is married to a highly
respectable Scotsman named Kierley, who runs a flour-mill in the ancient
town of Jedburgh, which is in the county of Roxburgh, just over the
Border. And it's just about nine years (I can tell the exact date to a
day if I look at an old diary) that Mr. and Mrs. Kierley were good
enough to invite me to spend a few weeks in Bonnie Scotland. And the
first night of my arrival Kierley told me that I was in luck, for
within a day or two there was going to be a grand trial before the
Lords Justiciar--Anglicé, judges. A trial of a man for murder!"

"Great Scott!" said Carver. "Murder, eh? And"--he nodded his head in the
direction of the adjacent cemetery. "Him?"

"Let me explain a few legal matters," said Triffitt, disregarding the
question. "Then you'll get the proper hang of things. In Scotland, law's
different in procedure to ours. The High Court of Justiciary is fixed
permanently at Edinburgh, but its judges go on circuit so many times a
year to some of the principal towns, where they hold something like our
own assizes. Usually, only one judge sits, but in cases of special
importance there are two, and two came to Jedburgh, this being a case of
very special importance, and one that was arousing a mighty amount of
interest. It was locally known as the Kelpies' Glen Case, and by that
name it got into all the papers--we could find it, of course, in our own
files."

"I'll turn it up," observed Carver.

"By all means," agreed Triffitt; "but I'll give you an outline of it
just now. Briefly, it was this. About eleven years ago, there was near
the town of Jedburgh a man named Ferguson, who kept an old-established
school for boys. He was an oldish chap, married to a woman a good deal
younger than himself, and she had a bit of a reputation for being
overfond of the wine of the country. According to what the Kierleys told
me, old Ferguson used to use the tawse on her sometimes, and they led a
sort of cat-and-dog life. Well, about the time I'm talking about,
Ferguson got a new undermaster; he only kept one. This chap was an
Englishman--name of Bentham--Francis Bentham, to give him his full
patronymic, but I don't know where he came from--I don't think anybody
did."

"F. B., eh?" muttered Carver. "Same initials as----"

"Precisely," said Triffitt, "and--to anticipate--same man. But to
proceed in due order. Old Ferguson died rather suddenly--but in quite an
above-board and natural fashion, about six months after this Bentham
came to him. The widow kept on the school, and retained Bentham's
services. And within half a year of the demise of her first husband, she
took Bentham for her second."

"Quick work!" remarked Carver.

"And productive of much wagging of tongues, you may bet!" said Triffitt.
"Many things were said--not all of them charitable. Well, this marriage
didn't mend the lady's manners. She still continued, now and then, to
take her drops in too generous measure. Rumour had it that the successor
to Ferguson followed his predecessor's example and corrected his wife in
the good, old-fashioned way. It was said that the old cat-and-dog life
was started again by these two. However, before they'd been married a
year, the lady ended that episode by quitting life for good. She was
found one night lying at the foot of the cliff in the Kelpies'
Glen--with a broken neck."

"Ah!" said Carver. "I begin to see."

"Now, that Kelpies' Glen," continued Triffitt, "was a sort of ravine
which lay between the town of Jedburgh and the school. It was traversed
by a rough path which lay along the top of one side of it, amongst trees
and crags. At one point, this path was on the very edge of a precipitous
cliff; from that edge there was a sheer drop of some seventy or eighty
feet to a bed of rocks down below, on the edge of a brawling stream. It
was on these rocks that Mrs. Bentham's body was found. She was dead
enough when she was discovered, and the theory was that she had come
along the path above in a drunken condition, had fallen over the low
railings which fenced it in, and so had come to her death."

"Precisely," assented Carver, nodding his head with wise appreciation.
"Her alcoholic tendencies were certainly useful factors in the case."

"Just so--you take my meaning," agreed Triffitt. "Well, at first nobody
saw any reason to doubt this theory, for the lady had been seen
staggering along that path more than once. But she had a brother, a
canny Scot who was not over well pleased when he found that his
sister--who had come into everything that old Ferguson left, which was a
comfortable bit--had made a will not very long before her death in which
she left absolutely everything to her new husband, Francis Bentham. The
brother began to inquire and to investigate--and to cut the story short,
within a fortnight of his wife's death, Bentham was arrested and charged
with her murder."

"On what evidence?" asked Carver.

"Precious little!" answered Triffitt. "Indeed next to none. Still,
there was some. It was proved that he was absent from the house for half
an hour or so about the time that she would be coming along that path;
it was also proved that certain footprints in the clay of the path were
his. He contended that he had been to look for her; he proved that he
had often been to look for her in that way; moreover, as to the
footprints, he, like everybody in the house, constantly used that path
in going to the town."

"Aye, to be sure," said Carver. "He'd a good case, I'm thinking."

"He had--and so I thought at the time," continued Triffitt. "And so a
good many folks thought--and they, and I, also thought something else, I
can tell you. I know what the verdict of the crowded court would have
been!"

"What?" asked Carver.

"Guilty!" exclaimed Triffitt. "And so far as I'm concerned, I haven't a
doubt that the fellow pushed her over the cliff. But opinion's neither
here nor there. The only thing that mattered, my son, was the jury's
verdict!"

"And the jury's verdict was--what?" demanded Carver.

Triffitt winked into his empty tankard and set it down with a bang.

"The jury's verdict, my boy," he answered, "was one that you can only
get across the Border. It was '_Not Proven_'!"




CHAPTER XV

YOUNG BRAINS


Carver, who had been listening intently to the memory of a bygone event,
pushed away the remains of his frugal lunch, and shook his head as he
drew out a cigarette-case.

"By gad, Triff, old man!" he said. "If I'd been that chap I'd rather
have been hanged, I think. Not proven, eh?--whew! That meant----"

"Pretty much what the folk in court and the mob outside thought,"
asserted Triffitt. "That scene outside, after the trial, is one of my
liveliest recollections. There was a big crowd there--chiefly women.
When they heard the verdict there was such yelling and hooting as you
never heard in your life! You see, they were all certain about the
fellow's guilt, and they wanted him to swing. If they could have got at
him, they'd have lynched him. And do you know, he actually had the cheek
to leave the court by the front entrance, and show himself to that
crowd! Then there was a lively scene--stones and brickbats and the mud
of the street began flying. Then the police waded in--and they gave Mr.
Francis Bentham pretty clearly to understand that there must be no going
home for him, or the folks would pull his roof over his head. And they
forced him back into the court, and got him away out of the town on the
quiet--and I reckon he's never shown his face in that quarter of the
globe since."

"That will?" asked Carver. "Did it stand good--did he get the woman's
money?"

"He did. My aunt told me afterwards that he employed some local
solicitor chap--writers, as they call 'em there--to wind everything up,
convert everything into cash, for him. Oh, yes!" concluded Triffitt. "He
got the estate, right enough. Not an awful lot, you know--a thousand or
two--perhaps three--but enough to go adventuring with elsewhere."

"You're sure this is the man?" asked Carver.

"As certain as that I'm myself!" answered Triffitt. "Couldn't mistake
him--even if it is nine years ago. It's true I was only a nipper
then--sixteen or so--but I'd all my wits about me, and I was so taken
with him in the dock, and with his theatrical bearing there--he's a fine
hand at posing--that I couldn't forget or mistake him. Oh, he's the man!
I've often wondered what had become of him."

"And now you find out that he's up till recently been secretary to Jacob
Herapath, M.P., and is just now doing dramatic criticism for the
_Magnet_," observed Carver. "Well, Triffitt, what do you make of it?"

Triffitt, who had filled and lighted an old briarwood pipe, puffed
solemnly and thoughtfully for a while.

"Well," he said, "nobody can deny that there's a deep mystery about
Jacob Herapath's death. And knowing what I do about this Bentham or
Burchill, and that he's recently been secretary to Jacob Herapath, I'd
just like to know a lot more. And--I mean to!"

"Got any plan of campaign?" asked Carver.

"I have!" affirmed Triffitt with sublime confidence. "And it's this--I'm
going to dog this thing out until I can go to our boss and tell him that
I can force the hands of the police! For the police are keeping
something dark, my son, and I mean to find out what it is. I got a
quencher this morning from our news editor, but it'll be the last. When
I go back to the office to write out this stuff, I'm going to have that
extremely rare thing with any of our lot--an interview with the old
man."

"Gad!--I thought your old man was unapproachable!" exclaimed Carver.

"To all intents and purposes, he is," assented Triffitt. "But I'll see
him--and today. And after that--but you'll see. Now, as to you, old man.
You're coming in with me at this, of course--not on behalf of your
paper, but on your own. Work up with me, and if we're successful, I'll
promise you a post on the _Argus_ that'll be worth three times what
you're getting now. I know what I'm talking about--unapproachable as our
guv'nor is, I've sized him up, and if I make good in this affair, he'll
do anything I want. Stick to Triffitt, my son, and Triffitt'll see you
all serene!"

"Right-oh!" said Carver. "I'm on. Well, and what am I to do, first?"

"Two things," responded Triffitt. "One of 'em's easy, and can be done
at once. Get me--diplomatically--this man Burchill's, or Bentham's,
present address. You know some _Magnet_ chaps--get it out of them. Tell
'em you want to ask Burchill's advice about some dramatic stuff--say
you've written a play and you're so impressed by his criticisms that
you'd like to take his counsel."

"I can do that," replied Carver. "As a matter of fact, I've got a real
good farce in my desk. And the next?"

"The next is--try to find out if there's any taxi-cab driver around the
Portman Square district who took a fare resembling old Herapath from
anywhere about there to Kensington on the night of the murder," said
Triffitt. "There must be some chap who drove that man, and if we've got
any brains about us we can find him. If we find him, and can get him to
talk--well, we shall know something."

"It'll mean money," observed Carver.

"Never mind," said Triffitt, confident as ever. "If it comes off all
right with our boss, you needn't bother about money, my son! Now let's
be going Fleet Street way, and I'll meet you tonight at the usual--say
six o'clock."

Arrived at the _Argus_ office and duly seated at his own particular
table, Triffitt, instead of proceeding to write out his report of the
funeral ceremony of the late Jacob Herapath, M.P., wrote a note to his
proprietor, which note he carefully sealed and marked "Private." He
carried this off to the great man's confidential secretary, who stared
at it and him.

"I suppose this really is of a private nature?" he asked suspiciously.
"You know as well as I do that Mr. Markledew'll make me suffer if it
isn't."

"Soul and honour, it's of the most private!" affirmed Triffitt, laying a
hand on his heart. "And of the highest importance, too, and I'll be
eternally grateful if you'll put it before him as soon as you can."

The confidential secretary took another look at Triffitt, and allowed
himself to be reluctantly convinced of his earnestness.

"All right!" he said. "I'll shove it under his nose when he comes in at
four o'clock."

Triffitt went back to his work, excited, yet elated. It was no easy job to
get speech of Markledew. Markledew, as everybody in Fleet Street knew, was
a man in ten thousand. He was not only sole proprietor of his paper, but
its editor and manager, and he ruled his office and his employees with a
rod of iron--chiefly by silence. It was usually said of him that he never
spoke to anybody unless he was absolutely obliged to do so--certain it was
that all his orders to the various heads were given out pretty much after
the fashion of a drill sergeant's commands to a squad of well-trained,
five-month recruits, and that monosyllables were much more in his mouth
than even brief admonitions and explanations. If anybody ever did manage
to approach Markledew, it was always with fear and trembling. A big,
heavy, lumbering man, with a face that might have been carved out of
granite, eyes that bored through an opposing brain, and a constant
expression of absolute, yet watchful immobility, he was a trying person to
tackle, and most men, when they did tackle him, felt as if they might be
talking to the Sphinx and wondered if the tightly-locked lips were ever
going to open. But all men who ever had anything to do with Markledew were
well aware that, difficult as he was of access, you had only got to
approach him with something good to be rewarded for your pains in full
measure.

At ten minutes past four Triffitt, who had just finished his work, lifted
his head to see a messenger-boy fling open the door of the reporter's room
and cast his eyes round. A shiver shot through Triffitt's spine and went
out of his toes with a final sting.

"Mr. Markledew wants Mr. Triffitt!"

Two or three other junior reporters who were scribbling in the room
glanced at Triffitt as he leapt to obey the summons. They hastened to
make kindly comments on this unheard-of episode in the day's dull
routine.

"Pale as a fair young bride!" sighed one. "Buck up, Triff!--he won't eat
you."

"I hear your knees knocking together, Triff," said another. "Brace
yourself!"

"Markledew," observed a third, "has decided to lay down the sceptre and
to instal Triff in the chair of rule. Ave, Triffitt, Imperator!--be
merciful to the rest of us."

Triffitt consigned them to the nether regions and hurried to the
presence. The presence was busied with its secretary and kept Triffitt
standing for two minutes, during which space he recovered his breath.
Then the presence waved away secretary and papers with one hand, turned
its awful eyes upon him, and rapped out one word:

"Now!"

Triffitt breathed a fervent prayer to all his gods, summoned his
resolution and his powers, and spoke. He endeavoured to use as few words
as possible, to be lucid, to make his points, to show what he was
after--and, driving fear away from him, he kept his own eyes steadily
fixed on those penetrating organs which confronted him. And once, twice,
he saw or thought he saw a light gleam of appreciation in those organs;
once, he believed, the big head nodded as if in agreement. Anyhow, at
the end of a quarter of an hour (unheard-of length for an interview with
Markledew!) Triffitt had neither been turned out nor summarily silenced;
instead, he had come to what he felt to be a good ending of his pleas
and his arguments, and the great man was showing signs of speech.

"Now, attend!" said Markledew, impressively. "You'll go on with this.
You'll follow it up on the lines you suggest. But you'll print nothing
except under my personal supervision. Make certain of your facts.
Facts!--understand! Wait."

He pulled a couple of slips of paper towards him, scribbled a line or
two on each, handed them to Triffitt, and nodded at the door.

"That'll do," he said. "When you want me, let me know. And mind--you've
got a fine chance, young man."

Triffitt could have fallen on the carpet and kissed Markledew's large
boots. But knowing Markledew, he expressed his gratitude in two words
and a bow, and sped out of the room. Once outside, he hastened to send
the all-powerful notes. They were short and sharp, like Markledew's
manner, but to Triffitt of an inexpressible sweetness, and he walked on
air as he went off to other regions to present them.

The news editor, who was by nature irascible and whom much daily worry
had rendered more so, glared angrily as Triffitt marched up to his
table. He pointed to a slip of proof which lay, damp and sticky, close
by.

"You've given too much space to that Herapath funeral," he growled.
"Take it away and cut it down to three-quarters."

Triffitt made no verbal answer. He flung Markledew's half-sheet of
notepaper before the news editor, and the news editor, seeing the great
man's sprawling caligraphy, read, wonderingly:--

      "Mr. Triffitt is released from ordinary duties to
    pursue others under my personal supervision.
                                                  J. M."

The news editor stared at Triffitt as if that young gentleman had
suddenly become an archangel.

"What's this mean?" he demanded.

"Obvious--and sufficient," retorted Triffitt. And he turned, hands in
pockets, and strolled out, leaving the proof lying unheeded. That was
the first time he had scored off his news editor, and the experience was
honey-like and intoxicating. His head was higher than ever as he sought
the cashier and handed Markledew's other note to him. The cashier read
it over mechanically.

      "Mr. Triffitt is to draw what money he needs for a
    special purpose. He will account to me for it.
                                                   J. M."

The cashier calmly laid the order aside and looked at its deliverer.

"Want any now?" he asked apathetically. "How much?"

"Not at present," replied Triffitt. "I'll let you know when I do."

Then he went away, got his overcoat, made a derisive and sphinx-like
grin at his fellow-reporters, and left the office to find Carver.




CHAPTER XVI

NAMELESS FEAR


If Triffitt had stayed in Kensal Green Cemetery a little longer, he
would have observed that Mr. Frank Burchill's presence at the funeral
obsequies of the late Jacob Herapath was of an eminently modest,
unassuming, and retiring character. He might, as an ex-secretary of the
dead man, have claimed to walk abreast of Mr. Selwood, and ahead of the
manager and cashier from the estate office; instead, he had taken a
place in the rear ranks of the procession, and in it he remained until
the close of the ceremony. Like the rest of those present, he defiled
past the grave at which the chief mourners were standing, but he claimed
no recognition from and gave no apparent heed to any of them; certainly
none to Barthorpe Herapath. Also, like all the rest, he went away at
once from the cemetery, and after him, quietly and unobtrusively, went a
certain sharp-eyed person who had also been present, not as a mourner,
but in the character of a casual stroller about the tombs and monuments,
attracted for the moment by the imposing cortège which had followed the
dead man to his grave.

Another sharp-eyed person made it his business to follow Barthorpe
Herapath when he, too, went away. Barthorpe had come to the ceremony
unattended. Selwood, Mr. Tertius, Professor Cox-Raythwaite, and Mr.
Halfpenny had come together. These four also went away together.
Barthorpe, still alone, re-entered his carriage when they had driven
off. The observant person of the sharp eyes, hanging around the gates,
heard him give his order:

"Portman Square!"

The four men who had preceded him were standing in the study when
Barthorpe drove up to the house--standing around Peggie, who was
obviously ill at ease and distressed. And when Barthorpe's voice was
heard in the hall, Mr. Halfpenny spoke in decisive tones.

"We must understand matters at once," he said. "There is no use in
beating about the bush. He has refused to meet or receive me so far--now
I shall insist upon his saying plainly whatever he has to say. You, too,
my dear, painful as it may be, must also insist."

"On--what?" asked Peggie.

"On his saying what he intends--if he intends--I don't know what he
intends!" answered Mr. Halfpenny, testily. "It's most annoying, and we
can't----"

Barthorpe came striding in, paused as he glanced around, and affected
surprise.

"Oh!" he said. "I came to see you, Peggie--I did not know that there was
any meeting in progress."

"Barthorpe!" said Peggie, looking earnestly at him. "You know that all
these gentlemen were Uncle Jacob's friends--dear friends--and they are
mine. Don't go away--Mr. Halfpenny wants to speak to you."

Barthorpe had already half turned to the door. He turned back--then
turned again.

"Mr. Halfpenny can only want to speak to me on business," he said,
coldly. "If Mr. Halfpenny wants to speak to me on business, he knows
where to find me."

He had already laid a hand on the door when Mr. Halfpenny spoke sharply
and sternly.

"Mr. Barthorpe Herapath!" he said. "I know very well where to find you,
and I have tried to find you and to get speech with you for two days--in
vain. I insist, sir, that you speak to us--or at any rate to your
cousin--you are bound to speak, sir, out of common decency!"

"About what?" asked Barthorpe. "I came to speak to my cousin--in
private."

"There is a certain something, sir," retorted Mr. Halfpenny, with
warmth, "about which we must speak in public--such a public, at any
rate, as is represented here and now. You know what it is--your uncle's
will!"

"What about my uncle's will--or alleged will?" asked Barthorpe with a
sneer.

Mr. Halfpenny appeared to be about to make a very angry retort, but he
suddenly checked himself and looked at Peggie.

"You hear, my dear?" he said. "He says--alleged will!"

Peggie turned to Barthorpe with an appealing glance.

"Barthorpe!" she exclaimed. "Is that fair--is it generous? Is it
just--to our uncle's memory? You know that is his will--what doubt can
there be about it?"

Barthorpe made no answer. He still stood with one hand on the door,
looking at Mr. Halfpenny. And suddenly he spoke.

"What do you wish to ask me?" he said.

"I wish to ask you a plain question," replied Mr. Halfpenny. "Do you
accept this will, and are you going to act on your cousin's behalf? I
want your plain answer."

Barthorpe hesitated a moment before replying. Then he made as if to open
the door.

"I decline to discuss the matter of the alleged will," he answered. "I
decline--especially," he continued, lifting a finger and pointing at Mr.
Tertius, "especially in the presence of that man!"

"Barthorpe!" exclaimed Peggie, flushing at the malevolence of the tone
and gesture. "How dare you! In my house----"

Barthorpe suddenly laughed. Once again he turned to the door--and this
time he opened it.

"Just so--just so!" he said. "Your house, my dear cousin--according to
the alleged will."

"Which will be proved, sir," snapped out Mr. Halfpenny. "As you refuse,
or seem to do so, I shall act for your cousin--at once."

Barthorpe opened the door wide, and as he crossed the threshold, turned
and gave Mr. Halfpenny a swift glance.

"Act!" he said. "Act!--if you can!"

Then he walked out and shut the door behind him, and Mr. Halfpenny
turned to the others.

"The will must be proved at once," he said decisively. "Alleged--you all
heard him say alleged! That looks as if--um! My dear Tertius, you have
no doubt whatever about the proper and valid execution of this important
document--now in my safe. None?"

"How can I have any doubt about what I actually saw?" replied Mr.
Tertius. "I can't have any doubt, Halfpenny! I saw Jacob sign it; I
signed it myself; I saw young Burchill sign it; we all three saw each
other sign. What more can one want?"

"I must see this Mr. Burchill," remarked Mr. Halfpenny. "I must see him
at once. Unfortunately, he left no address at the place we called at. He
will have to be discovered."

Peggie coloured slightly as she turned to Mr. Halfpenny.

"Is it really necessary to see Mr. Burchill personally?" she asked with
a palpable nervousness which struck Selwood strangely. "Must he be
found?"

"Absolutely necessary, my dear," replied Mr. Halfpenny. "He must be
found, and at once."

Mr. Tertius uttered an exclamation of annoyance.

"Dear, dear!" he said. "I noticed the young man at the cemetery just
now--I ought really to have pointed him out to you--most forgetful of
me!"

"I have Mr. Burchill's address," said Peggie, with an effort. "He left
his card here on the day of my uncle's death--the address is on it. And
I put it in this drawer."

Selwood watched Peggie curiously, and with a strange, vague sense of
uneasiness as she went over to a drawer in Jacob Herapath's desk and
produced the card. He had noticed a slight tremor in her voice when she
spoke of Burchill, and her face, up till then very pale, had coloured at
the first mention of his name. And now he was asking himself why any
reference to this man seemed to disturb her, why----

But Mr. Halfpenny cut in on his meditations. The old lawyer held up the
card to the light and slowly read out the address.

"Ah! Calengrove Mansions, Maida Vale," he said. "Um--quarter of an
hour's drive. Tertius--you and I will go and see this young fellow at
once."

Mr. Tertius turned to Professor Cox-Raythwaite.

"What do you think of this, Cox-Raythwaite?" he asked, almost piteously.
"I mean--what do you think's best to be done?"

The Professor, who had stood apart with Selwood during the episode which
had just concluded, pulling his great beard and looking very big and
black and formidable, jerked his thumb in the direction of the old
lawyer.

"Do what Halfpenny says," he growled. "See this other witness. And--but
here, I'll have a word with you in the hall."

He said good-bye in a gruffly affectionate way to Peggie, patted her
shoulder and her head as if she were a child, and followed the two other
men out. Peggie, left alone with Selwood, turned to him. There was
something half-appealing in her face, and Selwood suddenly drove his
hands deep into his pockets, clenched them there, and put a tight hold
on himself.

"It's all different!" exclaimed Peggie, dropping into a chair and
clasping her hands on her knees. "All so different! And I feel so
utterly helpless."

"Scarcely that," said Selwood, with an effort to speak calmly. "You've
got Mr. Tertius, and Mr. Halfpenny, and the Professor, and--and if
there's anything--anything I can do, don't you know, why, I----"

Peggie impulsively stretched out a hand--and Selwood, not trusting
himself, affected not to see it. To take Peggie's hand at that moment
would have been to let loose a flood of words which he was resolved not
to utter just then, if ever. He moved across to the desk and pretended
to sort and arrange some loose papers.

"We'll--all--all--do everything we can," he said, trying to keep any
tremor out of his voice. "Everything you know, of course."

"I know--and I'm grateful," said Peggie. "But I'm frightened."

Selwood turned quickly and looked sharply at her.

"Frightened?" he exclaimed. "Of what?"

"Of something that I can't account for or realize," she replied. "I've a
feeling that everything's all wrong--and strange. And--I'm frightened of
Mr. Burchill."

"What!" snapped Selwood. He dropped the papers and turned to face her
squarely. "Frightened of--Burchill? Why?"

"I--don't--know," she answered, shaking her head. "It's more an
idea--something vague. I was always afraid of him when he was here--I've
been afraid of him ever since. I was very much afraid when he came here
the other day."

"You saw him?" asked Selwood.

"I didn't see him. He merely sent up that card. But," she added, "I was
afraid even then."

Selwood leaned back against the desk, regarding her attentively.

"I don't think you're the sort to be afraid without reason," he said.
"Of course, if you have reason, I've no right to ask what it is. All the
same, if this chap is likely to annoy you, you've only to speak
and--and----"

"Yes?" she said, smiling a little. "You'd----"

"I'll punch his head and break his neck for him!" growled Selwood.
"And--and I wish you'd say if you have reasons why I should. Has--has he
annoyed you?"

"No," answered Peggie. She regarded Selwood steadily for a minute; then
she spoke with sudden impulse. "When he was here," she said, "I mean
before he left my uncle, he asked me to marry him."

Selwood, in spite of himself, could not keep a hot flush from mounting
to his cheek.

"And--you?" he said.

"I said no, of course, and he took my answer and went quietly away,"
replied Peggie. "And that--that's why I'm frightened of him."

"Good heavens! Why?" demanded Selwood. "I don't understand. Frightened
of him because he took his answer, went away quietly, and hasn't annoyed
you since? That--I say, that licks me!"

"Perhaps," she said. "But, you see, you don't know him. It's just
because of that--that quiet--that--oh, I don't quite know how to
explain!--that--well, silence--that I'm afraid--yes, literally afraid.
There's something about him that makes me fear. I used to wish that my
uncle had never employed him--that he had never come here. And--I'd
rather be penniless than that my uncle had ever got him--him!--to
witness that will!"

Selwood found no words wherewith to answer this. He did not understand
it. Nevertheless he presently found words of another sort.

"All right!" he muttered doggedly. "I'll watch him--or, I'll watch that
he--that--well, that no harm comes to--you know what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes," murmured Peggie, and once more held out an impulsive hand. But
Selwood again pretended to see nothing, and he began another energetic
assault upon the papers which Jacob Herapath would never handle again.




CHAPTER XVII

THE LAW


Once within a taxi-cab and on their way to Maida Vale, Mr. Halfpenny
turned to his companion with a shake of the head which implied a much
mixed state of feeling.

"Tertius!" he exclaimed. "There's something wrong! Quite apart from what
we know, and from what we were able to communicate to the police,
there's something wrong. I feel it--it's in the air, the--the whole
atmosphere. That fellow Barthorpe is up to some game. What? Did you
notice his manner, his attitude--everything? Of course!--who could help
it? He--has some scheme in his head. Again I say--what?"

Mr. Tertius stirred uneasily in his seat and shook his head.

"You haven't heard anything from New Scotland Yard?" he asked.

"Nothing--so far. But they are at work, of course. They'll work in their
own way. And," continued Mr. Halfpenny, with a grim chuckle, "you can be
certain of this much, Tertius--having heard what we were able to tell
them, having seen what we were able to put before them, with respect to
the doings of that eventful night, they won't let Master Barthorpe out
of their ken--not they! It is best to let them pursue their own
investigations in their own manner--they'll let us know what's been
done, sure enough, at the right time."

"Yes," assented Mr. Tertius. "Yes--so I gather--I am not very conversant
with these things. I confess there's one thing that puzzles me greatly
though, Halfpenny. That's the matter of the man who came out of the House
of Commons with Jacob that night. You remember that the coachman,
Mountain, told us--and said at the inquest also--that he overheard what
Jacob said to that man--'The thing must be done at once, and you must have
everything ready for me at noon tomorrow,' or words to that effect. Now
that man must be somewhere at hand--he must have read the newspapers, know
all about the inquest--why doesn't he come forward?"

Mr. Halfpenny chuckled again and patted his friend's arm.

"Ah!" he said. "But you don't know that he hasn't come forward! The
probability is, Tertius, that he has come forward, and that the people at
New Scotland Yard are already in possession of whatever story he had to
tell. Oh, yes, I quite expect that--I also expect to hear, eventually,
another piece of news in relation to that man."

"What's that?" asked Mr. Tertius.

"Do you remember that, at the inquest, Mountain, the coachman, said that
there was another bit of evidence he had to give which he'd forgotten to
tell Mr. Barthorpe when he questioned him? Mountain"--continued Mr.
Halfpenny--"went on to say that while Jacob Herapath and the man stood
talking in Palace Yard, before Jacob got into his brougham, Jacob took
some object from his waistcoat pocket and handed it, with what looked
like a letter, to the man? Eh?"

"I remember very well," replied Mr. Tertius.

"Very good," said Mr. Halfpenny. "Now I believe that object to have been
the key of Jacob's safe at the Safe Deposit, which, you remember, could
not be found, but which young Selwood affirmed had been in Jacob's
possession only that afternoon. The letter I believe to have been a
formal authority to the Safe Deposit people to allow the bearer to open
that safe. I've thought all that out," concluded Mr. Halfpenny, with a
smile of triumph, "thought it out carefully, and it's my impression that
that's what we shall find when the police move. I believe that man has
revealed himself to the police, has told them--whatever it is he has to
tell, and that his story probably throws a vast flood of light on the
mystery. So I say--let us not at present concern ourselves with the
actual murder of our poor friend: the police will ferret that out! What
we're concerned with is--the will! That will, Tertius, must be proved,
and at once."

"I am as little conversant with legal matters as with police procedure,"
observed Mr. Tertius. "What is the exact course, now, in a case of this
sort?"

"The exact procedure, my dear sir," replied Mr. Halfpenny, dropping into
his best legal manner, and putting the tips of his warmly-gloved
fingers together in front of his well-filled overcoat, "the exact
procedure is as follows. Barthorpe Herapath is without doubt the
heir-at-law of his deceased uncle, Jacob Herapath. If Jacob had died
intestate Barthorpe would have taken what we may call everything, for
his uncle's property is practically all in the shape of real estate, in
comparison to which the personalty is a mere nothing. But there is a
will, leaving everything to Margaret Wynne. If Barthorpe Herapath
intends to contest the legality of that will----"

"Good heavens, is that possible?" exclaimed Mr. Tertius. "He can't!"

"He can--if he wishes," replied Mr. Halfpenny, "though at present I don't
know on what possible grounds. But, if he does, he can at once enter a
caveat in the Probate Registry. The effect of that--supposing he does
it--will be that when I take the will to be proved, progress will be
stopped. Very well--I shall then, following the ordinary practice, issue
and serve upon Barthorpe Herapath a document technically known as a
'warning.' On service of this warning, Barthorpe, if he insists upon his
opposition, must enter an appearance. There will then be an opportunity
for debate and attempt at agreement between him and ourselves. If that
fails, or does not take place, I shall then issue a writ to establish the
will. And that being done, why, then, my dear sir, the proceedings--ah,
the proceedings would follow--substantially--the--er--usual course of
litigation in this country."

"And that," asked Mr. Tertius, deeply interested and wholly innocent,
"that would be----?"

"Well, there are two parties in this case--supposed case," continued Mr.
Halfpenny, "Barthorpe Herapath, Margaret Wynne. After the issue of the
writ I have just spoken of, each party would put in his or her pleas,
and the matter would ultimately go to trial in the Probate Division of
the High Court, most likely before a judge and a special jury."

"And how long would all this take?" asked Mr. Tertius.

"Ah!--um!" replied Mr. Halfpenny, tapping the tips of his gloves
together. "That, my dear sir, is a somewhat difficult question to
answer. I believe that all readers of the newspapers are aware that our
Law Courts are somewhat congested--the cause lists are very full. The
time which must elapse before a case can actually come to trial varies,
my dear Tertius, varies enormously. But if--as in the matter we are
supposing would probably be the case--if all the parties concerned were
particularly anxious to have the case disposed of without delay, the
trial might be arrived at within three or four months--that is, my dear
sir, if the Long Vacation did not intervene. But--speaking generally--a
better, more usual, more probable estimate would be, say six, seven,
eight, or nine months."

"So long?" exclaimed Mr. Tertius. "I thought that justice was neither
denied, sold, nor delayed!"

"Justice is never denied, my good friend, nor is it sold," replied Mr.
Halfpenny, oracularly. "As to delay, ah, well, you know, if people will
be litigants--and I assure you that nothing is so pleasing to a very
large number of extraordinary persons who simply love litigation--a
little delay cannot be avoided. However, we will hope that we shall have
no litigation. Our present job is to get that will proved, and so far I
see no difficulty. There is the will--we have the witnesses. At least,
there are you, and we're hoping to see t'other in a few minutes. By the
by, Tertius, what sort of fellow is this Burchill?"

Mr. Tertius considered his answer to this question.

"Well, I hardly know," he said at last. "Of course, I have rarely seen
much of Jacob's secretaries. This man--he's not quite a youngster,
Halfpenny--struck me as being the sort of person who might be dangerous."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Halfpenny. "Dangerous! God bless me! Now, in what
way, Tertius?"

"I don't quite know," replied Mr. Tertius. "He, somehow, from what I saw
of him, suggested, I really don't know how, a certain atmosphere of,
say--I'm trying to find the right words--cunning, subtlety, depth.
Yes--yes, I should say he was what we commonly call--or what is commonly
called in vulgar parlance--deep. Deep!"

"You mean--designing?" suggested Mr. Halfpenny.

"Exactly--designing," assented Mr. Tertius. "It--it was the sort of idea
he conveyed, you know."

"Don't like the sound of him," said Mr. Halfpenny, "However, he's the
second witness and we must put up with the fact. And here we are at
these Calengrove Mansions, and let's hope we haven't a hundred infernal
steps to climb, and that we find the fellow in."

The fellow was in. And the fellow, who had now discarded his mourning
suit for the purple and fine linen which suggested Bond Street, was just
about to go out, and was in a great hurry, and said so. He listened with
obvious impatience while Mr. Tertius presented his companion.

"I wished to see you about the will of the deceased Jacob Herapath, Mr.
Burchill," said Mr. Halfpenny "The will which, of course, you witnessed."

Burchill, who was gathering some books and papers together, and had
already apologized for not being able to ask his callers to sit down,
answered in an off-hand, bustling fashion.

"Of course, of course!" he replied. "Mr. Jacob Herapath's will, eh? Oh,
of course, yes. Anything I can do, Mr. Halfpenny, of course--perhaps
you'll drop me a line and make an appointment at your office some
day--then I'll call, d'you see?"

"You remember the occasion, and the will, and your signature?" said Mr.
Halfpenny, contriving to give Mr. Tertius a nudge as he put this direct
question.

"Oh, I remember everything that ever happened in connection with my
secretaryship to Mr. Jacob Herapath!" replied Burchill, still bustling.
"I shall be ready for anything whenever I'm wanted, Mr. Halfpenny--pleased
to be of service to the family, I'm sure. Now, you must really pardon
me, gentlemen, if I hurry you and myself out--I've a most important
engagement and I'm late already. As I said--drop me a line for an
appointment, Mr. Halfpenny, and I'll come to you. Now, good-bye,
good-bye!"

He had got them out of his flat, shaken hands with them, and hurried
off before either elderly gentleman could get a word in, and as he flew
towards the stairs Mr. Halfpenny looked at Mr. Tertius and shook his head.

"That beggar didn't want to talk," he said. "I don't like it."

"But he said that he remembered!" exclaimed Mr. Tertius. "Wasn't that
satisfactory?"

"Anything but satisfactory, the whole thing," replied the old lawyer.
"Didn't you notice that the man avoided any direct reply? He said 'of
course' about a hundred times, and was as ambiguous, and non-committal,
and vague, as he could be. My dear Tertius, the fellow was fencing!"

Mr. Tertius looked deeply distressed.

"You don't think----" he began.

"I might think a lot when I begin to think," said Mr. Halfpenny as they
slowly descended the stairs from the desert solitude of the top floor of
Calengrove Mansions. "But there's one thought that strikes me just
now--do you remember what Burchill's old landlady at Upper Seymour
Street told us?"

"That Barthorpe Herapath had been to inquire for Burchill?--yes,"
replied Mr. Tertius. "You're wondering----"

"I'm wondering if, since then, Barthorpe has found him," said Mr.
Halfpenny. "If he has--if there have been passages between them--if----"

He paused half-way down the stairs, stood for a moment or two in deep
thought and then laid his hand on his friend's arm.

"Tertius!" he said gravely. "That will must be presented for probate at
once! I must lose no time. Come along--let me get back to my office and
get to work. And do you go back to Portman Square and give the little
woman your company."

Mr. Tertius went back to Portman Square there and then, and did what he
could to make the gloomy house less gloomy. Instead of retreating to his
own solitude he remained with Peggie, and tried to cheer her up by
discussing various plans and matters of the future. And he was taking a
quiet cup of tea with her at five o'clock when Kitteridge came in with a
telegram for him. He opened it with trembling fingers and read:

    _"Barthorpe entered caveat in Probate Registry at half-past
    three this afternoon.--Halfpenny."_




CHAPTER XVIII

THE ROSEWOOD BOX


Mr. Tertius dropped the telegram on the little table at which he and
Peggie were sitting, and betrayed his feelings with a deep groan.
Peggie, who was just about to give him his second cup of tea, set down
her teapot and jumped to his side.

"Oh, what is it!" she exclaimed. "Some bad news? Please--"

Mr. Tertius pulled himself together and tried to smile.

"You must forgive me, my dear," he said, with a feeble attempt to speak
cheerily. "I--the truth is, I think I have lived in such a state of ease
and--yes, luxury, for so many years that I am not capable of readily
bearing these trials and troubles. I'm ashamed of myself--I must be
braver--not so easily affected."

"But--the telegram?" said Peggie.

Mr. Tertius handed it to her with a dismal shake of his head.

"I suppose it's only what was to be expected, after all that Halfpenny
told me this afternoon," he remarked. "But I scarcely thought it would
occur so soon. My dear, I am afraid you must prepare yourself for a
great deal of unpleasantness and worry. Your cousin seems to be
determined to give much trouble. Extraordinary!--most extraordinary! My
dear, I confess I do not understand it."

Peggie had picked up the telegram and was reading it with knitted brow.

"'Barthorpe entered caveat in Probate Registry at half-past three this
afternoon,'" she slowly repeated. "But what does that mean, Mr. Tertius?
Something to do with the will?"

"A great deal to do with the will, I fear!" replied Mr. Tertius,
lugubriously. "A caveat, my dear, is some sort of process--I'm sure I
don't know whether it's given by word of mouth, or if it's a document--by
which the admission to probate of a dead person's last will and testament
can be stopped. In plain language," continued Mr. Tertius, "your cousin
Barthorpe has been to the Probate Registry and done something to prevent
Mr. Halfpenny from proving the will. It is a wicked action on his
part--and, considering that he is a solicitor, and that he saw the
will with his own eyes, it is, as I have previously remarked, most
extraordinary!"

"And all this means--what?" asked Peggie.

"It means that there will be legal proceedings," groaned Mr. Tertius.
"Long, tedious, most annoying and trying proceedings! Perhaps a trial--we
may have to go to court and give evidence. I dread it!--I am, as I said,
so used to a life of ease and freedom from anxiety that anything of this
sort distresses me unspeakably. I fear I am degenerating into cowardice!"

"Nonsense!" said Peggie. "It is merely that this sort of thing is
disturbing. And we are not going to be afraid of Barthorpe. Barthorpe is
very foolish. I meant--always have meant, ever since I heard about the
will--to share with him, for there's no law against that. But if
Barthorpe wants to upset the will altogether and claim everything, I
shall fight him. And if I win--as I suppose I shall--I shall make him do
penance pretty heavily before he's forgiven. However, that's all in the
future. What I don't understand about the present is--how can that will
be upset? Mr. Halfpenny says it's duly and properly executed, witnessed,
and so on--how can Barthorpe object to it?"

Mr. Tertius put down his cup and rose.

"Your cousin, Barthorpe, my dear, is, I regret to say, a deep man," he
replied. "He has some scheme in his head. This," he went on, picking up
the telegram and placing it in his pocket, "this is the first step in
that scheme. Well, it is perhaps a relief to know that he has taken it:
we shall now know where we are and what has to be done."

"Quite so," said Peggie. "But there is another matter, Mr. Tertius,
which seems to be forgotten in this of the will. Pray, what is Barthorpe
doing, what is anybody doing, about solving the mystery of my uncle's
death? Everybody says he was murdered--who is doing anything to find the
murderer?"

Mr. Tertius, who had advanced as far as the door on his way out of the
room, came back to Peggie's side in a fashion suggestive of deep
mystery, walking on the tips of his toes and putting a finger to his
lips as he drew near his chair.

"My dear!" he said, bending down to her and speaking in a tone fully as
indicative of mystery as his tip-toe movement, "a great deal is being
done--but in the strictest secrecy! Most important investigations, my
dear!--the police, the detective police, you know. The word at
present--to put it into one word, vulgar, but expressive--the word is
'Mum'! Silence, my dear--the policy of the mole--underground working,
you know. From what I am aware of, and from what our good friend
Halfpenny tells me, and believes, I gather that a result will be
attained which will be surprising."

"So long as justice is done," remarked Peggie. "That is all I want--all we
ought to aim at. I don't care twopence about surprising or sensational
discoveries--I want to see my uncle's murderer properly punished."

She shed a few more quiet tears over Jacob Herapath's untoward fate when
Mr. Tertius had left her and fell to thinking about him. The thoughts
which came presently led her to go to the dead man's room--a simple,
spartan-like chamber which she had not entered since his death. She had
a vague sense of wanting to be brought into touch with him through the
things which had been his, and for a while she wandered aimlessly about
the room, laying a hand now and then on the objects which she knew he
must have handled the last time he had occupied the room--his toilet
articles, the easy chair in which he always sat for a few minutes every
night, reading a little before going to bed, the garments which hung in
his wardrobe, anything on which his fingers had rested. And as she
wandered about she noted, not for the first nor the hundredth time, how
Jacob Herapath had gathered about him in this room a number of objects
connected with his youth. The very furniture, simple, homely stuff, had
once stood in his mother's bedroom in a small cottage in a far-off
country. On the walls were portraits of his father and mother--crude
things painted by some local artist; there, too, were some samplers
worked by his mother in her girlhood, flanked by some faded groups of
flowers which she had painted about the same time. Jacob Herapath had
brought all these things to his grand house in Portman Square years
before, and had cleared a room of fine modern furniture and fittings to
make space for them. He had often said to Peggie, when she grew old
enough to understand, that he liked to wake in a morning and see the old
familiar things about him which he had known as a child. For one object
in that room he had a special veneration and affection--an old rosewood
workbox, which had belonged to his mother, and to her mother before her.
Once he had allowed Peggie to inspect it, to take from it the tray lined
with padded green silk, to examine the various nooks and corners
contrived by the eighteenth-century cabinetmaker--some disciple, maybe,
of Chippendale or Sheraton--to fit the tarnished silver thimbles on to
her own fingers, to wonder at the knick-knacks of a departed age, and to
laugh over the scent of rose and lavender which hung about the skeins
and spools. And he had told her that when he died the rosewood box
should be hers--as long as he lived, he said, it must stand on his chest
of drawers, so that he could see it at least twice a day.

Jacob Herapath was dead now, and buried, and the rosewood box and
everything else that had been his had passed to Peggie--as things were,
at any rate. She presently walked up to the queer old chest of drawers,
and drew the rosewood box towards her and lifted the lid. It was years
since Jacob had shown it to her, and she remembered the childish delight
with which she had lifted out the tray which lay on the top and looked
into the various compartments beneath it. Now she opened the box again,
and lifted the tray--and there, lying bold and uncovered before her
eyes, she saw a letter, inscribed with one word in Jacob Herapath's
well-known handwriting--"Peggie."

If Jacob Herapath himself had suddenly appeared before her in that quiet
room, the girl could scarcely have felt more keenly the strange and
subtle fear which seized upon her as she realized that what she was
staring at was probably some message to herself. It was some time before
she dared to lay hands on this message--when at last she took the letter
out of the box her fingers trembled so much that she found a difficulty
in opening the heavily-sealed envelope. But she calmed herself with a
great effort, and carrying the half-sheet of note-paper, which she drew
from its cover, over to the window, lifted it in the fading light and
read the few lines which Jacob Herapath had scrawled there.

      "If anything ever happens suddenly to me, my will, duly
    executed and witnessed by Mr. Tertius and Mr. Frank
    Burchill, is in a secret drawer of my old bureau which
    lies behind the third small drawer on the right-hand
    side.

                                             "JACOB HERAPATH."

That was all--beyond a date, and the date was a recent one. "If anything
ever happens suddenly"--had he then felt some fear, experienced any
premonition, of a sudden happening? Why had he never said anything to
her, why?

But Peggie realized that such questions were useless at that time--that
time was pre-eminently one of action. She put the letter back in the
rosewood box, took the box in her arms, and carrying it off to her own
room, locked it up in a place of security. And that had scarcely been
done when Kitteridge came seeking her and bringing with him a card: Mr.
Frank Burchill's card, and on it scribbled a single line: "Will you
kindly give me a few minutes?"

Peggie considered this request in one flash of thought, and turned to
the butler.

"Where is Mr. Burchill?" she asked. "In the study? Very well, I will
come down to him in a few minutes."

She made a mighty effort to show herself calm, collected, and indifferent,
when she presently went down to the study. But she neither shook hands
with the caller, nor asked him to sit; instead she marched across to the
hearthrug and regarded him from a distance.

"Yes, Mr. Burchill?" she said quietly. "You wish to see me?"

She looked him over steadily as she spoke, and noted a certain air of
calm self-assurance about him which struck her with a vague uneasiness.
He was too easy, too quiet, too entirely businesslike to be free from
danger. And the bow which he gave her was, to her thinking, the height
of false artifice.

"I wished to see you and to speak to you, with your permission," he
answered. "I beg you to believe that what I have--what I desire to say
is to be said by me with the deepest respect, the most sincere
consideration. I have your permission to speak? Then I beg to ask you
if--I speak with deep courtesy!--if the answer which you made to a
certain question of mine some time ago is--was--is to be--final?"

"So final that I am surprised that you should refer to the matter,"
replied Peggie. "I told you so at the time."

"Circumstances have changed," he said. "I am at a parting of the ways in
life's journey. I wish to know--definitely--which way I am to take. A
ray of guiding light from you----"

"There will be none!" said Peggie sharply. "Not a gleam. This is waste
of time. If that is all you have to say----"

The door of the study opened, and Selwood, who was still engaged about
the house, came in. He paused on the threshold, staring from one to the
other, and made as if to withdraw. But Peggie openly smiled on him.

"Come in, Mr. Selwood," she said. "I was just going to ask Kitteridge to
find you. I want to see both you and Mr. Tertius."

Then she turned to Burchill, who stood, a well-posed figure in his fine
raiment, still watching her, and made him a frigid bow.

"There is no more to say on that point--at any time," she said quietly.
"Good day. Mr. Selwood, will you ring the bell?"

Burchill executed another profound and self-possessed bow. He presently
followed the footman from the room, and Peggie, for the first time since
Jacob Herapath's death, suddenly let her face relax and burst into a
hearty laugh.




CHAPTER XIX

WEAVING THE NET


That evening Triffitt got Burchill's address from Carver, and next day
he drew a hundred pounds from the cashier of the _Argus_ and went off to
Calengrove Mansions. In his mind there was a clear and definite notion.
It might result in something; it might come to nothing, but he was going
to try it. Briefly, it was that if he wished--as he unfeignedly did
wish--to find out anything about Burchill, he must be near him; so near,
indeed, that he could keep an eye on him, acquaint himself with his
goings and comings, observe his visitors, watch for possible openings,
make himself familiar with Burchill's daily life. It might be a
difficult task; it might be an easy task--in any case, it was a task
that must be attempted. With Markledew's full consent and approval
behind him and Markledew's money-bags to draw upon, Triffitt felt equal
to attempting anything.

The first thing was to take a quiet look at Burchill's immediate
environment. Calengrove Mansions turned out to be one of the smaller of
the many blocks of residential flats which have of late years arisen in
such numbers in the neighbourhood of Maida Vale and St. John's Wood. It
was an affair of some five or six floors, and judging from what Triffitt
could see of it from two sides, it was not fully occupied at that time,
for many of its windows were uncurtained, and there was a certain air of
emptiness about the upper storeys. This fact was not unpleasing to
Triffitt; it argued that he would have small difficulty in finding a
lodgment within the walls which sheltered the man he wanted to watch.
And in pursuance of his scheme, which, as a beginning, was to find out
exactly where Burchill was located, he walked into the main entrance and
looked about him, hoping to find an address-board. Such a board
immediately caught his eye, affixed to the wall near the main staircase.
Then Triffitt saw that the building was divided into five floors, each
floor having some three or four flats. Those on the bottom floors
appeared to be pretty well taken; the names of their occupants were
neatly painted in small compartments on the board. Right at the top was
the name Mr. Frank Burchill--and on that floor, which evidently
possessed three flats, there were presumably no other occupants, for the
remaining two spaces relating to it were blank.

Triffitt took all this in at a glance; another glance showed him a door
close by on which was painted the word "Office." He pushed this open and
walked inside, to confront a clerk who was the sole occupant. To him,
Triffitt, plunging straight into business, gently intimated that he was
searching for a convenient flat. The clerk immediately began to pull out
some coloured plans, labelled first, second, third floors.

"About what sized flat do you require?" he asked. He had already looked
Triffitt well over, and as Triffitt, in honour of the occasion, had put
on his smartest suit and a new overcoat, he decided that this was a
young man who was either just married or about to be married. "Do you
want a family flat, or one for a couple without family, or----"

"What I want," answered Triffitt readily, "is a bachelor flat--for
myself. And--if possible--furnished."

"Oh!" said the clerk. "Just so. I happen to have something that will
suit you exactly--that is, if you don't want to take it for longer than
three or four months." He pulled forward another plan, labelled "Fifth
Floor," and pointed to certain portions, shaded off in light colours.
"One of our tenants, Mr. Stillwater," he continued, "has gone abroad for
four months, and he'd be glad to let his flat, furnished, in his
absence. That's it--it contains, you see, a nice sitting-room, a
bedroom, a bathroom, and a small kitchen--all contained within the flat,
of course. It is well and comfortably furnished, and available at once."

Triffitt bent over the plan. But he was not looking at the shaded
portion over which the clerk's pencil was straying; instead he was
regarding the fact that across the corresponding portion of the plan was
written in red ink the words, "Mr. Frank Burchill." The third portion
was blank; it, apparently, was unlet.

"That is really about the size of flat I want," said Triffitt, musingly.
"What's the rent of that, now?"

"I can let that to you for fifty shillings a week," answered the clerk.
"That includes everything--there's plate, linen, glass, china, anything
you want. Slight attendance can be arranged for with our caretaker's
wife--that is, she can cook breakfast, and make beds, and do more, if
necessary. Perhaps you would like to see this flat?"

Triffitt followed the clerk to the top of the house. The absent Mr.
Stillwater's rooms were comfortable and pleasant; one glance around them
decided Triffitt.

"This place will suit me very well," he said. "Now I'll give you
satisfactory references about myself, and pay you a month's rent in
advance, and if that's all right to you, I'll come in today. You can
ring up my references on your 'phone, and then, if you're satisfied,
we'll settle the rent, and I'll see the caretaker's wife about airing
that bed."

Within half an hour Triffitt was occupant of the flat, the cashier of
the _Argus_ having duly telephoned that he was a thoroughly dependable
and much-respected member of its staff, and Triffitt himself having
handed over ten pounds as rent for the coming month, he interviewed the
caretaker's wife, went to a neighbouring grocer's shop and ordered a
stock of necessaries wherewith to fill his larder, repaired to his own
lodgings and brought away all that he wanted in the way of luggage,
books, and papers, and by the middle of the afternoon was fairly settled
in his new quarters. He spent an hour in putting himself and his
belongings straight--and then came the question what next?

He was there for a special purpose--that special purpose was to
acquaint himself as thoroughly as possible with the doings of Frank
Burchill. Burchill was there--he was almost on the point of saying, in
the next cell!--there, in the flat across the corridor; figuratively,
within touch, if it were not for sundry divisions of brick, mortar, and
the like. Burchill's door was precisely opposite his own; there was an
advantage in that fact. And in Triffitt's outer door (all these flats,
he discovered--that is, if they were all like his own, possessed double
doors) there was a convenient letter slit, by manipulating which he
could, if he chose, keep a perpetual observation on the other opposite.
But Triffitt did not propose to sit with his eye glued to that letter
slit all day--it might be useful at times, and for some special purpose,
but he had wider views. And the first thing to do was to make an
examination, geographical and exhaustive, of his own surroundings:
Triffitt had learnt, during his journalistic training, that attention to
details is one of the most important things in life.

The first thing that had struck Triffitt in this respect was that there
was no lift in this building. He had remarked on that to the clerk, and
the clerk had answered with a shrug of the shoulders that it was a
mistake and one for which the proprietor was already having to pay.
However, Triffitt, bearing in mind what job he was on, was not
displeased that the lift had been omitted--it is sometimes an advantage
to be able to hang over the top rail of a staircase and watch people
coming up from below. He stored that fact in his mental reservoirs. And
now that he had got into his rooms, he proceeded to seek for more
facts. First, as to the rooms themselves--he wanted to know all about
them, because he had carefully noticed, while looking at the plan of
that floor in the office downstairs, that Burchill's flat was arranged
exactly like his own. And Triffitt's flat was like this--you entered
through a double door into a good-sized sitting-room, out of which two
other rooms led--one went into a small kitchen and pantry; the other
into the bedroom, at the side of which was a little bathroom. The
windows of the bedroom opened on to a view of the street below; those of
the sitting-room on to a square of garden, on the lawn of which tenants
might disport themselves, more or less sadly, with tennis or croquet in
summer.

Triffitt looked out of his sitting-room windows last of all. He then
perceived with great joy that in front of them was a balcony, and that
this balcony stretched across the entire front of the house. There were,
in fact, balconies to all five floors--the notion being, of course, that
occupants could whenever they pleased sit out there in such sunlight as
struggled between their own roof and the tall buildings opposite. It
immediately occurred to Triffitt that here was an easy way of making a
call upon your next door neighbour; instead of crossing the corridor and
knocking at his door, you had nothing to do but walk along the balcony
and tap at his window. Filled with this thought Triffitt immediately
stepped out on his balcony and inspected the windows of his own and the
next flat. He immediately saw something which filled him with a great
idea. Both windows were fitted with patent ventilators, let into the top
panes. Now, supposing one of these ventilators was fully open, and two
people were talking within the room in even the ordinary tones of
conversation--would it not be possible for an eavesdropper outside to
hear a good deal, if not everything, of what was said? The idea was
worth thinking over, anyway, and Triffitt retired indoors to ruminate
over it and over much else.

For two or three days nothing happened. Twice Triffitt met Burchill on
the stairs--Burchill, of course, did not know him from Adam, and gave
him no more than the mere glance he would have thrown at any other
ordinary young man. Triffitt, however, gave Burchill more than a passing
look--unobtrusively. Certainly he was the man whom he had seen in the
dock nine years before in that far-off Scottish town--there was little
appreciable alteration in his appearance, except that he was now very
smartly dressed. There were peculiarities about the fellow, said
Triffitt, which you couldn't forget--certainly, Frank Burchill was
Francis Bentham.

But on the third day, two things happened--one connected directly with
Triffitt's new venture, the other not. The first was that as Triffitt
was going down the stairs that afternoon, on his way to the office, at
which he kept looking in now and then, although he was relieved from
regular attendance and duty, he met Barthorpe Herapath coming up.
Triffitt thanked his lucky stars that the staircase was badly lighted,
and that this was an unusually gloomy November day. True, Barthorpe had
only once seen him, that he knew of--that morning at the estate office,
when he, Triffitt, had asked Selwood for information--but then, some men
have sharp memories for faces, and Barthorpe might recognize him and
wonder what an _Argus_ man was doing there in Calengrove Mansions. So
Triffitt quickly pulled the flap of the Trilby hat about his nose, and
sank his chin lower into the turned-up collar of his overcoat, and
hurried past the tall figure. And Barthorpe on his part never looked at
the reporter--or if he did, took no more heed of him than of the
balustrade at his side.

"That's one thing established, anyway!" mused Triffitt as he went his
way. "Barthorpe Herapath is in touch with Burchill. The dead man's
nephew and the dead man's ex-secretary--um! Putting their heads
together--about what?"

He was still pondering this question when he reached the office and
found a note from Carver who wanted to see him at once. Triffitt went
round to the _Magnet_ and got speech with Carver in a quiet corner.
Carver went straight to his point.

"I've got him," he said, eyeing his fellow-conspirator triumphantly.

"Got--who?" demanded Triffitt.

"That taxi-cab chap--you know who I mean," answered Carver. "Ran him
down at noon today."

"No!" exclaimed Triffitt. "Gad! Are you sure, though?--is it certain
he's the man you were after?"

"He's the chap who drove a gentleman from near Portman Square to just by
St. Mary Abbot church at two o'clock on the morning of the Herapath
murder," replied Carver. "That's a dead certainty! I risked five pounds
on it, anyway, for which I'll trouble you. I went on the lines of
rounding up all the cabbies I could find who were as a rule on night
duty round about that quarter, and bit by bit I got on to this fellow,
and, as I say, I gave him a fiver for just telling me a mere bit. And
it's here--he's already given some information to that old Mr.
Tertius--you know--and Tertius commanded him to keep absolutely quiet
until the moment came for a move. Well, that moment has not come yet,
evidently--the chap hasn't been called on since, anyhow--and when I
mentioned money he began to prick his ears. He's willing to tell--for
money--if we keep dark what he tells us. The truth is, he's out to get
what he can out of anybody. If you make it worth his while, he'll tell."

"Aye!" said Triffitt. "But the question is, what has he got to tell?
What does he know?--actually know?"

"He knows," replied Carver, "he actually knows who the man was that he
drove that morning! He didn't know who he was when he first gave
information to Tertius, but he knows now, and, as I say, he's willing to
sell his knowledge--in private."




CHAPTER XX

THE DIAMOND RING


Triffitt considered Carver's report during a moment of mutual silence.
If he had consulted his own personal inclination he would have demanded
to be led straight to the taxi-cab driver. But Triffitt knew himself to
be the expender of the Markledew money, and the knowledge made him
unduly cautious.

"It comes to this," he said at last, "this chap knows something which he's
already told to this Mr. Tertius. Mr. Tertius has in all probability
already told it to the people at New Scotland Yard. They, of course, will
use the information at their own time and in their own way. But what we
want is something new--something startling--something good!"

"I tell you the fellow's got all that," said Carver. "He knows the man
whom he drove that morning. Isn't that good enough?"

"Depend upon how I can bring it out," answered Triffitt. "Well, when can
I see this chap?"

"Tonight--seven o'clock," replied Carver. "I fixed that, in anticipation."

"And--where?" demanded Triffitt.

"I'll go with you--it's to be at a pub near Orchard Street," said
Carver. "Better bring money with you--he'll want cash."

"All right," agreed Triffitt. "But I'm not going to throw coin about
recklessly. I shall want value."

Carver laughed. Triffitt's sudden caution amused him.

"I reckon people have to buy pigs in pokes in dealing with this sort of
thing, Triff," he said. "But whether the chap's information's good for
much or not, I'm certain it's genuine. Well, come round here again at
six-thirty."

Triffitt, banknotes in pocket, went round again at six-thirty, and was
duly conducted Oxford Street way by Carver, who eventually led him into
a network of small streets, in which the mews and the stable appeared to
be conspicuous features, and to the bar-parlour of a somewhat dingy
tavern, at that hour little frequented. And at precisely seven o'clock
the door of the parlour opened and a face showed itself, recognized
Carver, and grinned. Carver beckoned the face into a corner, and having
formally introduced his friend Triffitt, suggested liquid refreshment.
The face assented cordially, and having obscured itself for a moment
behind a pint pot, heaved a sigh of gratification, and seemed desirous
of entering upon business.

"But it ain't, of course, to go no further--at present," said the owner
of the face. "Not into no newspapers nor nothing, _at_ present. I don't
mind telling you young gents, if it's made worth my while, of course,
but as things is, I don't want the old gent in Portman Square to know as
how I've let on--d'ye see? Of course, I ain't seen nothing of him never
since I called there, and he gave me a couple o' quid, and told me to
expect more--only the more's a long time o' coming, and if I do see my
way to turning a honest penny by what I knows, why, then, d'ye see----"

"I see, very well," assented Triffitt. "And what might your idea of an
honest penny be, now?"

The taxi-cab driver silently regarded his questioner. He had already had
a five-pound note out of Carver, who carried a small fund about him in
case of emergency; he was speculating on his chances of materially
increasing this, and his eyes grew greedy.

"Well, now, guv'nor, what's your own notion of that?" he asked at last.
"I'm a poor chap, you know, and I don't often get a chance o' making a
bit in this way. What's it worth--what I can tell, you know--to you?
This here young gentleman was keen enough about it this afternoon,
guv'nor."

"Depends," answered Triffitt. "You'd better answer a question or two.
First--you haven't told the old gentleman in Portman Square--Mr.
Tertius--any more than what you told my friend here you'd told him?"

"Not a word more, guv'nor! 'Cause why--I ain't seen him since."

"And you've told nothing to the police?"

"The police ain't never come a-nigh me, and I ain't been near them. What
the old chap said was--wait! And I've waited and ain't heard nothing."

"Wherefore," observed Triffitt sardonically, "you want to make a bit."

"Ain't no harm in a man doing his best for his-elf, guv'nor, I hope,"
said the would-be informant. "If I don't look after myself, who's
a-going to look after me--I asks you that, now?"

"And I ask you--how much?" said Triffitt. "Out with it!"

The taxi-cab driver considered, eyeing his prospective customer
furtively.

"The other gent told you what it is I can tell, guv'nor?" he said at
last. "It's information of what you might call partik'lar importance, is
that."

"I know--you can tell the name of the man whom you drove that morning
from the corner of Orchard Street to Kensington High Street," replied
Triffitt. "It may be important--it mayn't. You see, the police haven't
been in any hurry to approach you, have they? Come now, give it a name?"

The informant summoned up his resolution.

"Cash down--on the spot, guv'nor?" he asked.

"Spot cash," replied Triffitt. "On this table!"

"Well--how would a couple o' fivers be, now?" asked the anxious one.
"It's good stuff, guv'nor."

"A couple of fivers will do," answered Triffitt. "And here they are." He
took two brand-new, crackling five-pound notes from his pocket, folded
them up, laid them on the table, and set a glass on them. "Now, then!"
he said. "Tell your tale--there's your money when it's told."

The taxi-cab driver eyed the notes, edged his chair further into the
half-lighted corner in which Triffitt and Carver sat, and dropped his
voice to a whisper.

"All right, guv'nor," he said. "Thanking you. Then it's this here--the
man what I drove that morning was the nephew!"

"You mean Mr. Barthorpe Herapath?" said Triffitt, also in a whisper.

"That's him--that's the identical, sir! Of course," continued the
informant, "I didn't know nothing of that when I told the old gent in
Portman Square what I did tell him. Now, you see, I wasn't called at
that inquest down there at Kensington--after what I'd told the old gent,
I expected to be, but I wasn't. All the same, there's been a deal of
talk around about the corner of Orchard Street, and, of course, there is
them in that quarter as knows all the parties concerned, and this man
Barthorpe, as you call him, was pointed out to me as the nephew--nephew
to him as was murdered that night. And then, of course, I knew it was
him as I took up at two o'clock that morning."

"How did you know?" asked Triffitt.

The taxi-cab driver held up a hand and tapped a brass ring on its third
finger.

"Where I wears that ring, gentlemen," he said triumphantly, "he wears a
fine diamond--a reg'lar swell 'un. That morning, when he got into my
cab, he rested his hand a minute on the door, and the light from one o'
the lamps across the street shone full on the stone. Now, then, when
this here Barthorpe was pointed out to me in Orchard Street, a few days
ago, as the nephew of Jacob Herapath, he was talking to another
gentleman, and as they stood there he lighted a cigar, and when he put
his hand up, I see that ring again--no mistaking it, guv'nor! He was
the man. And, from what I've read, it seems to me it was him as put on
his uncle's coat and hat after the old chap was settled, and----"

"If I were you, I'd keep those theories to myself--yet awhile, at any
rate," said Triffitt. "In fact--I want you to. Here!" he went on,
removing the glass and pushing the folded banknotes towards the taxi-cab
driver, "put those in your pocket. And keep your mouth shut about having
seen and told me. I shan't make any use--public use, anyway--of what
you've said, just yet. If the old gentleman, Tertius, comes to you, or
the police come along with or without him, you can tell 'em anything you
like--everything you've told me if you please--it doesn't matter, now.
But you're on no account to tell them that I've seen you and that you've
spilt to me--do you understand?"

The informant understood readily enough, and promised with equal
readiness, even going so far as to say that that would suit him down to
the ground.

"All right," said Triffitt, "keep a still tongue as regards me, and
there'll be another fiver for you. Now, Carver, we'll get."

Outside Triffitt gave his companion's arm a confidential squeeze.

"Things are going well!" he said. "I wasn't a bit surprised at what that
fellow told me--I expected it. What charms me is that Barthorpe
Herapath, who is certainly to be strongly suspected, is in touch with
Burchill--I didn't tell you that I met him on the stairs at Calengrove
Mansions this afternoon. Of course, he was going to see my next-door
neighbour! What about, friend Carver?"

"If you could answer your own last question, we should know something,"
replied Carver.

"We know something as it is," said Triffitt. "Enough for me to tell
Markledew, anyway. I don't see so far into all this, myself, but
Markledew's the sort of chap who can look through three brick walls and
see a mole at work in whatever's behind the third, and he'll see
something in what I tell him, and I'll do the telling as soon as he
comes down tomorrow morning."

Markledew listened to Triffitt's story next day in his usual rapt
silence. The silence remained unbroken for some time after Triffitt had
finished. And eventually Markledew got up from his elbow-chair and
reached for his hat.

"You can come with me," he said. "We'll just ride as far as New Scotland
Yard."

Triffitt felt himself turning pale. New Scotland Yard! Was he then to
share his discoveries with officials? In spite of his awful veneration
for the great man before him he could not prevent two words of
despairing ejaculation escaping from his lips.

"The police!"

"Just so--the police," answered Markledew, calmly. "I mean to work this
in connection with them. No need to alarm yourself, young man--I know
what you're thinking. But you won't lose any 'kudos'--I'm quite
satisfied with you so far. But we can't do without the police--and they
may be glad of even a hint from us. Now run down and get a taxi-cab and
I'll meet you outside."

Triffitt had never been within the mazes of New Scotland Yard in his
life, and had often wished that business would take him there. It was
very soon plain to him, however, that his proprietor knew his way about
the Criminal Investigation Department as well as he knew the _Argus_
office. Markledew was quickly closeted with the high official who had
seen Mr. Halfpenny and Mr. Tertius a few days previously; while they
talked, Triffitt was left to kick his heels in a waiting-room. When he
was eventually called in, he found not only the high official and
Markledew, but another man whose name was presently given to him as
Davidge.

"Mr. Davidge," observed the high official, "is in charge of this case.
Will you just tell him your story?"

It appeared to Triffitt that Mr. Davidge was the least impressionable,
most stolid man he had ever known. Davidge showed no sign of interest;
Triffitt began to wonder if anything could ever surprise him. He
listened in dead silence to all that the reporter had to say; when
Triffitt had finished he looked apathetically at his superior.

"I think, sir, I will just step round to Mr. Halfpenny's office," he
remarked. "Perhaps Mr. Triffitt will accompany me?--then he and I can
have a bit of a talk."

Triffitt looked at Markledew: Markledew nodded his big head.

"Go with him," said Markledew. "Work with him! He knows what he's
after."

Davidge took Triffitt away to Mr. Halfpenny's office--on the way thither
he talked about London fogs, one of which had come down that morning.
But he never mentioned the business in hand until--having left Triffitt
outside while he went in--he emerged from Mr. Halfpenny's room. Then he
took the reporter's arm and led him away, and his manner changed to one
of interest and even enthusiasm.

"Well, young fellow!" he said, leading Triffitt down the street, "you're
the chap I wanted to get hold of!--you're a godsend. And so you really
have a flat next to that occupied by the person whom we'll refer to as
F. B., eh?"

"I have," answered Triffitt, who was full of wonderment.

"Good--good!--couldn't be better!" murmured the detective. "Now then--I
dare say you'd be quite pleased if I called on you at your flat--quietly
and unobtrusively--at say seven o'clock tonight, eh?"

"Delighted!" answered Triffitt. "Of course!"

"Very good," said Davidge. "Then at seven o'clock tonight I shall be
there. In the meantime--not a word. You're curious to know why I'm
coming? All right--keep your curiosity warm till I come--I'll satisfy
it. Tonight, mind, young man--seven, sharp!"

Then he gave Triffitt's arm a squeeze and winked an eye at him, and at
once set off in one direction, while the reporter, mystified and
inquisitive, turned in another.




CHAPTER XXI

THE DESERTED FLAT


When Triffitt had fairly separated from the detective and had come to
reckon up the events of that morning he became definitely conscious of
one indisputable fact. The police knew more than he did. The police were
in possession of information which had not come his way. The police were
preparing some big _coup_. Therefore--the police would get all the
glory.

This was not what Triffitt had desired. He had wanted to find things out
for himself, to make a grand discovery, to be able to go to Markledew
and prove his case. Markledew could then have done what he pleased; it
had always been in Triffitt's mind that Markledew would in all
probability present the result of his reporter's labours to the people
at Scotland Yard. But Markledew had become somewhat previous--he had
insisted that Triffitt should talk to the Scotland Yard folk at this
early--in Triffitt's view, much too early--stage of the proceedings. And
Triffitt had felt all the time he was talking that he was only telling
the high official and the apathetic Davidge something that they already
knew. He had told them about his memories of Bentham and the Scottish
murder trial--something convinced him that they were already well
acquainted with that story. He had narrated the incident of the taxi-cab
driver: he was sure that they were quite well aware that the man who had
been driven from Orchard Street to St. Mary Abbot church that morning
after the murder was Barthorpe Herapath. Their cold eyes and polite, yet
almost chillingly indifferent manner had convinced Triffitt that they
were just listening to something with which they were absolutely
familiar. Never a gleam of interest had betrayed itself in their stolid
official faces until he had referred to the fact that he himself was
living in a flat next door to Burchill's. Then, indeed, the detective
had roused himself almost to eagerness, and now he was coming to see
him, Triffitt, quietly and unobtrusively. Why?

"All the same," mused Triffitt, "I shall maybe prove a small cog in the
bigger mechanism, and that's something. And Markledew was satisfied,
anyway, so far. And if I don't get something out of that chap Davidge
tonight, write me down an ass!"

From half-past six that evening, Triffitt, who had previously made some
ingenious arrangements with the slit of his letter-box, by which he could
keep an eye on the corridor outside, kept watch on Burchill's door--he
had an instinctive notion that Davidge, when he arrived, would be glad to
know whether the gentleman opposite was in or out. At a quarter to seven
Burchill went out in evening dress, cloak, and opera hat, making a fine
figure as he struck the light of the corridor lamp. And ten minutes later
Triffitt heard steps coming along the corridor and he opened the door
to confront Davidge and another man, a quiet-looking, innocent-visaged
person. Davidge waved a hand towards his companion.

"Evening, Mr. Triffitt," said he. "Friend of mine--Mr. Milsey. You'll
excuse the liberty, I'm sure."

"Glad to see both of you," answered Triffitt, cordially. He led the way
into his sitting-room, drew chairs forward, and produced refreshments
which he had carefully laid in during the afternoon in preparation.
"Drop of whisky and soda, gentlemen?" he said, hospitably. "Let me help
you. Will you try a cigar?"

"Very kind of you," replied Davidge. "A slight amount of the liquid'll
do us no harm, but no cigars, thank you, Mr. Triffitt. Cigars are apt to
leave a scent, an odour, about one's clothes, however careful you may
be, and we don't want to leave any traces of our presence where we're
going, do we, Jim?"

"Not much," assented Mr. Milsey, laconically. "Wouldn't do."

Triffitt handed round the glasses and took a share himself.

"Ah!" he said. "That's interesting! And where are you going, now--if one
may ask?"

Davidge nodded his desires for his host's good health, and then gave him
a wink.

"We propose to go in there," he said with a jerk of his thumb towards
Burchill's flat. "It's what I've been wanting to do for three or four
days, but I didn't see my way clear without resorting to a lot of
things--search-warrant, and what not--and it would have meant collusion
with the landlord here, and the clerk downstairs, and I don't know what
all, so I put it off a bit. But when you told me that you'd got this
flat, why, then, I saw my way! Of course, I've been familiar with the
lie of these flats for a week--I saw the plans of 'em downstairs as soon
as I started on to this job."

"You've been on this job from the beginning, then--in connection with
him?" exclaimed Triffitt, nodding towards the door.

"We've never had him out of our sight since I started," replied Davidge,
coolly, "except when he's been within his own four walls--where we're
presently going. Oh, yes--we've watched him."

"He's out now," remarked Triffitt.

"We know that," said Davidge. "We know where he's gone. There's a first
night, a new play, at the Terpsichoreum--he's gone there. He's safe
enough till midnight, so we've plenty of time. We just want to have a
look around his little nest while he's off it, d'you see?"

"How are you going to get in?" asked Triffitt.

Davidge nodded towards the window of the sitting-room.

"By way of that balcony," he answered. "I told you I knew all about how
these flats are arranged. That balcony's mighty convenient, for the
window'll not be any more difficult than ordinary."

"It'll be locked, you know," observed Triffitt, with a glance at his
own. "Mine is, anyway, and you can bet his will be, too."

"Oh--that doesn't matter," said Davidge, carelessly. "We're prepared.
Show Mr. Triffitt your kit, Jim--all pals here."

The innocent-looking Mr. Milsey, who, during this conversation, had
mechanically sipped at his whisky and soda and reflectively gazed at the
various pictures with which the absent Mr. Stillwater had decorated the
walls of his parlour, plunged a hand into some deep recess in his
overcoat and brought out an oblong case which reminded Triffitt of
nothing so much as those Morocco or Russian-leather affairs in which a
knife, a fork, and a spoon repose on padded blue satin and form an
elegant present to a newly-born infant. Mr. Milsey snapped open the lid
of his case, and revealed, instead of spoon or fork or knife a number of
shining keys, of all sorts and sizes and strange patterns, all of
delicate make and of evidently superior workmanship. He pushed the case
across the table to the corner at which Triffitt was sitting, and
Davidge regarded it fondly in transit.

"Pretty things, ain't they?" he said. "Good workmanship there! There's
not very much that you could lock up--in the ordinary way of drawers,
boxes, desks, and so on--that Milsey there couldn't get into with the
help of one or other of those little friends--what, Jim?"

"Nothing!--always excepting a safe," assented Mr. Milsey.

"Well, we don't suppose our friend next door keeps an article of that
description on his premises," said Davidge cheerfully. "But we expect
he's got a desk, or a private drawer, or something of that nature in
which we may find a few little matters of interest and importance--it's
curious, Mr. Triffitt--we're constantly taking notice of it in the
course of our professional duties--it's curious how men will keep by
them bits of paper that they ought to throw into the fire, and objects
that they'd do well to cast into the Thames! Ah!--I've known one case in
which a mere scrap of a letter hanged a man, and another in which a bit
of string got a chap fifteen years of the very best--fact, sir! You
never know what you may come across during a search."

"You're going to search his rooms?" asked Triffitt.

"Something of that sort," replied Davidge. "Just a look round, you know,
and a bit of a peep into his private receptacles."

"Then--you're suspecting him in connection with this----" began
Triffitt.

Davidge stopped him with a look, and slowly drank off the contents of
his glass. Then he rose.

"We'll talk of those matters later," he said significantly. "Now that my
gentleman's safely away I think we'll set to work. It'll take a bit of
time. And first of all, Mr. Triffitt, we'll examine your balcony door--I
know enough about these modern flats to know that everything's pretty
much alike in them as regards fittings, and if your door's easy to open,
so will the door of the next be. Now we'll just let Jim there go outside
with his apparatus, and we'll lock your balcony door on him, and then
see if he finds any difficulty in getting in. To it, Jim!"

Mr. Milsey, thus adjured, went out on the balcony with his little case
and was duly locked out. Within two minutes he opened the door and
stepped in with a satisfied grin.

"Easy as winking!" said Mr. Milsey. "It's what you might call one of
your penny plain locks, this--and t'other'll be like it. No difficulty
about this job, anyway."

"Then we'll get to work," said Davidge. "Mr. Triffitt, I can't ask you
to come with us, because that wouldn't be according to etiquette. Sit
you down and read your book and smoke your pipe and drink your drop--and
maybe we'll have something to tell you when our job's through."

"You've no fear of interruption?" asked Triffitt, who would vastly have
preferred action to inaction. "Supposing--you know how things do and
will turn out sometimes--supposing he came back?"

Davidge shook his head and smiled grimly and knowingly.

"No," he said. "He'll not come back--at least, if he did, we should be
well warned. I've more than one man at work on this job, Mr. Triffitt,
and if his lordship changed the course of his arrangements and returned
this way, one of my chaps would keep him in conversation while another
hurried up here to give us the office by a few taps on the outer door.
No!--we're safe enough. Sit you down and don't bother about us. Come on,
Jim--we'll get to it."

Triffitt tried to follow the detective's advice--he was just then deep
in a French novel of the high-crime order, and he picked it up when the
two men had gone out on the balcony and endeavoured to get interested in
it. But he speedily discovered that the unravelling of crime on paper
was nothing like so fascinating as the actual participation in detection
of crime in real life, and he threw the book aside and gave himself up
to waiting. What were those two doing in Burchill's rooms? What were
they finding? What would the result be?

Certainly Davidge and his man took their time. Eight o'clock came and
went--nine o'clock, ten o'clock followed and sped into the past, and
they were still there. It was drawing near to eleven, and they had been
in those rooms well over three hours, when a slight sound came at
Triffitt's window and Davidge put his head in, to be presently followed
by Milsey. Milsey looked as innocent as ever, but it seemed to Triffitt
that Davidge looked grave.

"Well?" said Triffitt. "Any luck?"

Davidge drew the curtains over the balcony window before he turned and
answered this question.

"Mr. Triffitt," he said, when at last he faced round, "you'll have to
put us up for the night. After what I've found, I'm not going to lose
sight, or get out of touch with this man. Now listen, and I'll tell you,
at any rate, something. Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock there's to be a
sort of informal inquiry at Mr. Halfpenny's office into the matter of a
will of the date of Jacob Herapath's--all the parties concerned are
going to meet there, and I know that this man Burchill is to be present.
I don't propose to lose sight of him after he returns here tonight
until he goes to that office--what happens after he's once there, you
shall see. So Milsey and I'll just have to trouble you to let me stop
here for the night. You can go to your bed, of course--we'll sit up.
I'll send Milsey out to buy a bit of supper for us--I dare say he'll
find something open close by."

"No need," Triffitt hastened to say. "I've a cold meat pie, uncut, and
plenty of bread, and cheese. And there's bottled ale, and whisky, and
I'll get you some supper ready at once. So"--he went on, as he began to
bustle about--"you did find--something?"

Davidge rubbed his hands and winked first at Milsey and then at
Triffitt.

"Wait till tomorrow!" he said. "There'll be strange news for you
newspaper gentlemen before tomorrow night."




CHAPTER XXII

YEA AND NAY


Mr. Halfpenny, face to face with the fact that Barthorpe Herapath meant
mischief about the will, put on his thinking-cap and gave himself up to
a deep and serious consideration of the matter. He thought things over
as he journeyed home to his house in the country; he spent an evening in
further thought; he was still thinking when he went up to town next
morning. The result of his cogitations was that after giving certain
instructions in his office as to the next steps to be taken towards duly
establishing Jacob Herapath's will, he went round to Barthorpe
Herapath's office and asked to see him.

Barthorpe himself came out of his private room and showed some
politeness in ushering his caller within. His manner seemed to be
genuinely frank and unaffected: Mr. Halfpenny was considerably puzzled
by it. Was Barthorpe playing a part, or was all this real? That, of
course, must be decided by events: Mr. Halfpenny was not going to lose
any time in moving towards them, whatever they might turn out to be. He
accordingly went straight to the point.

"My dear sir," he began, bending confidentially towards Barthorpe, who
had taken a seat at his desk and was waiting for his visitor to speak,
"you have entered a caveat against the will in the Probate Registry."

"I have," answered Barthorpe, with candid alacrity. "Of course!"

"You intend to contest the matter?" inquired Mr. Halfpenny.

"Certainly!" replied Barthorpe.

Mr. Halfpenny gathered a good deal from the firm and decisive tone in
which this answer was made. Clearly there was something in the air of
which he was wholly ignorant.

"You no doubt believe that you have good reason for your course of
action," he observed.

"The best reasons," said Barthorpe.

Mr. Halfpenny ruminated a little, silently.

"After all," he said at last, "there are only two persons really
concerned--your cousin, Miss Wynne, and yourself. I propose to make an
offer to you."

"Always willing to be reasonable, Mr. Halfpenny," answered Barthorpe.

"Very good," said Mr. Halfpenny. "Of course, I see no possible reason for
doubting the validity of the will. From our side, litigation must go on in
the usual course. But I have a proposal to make to you. It is this--will
you meet your cousin at my office, with all the persons--witnesses to the
will, I mean--and state your objections to the will? In short, let us
have what we may call a family discussion about it--it may prevent much
litigation."

Barthorpe considered this suggestion for a while.

"What you really mean is that I should come to your offices and tell my
cousin and you why I am fighting this will," he said eventually. "That
it?"

"Practically--yes," assented Mr. Halfpenny.

"Whom do you propose to have present?" asked Barthorpe.

"Yourself, your cousin, myself, the two witnesses, and, as a friend of
everybody concerned, Professor Cox-Raythwaite," replied Mr. Halfpenny.
"No one else is necessary."

"And you wish me to tell, plainly, why I refuse to believe that the will
is genuine?" asked Barthorpe.

"Certainly--yes," assented Mr. Halfpenny.

Barthorpe hesitated, eyeing the old lawyer doubtfully.

"It will be a painful business--for my cousin," he said.

"If--I really haven't the faintest notion of what you mean!" exclaimed
Mr. Halfpenny. "But if--if it will be painful for your cousin to hear
this--whatever it is--in private, it would be much more painful for her
to hear it in public. I gather, of course, that you have some strange
revelation to make. Surely, it would be most considerate to her to make
it in what we may call the privacy of the family circle, Cox-Raythwaite
and myself."

"I haven't the least objection to Cox-Raythwaite's presence, nor yours,"
said Barthorpe. "Very good--I'll accept your proposal--it will, as you
say, save a lot of litigation. Now--when?"

"Today is Tuesday," said Mr. Halfpenny. "What do you say to next Friday
morning, at ten o'clock?"

"Friday will do," answered Barthorpe. "I will be there at ten o'clock. I
shall leave it to you to summon all the parties concerned. By the by,
have you Burchill's address?"

"I have," replied Mr. Halfpenny. "I will communicate with him at once."

Barthorpe nodded, rose from his seat, and walked with his visitor
towards the door of his private room.

"Understand, Mr. Halfpenny," he said, "I'm agreeing to this to oblige
you. And if the truth is very painful to my cousin, well, as you say,
it's better for her to hear it in private than in a court of justice.
All right, then--Friday at ten."

Mr. Halfpenny went back to his own office, astonished and marvelling.
What on earth were these revelations which Barthorpe hinted at--these
unpleasant truths which would so wound and hurt Peggie Wynne? Could it
be possible that there really was some mystery about that will of which
only Barthorpe knew the secret? It was incomprehensible to Mr. Halfpenny
that any man could be so cool, so apparently cocksure about matters as
Barthorpe was unless he felt absolutely certain of his own case. What
that case could be, Mr. Halfpenny could not imagine--the only thing
really certain was that Barthorpe seemed resolved on laying it bare when
Friday came.

"God bless me!--it's a most extraordinary complication altogether!"
mused Mr. Halfpenny, once more alone in his own office. "It's very
evident to me that Barthorpe Herapath is absolutely ignorant that he's
suspected, and that the police are at work on him! What a surprise for
him if the thing comes to a definite head, and--but let us see what
Friday morning brings."

Friday morning brought Barthorpe to Mr. Halfpenny's offices in good
time. He came alone; a few minutes after his arrival Peggie Wynne,
nervous and frightened, came, attended by Mr. Tertius and Professor
Cox-Raythwaite. All these people were at once ushered into Mr.
Halfpenny's private room, where polite, if constrained, greetings
passed. At five minutes past ten o'clock Mr. Halfpenny looked at
Barthorpe.

"We're only waiting for Mr. Burchill," he remarked. "I wrote to him
after seeing you, and I received a reply from him in which he promised
to be here at ten this morning. It's now----"

But at that moment the door opened to admit Mr. Frank Burchill, who, all
unconscious of the fact that more than one pair of sharp eyes had
followed him from his flat to Mr. Halfpenny's office, and that their
owners were now in the immediate vicinity, came in full of polite
self-assurance, and executed formal bows while he gracefully apologised
to Mr. Halfpenny for being late.

"It's all right, all right, Mr. Burchill," said the old lawyer, a little
testy under the last-comer's polite phrases, all of which he thought
unnecessary. "Five or ten minutes won't make any great difference. Take
a seat, pray: I think if we all sit around this centre table of mine it
will be more convenient. We can begin at once now, Mr. Barthorpe
Herapath--I have already given strict instructions that we are not to be
disturbed, on any account. My dear--perhaps you will sit here by
me?--Mr. Tertius, you sit next to Miss Wynne--Professor----"

Mr. Halfpenny's dispositions of his guests placed Peggie and her two
companions on one side of a round table; Barthorpe and Burchill at the
other--Mr. Halfpenny himself sat at the head. And as soon as he had
taken his own seat, he looked at Barthorpe.

"This, of course," he began, "is a quite informal meeting. We are here,
as I understand matters, to hear why you, Mr. Barthorpe Herapath, object
to your late uncle's will, and why you intend to dispute it. So I
suppose the next thing to do will be to ask you to state your grounds."

But Barthorpe shook his head with a decisive motion.

"No," he answered. "Not at all! The first thing to do, Mr. Halfpenny, in
my opinion, is to hear what is to be said in favour of the will. The
will itself, I take it, is in your possession. I have seen it--I mean, I
have seen the document which purports to be a will of the late Jacob
Herapath--so I admit its existence. Two persons are named on that
document as witnesses: Mr. Tertius, Mr. Burchill. They are both present
now; at your request. I submit that the proper procedure is to question
them both as to the circumstances under which this alleged will was
made."

"I have no objections to that," answered Mr. Halfpenny. "I have no
objection--neither, I am sure, has Miss Wynne--to anything you propose.
Well, we take it for granted that this document exists--it is, of
course, in my safe keeping. Every person has seen it, one time or
another. We have here the two gentlemen who witnessed Jacob Herapath's
signature and each other's. So I will first ask the elder of the two to
tell us what he recollects of the matter. Now, Mr. Tertius?"

Mr. Tertius, who since his arrival had shown as much nervousness as
would probably have signalised his appearance in a witness-box, started
at this direct appeal.

"You--er, wish me----" he began, with an almost blank stare at Mr.
Halfpenny. "You want me to----"

"Come, come!" said Mr. Halfpenny. "This is as I have already said, an
informal gathering. We needn't have any set forms or cut-and-dried
procedure. I want you--we all want you--to tell us what you remember
about the making of Jacob Herapath's will. Tell us in your own way, in
whatever terms you like. Then we shall hear what your fellow-witness has
to say."

"Perhaps you'll let me suggest something," broke in Barthorpe, who had
obviously been thinking matters over. "Lay the alleged will on the table
before you, Mr. Halfpenny--question the two opposed witnesses on it.
That will simplify things."

Mr. Halfpenny considered this proposition for a moment or two; then
having whispered to Peggie and received her assent, he went across to a
safe and presently returned with the will, which he placed on a
writing-pad that lay in front of him.

"Now, Mr. Tertius," he said. "Look at this will, which purports to have
been made on the eighteenth day of April last. I understand that Jacob
Herapath called you into his study on the evening of that day and told
you that he wanted you and Mr. Burchill, his secretary, to witness his
signature to a will which he had made--had written out himself. I
understand also that you did witness his signature, attached your own,
in Mr. Herapath's presence and Mr. Burchill's presence, and that Mr.
Burchill's signature was attached under the same conditions. Am I right
in all this?"

"Quite right," replied Mr. Tertius. "Quite!"

"Is this the document which Jacob Herapath produced?"

"It is--certainly."

"Was it all drawn out then?--I am putting these questions to you quite
informally."

"It was all written out, except the signatures. Jacob showed us that it
was so written, though he did not allow us to see the wording. But he
showed us plainly that there was nothing to do but to sign. Then he laid
it on the desk, covered most of the sheet of paper with a piece of
blotting paper and signed his name in our presence--I stood on one side
of him, Mr. Burchill on the other. Then Mr. Burchill signed in his
place--beneath mine."

"And this," asked Mr. Halfpenny, pointing to the will, "this is your
signature?"

"Most certainly!" answered Mr. Tertius.

"And this," continued Mr. Halfpenny, "is Jacob Herapath's?--and this Mr.
Burchill's? You have no doubt about it?"

"No more than that I see and hear you," replied Mr. Tertius. "I have no
doubt."

Mr. Halfpenny turned from Mr. Tertius to Barthorpe Herapath. But
Barthorpe's face just then revealed nothing. Therefore the old lawyer
turned towards Burchill. And suddenly a sharp idea struck him. He would
settle one point to his own satisfaction at once, by one direct
question. And so he--as it were by impulse--thrust the will before and
beneath Burchill's eyes, and placed his finger against the third
signature.

"Mr. Burchill," he said, "is that your writing?"

Burchill, calm and self-possessed, glanced at the place which Mr.
Halfpenny indicated, and then lifted his eyes, half sadly, half
deprecatingly.

"No!" he replied, with a little shake of the head; "No, Mr. Halfpenny, it
is not!"




CHAPTER XXIII

THE ACCUSATION


The old lawyer, who had bent forward across the table in speaking to
Burchill, pulled himself up sharply on receiving this answer, and for a
second or two stared with a keen, searching gaze at the man he had
questioned, who, on his part, returned the stare with calm assurance. A
deep silence had fallen on the room; nothing broke it until Professor
Cox-Raythwaite suddenly began to tap the table with the ends of his
fingers. The sound roused Mr. Halfpenny to speech and action. He bent
forward again towards Burchill, once more laying a hand on the will.

"That is not your signature?" he asked quietly.

Burchill shook his head--this time with a gesture of something very like
contempt.

"It is not!" he answered.

"Did you see the late Jacob Herapath write--that?"

"I did not!"

"Did you see Mr. Tertius write--that?"

"I did not!"

"Have you ever seen this will, this document, before?"

"Never!"

Mr. Halfpenny drew the will towards himself with an impatient movement
and began to replace it in the large envelope from which it had been
taken.

"In short, you never assisted at the execution of this document--never
saw Jacob Herapath make any will--never witnessed any signature of his
to this?" he said testily. "That's what you really say--what you
affirm?"

"Just so," replied Burchill. "You apprehend me exactly."

"Yet you have just heard what Mr. Tertius says! What do you say to that,
Mr. Burchill?"

"I say nothing to that, Mr. Halfpenny. I have nothing to do with what
Mr. Tertius says. I have answered your questions."

"Mr. Tertius says that he and you saw Jacob Herapath sign that document,
saw each other sign it! What you say now gives Mr. Tertius the direct
lie, and----"

"Pardon me, Mr. Halfpenny," interrupted Burchill quietly. "Mr. Tertius
may be under some strange misapprehension; Mr. Tertius may be suffering
from some curious hallucination. What I say is--I did not see the late
Jacob Herapath sign that paper; I did not sign it myself; I did not see
Mr. Tertius sign it; I have never seen it before!"

Mr. Halfpenny made a little snorting sound, got up from his chair,
picked up the envelope which contained the will, walked over to his
safe, deposited the envelope in some inner receptacle, came back,
produced his snuff-box, took a hearty pinch of its contents, snorted
again, and looked hard at Barthorpe.

"I don't see the least use in going on with this!" he said. "We have
heard what Mr. Tertius, as one witness, says; we have heard what Mr.
Frank Burchill, as the other witness, says. Mr. Tertius says that he saw
the will executed in Mr. Burchill's presence; Mr. Burchill denies that
in the fullest and most unqualified fashion. Why waste more time? We had
better separate."

But Barthorpe laughed, maliciously.

"Scarcely!" he said. "You brought us here. It was your own proposal. I
assented. And now that we are here, and you have heard--what you have
heard--I'm going to have my say. You have gone, all along, Mr.
Halfpenny, on the assumption that the piece of paper which you have just
replaced in your safe is a genuine will. That's what you've said--I
believe it's what you say now. I don't say so!"

"What do you say it is, then?" demanded Mr. Halfpenny.

Barthorpe slightly lowered his voice.

"I say it's a forgery!" he answered. "That, I hope, is plain language. A
forgery--from the first word to its last."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Halfpenny, a little sneeringly. "And who's the
forger, pray?"

"That man, there!" said Barthorpe, suddenly pointing to Mr. Tertius.
"He's the forger! I accuse him to his face of forging every word, every
letter of it from the first stroke to the final one. And I'll give you
enough evidence to prove it--enough evidence, at any rate, to prove it
to any reasonable man or before a judge and jury. Forgery, I tell you!"

Mr. Halfpenny sat down again and became very calm and judicial. And he
had at once to restrain Peggie Wynne, who during Barthorpe's last speech
had manifested signs of a desire to speak, and had begun to produce a
sealed packet from her muff.

"Wait, my dear," said Mr. Halfpenny. "Do not speak just now--you shall
have an opportunity later--leave this to me at present. So you say you
can prove that this will is a forgery, Mr. Barthorpe Herapath?" he
continued, turning to the other side of the table. "Very well--since I
suggested that you should come here, you shall certainly have the
opportunity. But just allow me to ask Mr. Tertius a question--Tertius,
you have heard what Mr. Frank Burchill has just said?"

"I have!" replied Mr. Tertius. "And--I am amazed!"

"You stand by what you said yourself? You gave us a perfectly truthful
account of the execution of the will?"

"I stand by every word I said. I gave you--will give it again,
anywhere!--a perfectly truthful account of the circumstances under which
the will was signed and witnessed. I have made no mistakes--I am under
no hallucination. I am--astonished!"

Mr. Halfpenny turned to Barthorpe with a wave of the hand.

"We are at your disposal, Mr. Barthorpe Herapath," he said. "I leave
the rest of these proceedings to you. You have openly and unqualifiedly
accused Mr. Tertius of forging the will which we have all seen, and have
said you can prove your accusations. Perhaps you'd better do it. Mind
you!" he added, with a sudden heightening of tone, "mind you, I'm not
asking you to prove anything. But if I know Tertius--and I think I
do--he won't object to your saying anything you like--we shall, perhaps,
get at the truth by way of what you say. So--say on!"

"You're very kind," retorted Barthorpe. "I shall say on! But--I warned
you--what I've got to say will give a good deal of pain to my cousin
there. It would have been far better if you'd kept her out of this--still,
she'd have had to hear it sooner or later in a court of justice----"

"It strikes me we shall have to hear a good deal in a court of
justice--as you say, sooner or later," interrupted Mr. Halfpenny, dryly.
"So I don't think you need spare Miss Wynne. I should advise you to go
on, and let us become acquainted with what you've got to tell us."

"Barthorpe!" said Peggie, "I do not mind what pain you give me--you
can't give me much more than I've already been given this morning. But I
wish"--she turned appealingly to Mr. Halfpenny and again began to draw
the sealed packet from her muff--"I do wish, Mr. Halfpenny, you'd let me
say something before----"

"Say nothing, my dear, at present," commanded Mr. Halfpenny, firmly.
"Allow Mr. Barthorpe Herapath to have his say. Now, sir!" he went on,
with a motion of his hand towards the younger solicitor. "Pray let us
hear you."

"In my own fashion," retorted Barthorpe. "You're not a judge, you know.
Very good--if I give pain to you, Peggie, it's not my fault. Now, Mr.
Halfpenny," he continued, turning and pointing contemptuously to Mr.
Tertius, "as this is wholly informal, I'll begin with an informal yet
pertinent question, to you. Do you know who that man really is?"

"I believe that gentleman, sir, to be Mr. John Christopher Tertius, and
my very good and much-esteemed friend," replied Mr. Halfpenny, with
asperity.

"Pshaw!" sneered Barthorpe. He turned to Professor Cox-Raythwaite. "I'll
put the same question to you?" he said. "Do you know who he is?"

"And I give you the same answer, sir," answered the professor.

"No doubt!" said Barthorpe, still sneeringly. "The fact is, neither of
you know who he is. So I'll tell you. He's an ex-convict. He served a
term of penal servitude for forgery--forgery, do you hear? And his real
name is not Tertius. What it is, and who he really is, and all about
him, I'm going to tell you. Forger--ex-convict--get that into your
minds, all of you. For it's true!"

Mr. Tertius, who had started visibly as Barthorpe rapped out the first
of his accusations, and had grown paler as they went on, quietly rose
from his chair.

"Before this goes further, Halfpenny," he said, "I should like to have a
word in private with Miss Wynne. Afterwards--and I shan't detain her
more than a moment--I shall have no objection to hearing anything that
Mr. Barthorpe Herapath has to say. My dear!--step this way with me a
moment, I beg."

Mr. Halfpenny's private room was an apartment of considerable size,
having in it two large recessed windows. Into one of these Mr. Tertius
led Peggie, and there he spoke a few quiet words to her. Barthorpe
Herapath affected to take no notice, but the other men, watching them
closely, saw the girl start at something which Mr. Tertius said. But she
instantly regained her self-possession and composure, and when she came
back to the table her face, though pale, was firm and resolute. And
Barthorpe looked at her then, and his voice, when he spoke again, was
less aggressive and more civil.

"It's not to my taste to bring unpleasant family scandals into public
notice," he said, "and that's why I rather welcomed your proposal that
we should discuss this affair in private, Mr. Halfpenny. And now for
what I've got to tell you. I shall have to go back a long way in our
family history. My late uncle, Jacob Herapath, was the eldest of the
three children of his father, Matthew Herapath, who was a medical
practitioner at Granchester in Yorkshire--a small town on the Yorkshire
and Lancashire border. The three children were Jacob, Richard, and
Susan. With the main outlines of Jacob Herapath's career I believe we
are all fairly well acquainted. He came to London as a youth, and he
prospered, and became what we know him to have been. Richard, my father,
went out to Canada, when he was very young, settled there, and there he
died.

"Now we come to Susan, the only daughter. Susan Herapath, at the age of
twenty, married a man named Wynne--Arthur John Wynne, who at that time
was about twenty-five years of age, was the secretary and treasurer of a
recently formed railway--a sort of branch railway on the coast, which
had its head office at Southampton, a coast town. In Southampton, this
Arthur John Wynne and his wife settled down. At the end of a year their
first child was born--my cousin Margaret, who is here with us. When
she--I am putting all this as briefly as I can--when she was about
eighteen months old a sad affair happened. Wynne, who had been living in
a style very much above his position, was suddenly arrested on a charge
of forgery. Investigations proved that he had executed a number of most
skilful and clever forgeries, by which he had defrauded his employers of
a large--a very large--amount of money. He was sent for trial to the
assizes at Lancaster, he was found guilty, and he was sentenced to seven
years' penal servitude. And almost at once after the trial his wife
died.

"Here my late uncle, Jacob Herapath, came forward. He went north,
assumed possession and guardianship of the child, and took her away from
Southampton. He took her into Buckinghamshire and there placed her in
the care of some people named Bristowe, who were farmers near Aylesbury
and whom he knew very well. In the care of Mrs. Bristowe, the child
remained until she was between six and seven years old. Then she was
removed to Jacob Herapath's own house in Portman Square, where she has
remained ever since. My cousin, I believe, has a very accurate
recollection of her residence with the Bristowes, and she will remember
being brought from Buckinghamshire to London at the time I have spoken
of."

Barthorpe paused for a moment and looked at Peggie. But Peggie, who was
listening intently with downcast head, made no remark, and he presently
continued.

"Now, not so very long after that--I mean, after the child was brought
to Portman Square--another person came to the house as a permanent
resident. His name was given to the servants as Mr. Tertius. The
conditions of his residence were somewhat peculiar. He had rooms of his
own; he did as he liked. Sometimes he joined Jacob Herapath at meals;
sometimes he did not. There was an air of mystery about him. What was
it? I will tell you in a word--the mystery or its secret, was this--the
man Tertius, who sits there now, was in reality the girl's father! He
was Arthur John Wynne, the ex-convict--the clever forger!"




CHAPTER XXIV

COLD STEEL


The two men who formed what one may call the alien and impartial audience
at that table were mutually and similarly impressed by a certain feature
of Barthorpe Herapath's speech--its exceeding malevolence. As he went on
from sentence to sentence, his eyes continually turned to Mr. Tertius,
who sat, composed and impassive, listening, and in them was a gleam
which could not be mistaken--the gleam of bitter, personal dislike. Mr.
Halfpenny and Professor Cox-Raythwaite both saw that look and drew their
own conclusions, and when Barthorpe spat out his last words, the man of
science turned to the man of law and muttered a sharp sentence in Latin
which no one else caught. And Mr. Halfpenny nodded and muttered a word
or two back before he turned to Barthorpe.

"Even supposing--mind, I only say supposing--even supposing you are
correct in all you say--and I don't know that you are," he said, "what you
have put before us does nothing to prove that the will which we have just
inspected is not what we believe it to be--we, at any rate--the valid will
of Jacob Herapath. You know as well as I do that you'd have to give
stronger grounds than that before a judge and jury."

"I'll give you my grounds," answered Barthorpe eagerly. He bent over the
table in his eagerness, and the old lawyer suddenly realized that
Barthorpe genuinely believed himself to be in the right. "I'll give you
my grounds without reserve. Consider them--I'll check them off, point by
point--you can follow them:

"First. It was well known--to me, at any rate, that my uncle Jacob
Herapath, had never made a will.

"Second. Is it not probable that if he wanted to make a will he would
have employed me, who had acted as his solicitor for fifteen years?

"Third. I had a conversation with him about making a will just under a
year ago, and he then said he'd have it done, and he mentioned that he
should divide his estate equally between me and my cousin there.

"Fourth. Mr. Burchill here absolutely denies all knowledge of this
alleged will.

"Fifth. My uncle's handwriting, as you all know, was exceedingly plain
and very easy to imitate. Burchill's handwriting is similarly plain--of
the copperplate sort--and just as easy to imitate.

"Sixth. That man across there is an expert forger! I have the account of
his trial at Lancaster Assizes--the evidence shows that his work was most
expert. Is it likely that his hand should have lost its cunning--even
after several years?

"Seventh. That man there had every opportunity of forging this will.
With his experience and knowledge it would be a simple matter to him. He
did it with the idea of getting everything into the hands of his own
daughter, of defrauding me of my just rights. Since my uncle's death he
has made two attempts to see Burchill privately--why? To square him, of
course! And----"

Mr. Tertius, who had been gazing at the table while Barthorpe went
through these points, suddenly lifted his head and looked at Mr.
Halfpenny. His usual nervousness seemed to have left him, and there was
something very like a smile of contempt about his lips when he spoke.

"I think, Halfpenny," he said quietly, "I really think it is time all
this extraordinary farce--for it is nothing less!--came to an end. May I
be permitted to ask Mr. Barthorpe Herapath a few questions?"

"So far as I am concerned, as many as you please, Tertius," replied Mr.
Halfpenny. "Whether he'll answer them or not is another matter. He ought
to."

"I shall answer them if I please, and I shall not answer them if I don't
want to," said Barthorpe sullenly. "You can put them, anyway. But
they'll make no difference--I know what I'm talking about."

"So do I," said Mr. Tertius. "And really, as we come here to get at the
truth, it will be all the better for everybody concerned if you do
answer my questions. Now--you say I am in reality Arthur Wynne, the
father of your cousin, the brother-in-law of Jacob Herapath. What you
have said about Arthur John Wynne is unfortunately only too true. It is
true that he erred and was punished--severely. In due course he went to
Portland. I want to ask you what became of him afterwards?--you say you
have full knowledge."

"You mean, what became of you afterwards," sneered Barthorpe. "I know
when you left Portland. You left it for London--and you came to London
to be sheltered, under your assumed name, by Jacob Herapath."

"No more than that?" asked Mr. Tertius.

"That's enough," answered Barthorpe. "You left Portland in April, 1897;
you came to London when you were discharged; in June of that year you'd
taken up your residence under Jacob Herapath's roof. And it's no use
your trying to bluff me--I've traced your movements!"

"With the aid, no doubt, of Mr. Burchill there," observed Mr. Tertius,
dryly. "But----"

Burchill drew himself up.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "That is an unwarrantable assumption, and----"

"Unwarrantable assumptions, Mr. Burchill, appear to be present in great
quantity," interrupted Mr. Tertius, with an air of defiance which
surprised everybody. "Don't you interrupt me, sir!--I'll deal with you
before long in a way that will astonish you. Now, Mr. Barthorpe
Herapath," he went on, turning to that person with determination, "I
will astonish you somewhat, for I honestly believe you really have some
belief in what you say. I am not Arthur John Wynne. I am what I have
always been--John Christopher Tertius, as a considerable number of
people in this town can prove. But I knew Arthur John Wynne. When he
left Portland he came to me here in London--at the suggestion of Jacob
Herapath. I then lived in Bloomsbury--I had recently lost my wife. I
took Wynne to live with me. But he had not long to live. If you had
searched into matters more deeply, you would have found that he got his
discharge earlier than he would have done in the usual course, because
of his health. As a matter of fact, he was very ill when he came to me,
and he died six weeks after his arrival at my house. He is buried in the
churchyard of the village from which he originally came--in Wales--and
you can inspect all the documents relating to his death, and see his
grave if you care to. After his death, for reasons into which I need not
go, I went to live with Jacob Herapath. It was his great desire--and
mine--that Wynne's daughter, your cousin, should never know her father's
sad history. But for you she never would have known it! And--that is a
plain answer to what you have had to allege against me. Now, sir, let me
ask you a plain question. Who invented this cock-and-bull story? You
don't reply--readily? Shall I assist you by a suggestion? Was it that
man who sits by you--Burchill? For Burchill knows that he has lied
vilely and shamelessly this morning--Burchill knows that he did see
Jacob Herapath sign that will--Burchill knows that that will was duly
witnessed by himself and by me in the presence of each other and of the
testator! God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Tertius, thumping the table
vehemently. "Why, man alive, your cousin Margaret has a document here
which proves that that will is all right--a document written by Jacob
Herapath himself! Bring it out, my dear--confound these men with an
indisputable proof!"

But before Peggie could draw the packet from her muff, Burchill had
risen and was showing signs of retreat. And Barthorpe, now pale with
anger and perplexity, had risen too--and he was looking at Burchill.

Mr. Halfpenny looked at both men. Then he pointed to their chairs.
"Hadn't you better sit down again?" he said. "It seems to me that we're
just arriving at the most interesting stage of these proceedings."

Burchill stepped towards the door.

"I do not propose to stay in company in which I am ruthlessly insulted,"
he said. "It is, of course, a question of my word against Mr. Tertius's.
We shall see. As for the present, I do."

"Stop!" said Barthorpe. He moved towards Burchill, motioning him towards
the window in which Peggie and Mr. Tertius had spoken together. "Here--a
word with you!"

But Burchill made for the door, and Mr. Halfpenny nudged Professor
Cox-Raythwaite.

"I say--stop!" exclaimed Barthorpe. "There's some explanation----"

He was about to lay a hand on the door when Mr. Halfpenny touched a
bell which stood in front of him on the table. And at its sharp sound
the door opened from without, and Burchill fell back at what he
saw--fell back upon Barthorpe, who looked past him, and started in his
turn.

"Great Scot!" said Barthorpe. "Police!"

Davidge came quickly and quietly in--three other men with him. And in
the room from which they emerged Barthorpe saw more men, many more men,
and with them an eager, excited face which he somehow recognized--the
face of the little _Argus_ reporter who had asked him and Selwood for
news on the morning after Jacob Herapath's murder.

But Barthorpe had no time to waste thoughts on Triffitt. He suddenly
became alive to the fact that two exceedingly strong men had seized his
arms; that two others had similarly seized Burchill. The pallor died out
of his face and gave place to a dull glow of anger.

"Now, then?" he growled. "What's all this!"

"The same for both of you, Mr. Herapath," answered Davidge, cheerfully
and in business-like fashion. "I'll charge both you and Mr. Burchill
formally when we've got you to the station. You're both under arrest,
you know. And I may as well warn you----"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Barthorpe. "Arrest!--on what charge?"

"Charge will be the same for both," answered Davidge coolly. "The murder
of Jacob Herapath."

A dead silence fell on the room. Then Peggie Wynne cried out, and
Barthorpe suddenly made a spring at Burchill.

"You villain!" he said in a low concentrated voice. "You've done me, you
devil! Let me get my hands on----"

The other men, Triffitt on their heels, came bustling into the room,
obedient to Davidge's lifted finger.

"Put the handcuffs on both of 'em," commanded Davidge. "Can't take any
chances, Mr. Herapath, if you lose your temper--the other gentleman----"

It was at that moment that the other gentleman took his chance. While
Barthorpe Herapath had foolishly allowed himself to become warm and
excited, Burchill had remained cool and watchful and calculating. And now
in the slight diversion made by the entrance of the other detectives, he
suddenly and adroitly threw off the grasp of the men who held him, darted
through the open door on to the stairs, and had vanished before Davidge
could cry out. Davidge darted too, the other police darted, Mr. Halfpenny
smote his bell and shouted to his clerks. But the clerks were downstairs,
out of hearing, and the police were fleshy men, slow of movement, while
Burchill was slippery as an eel and agile as an athlete. Moreover,
Burchill, during his secretaryship to Jacob Herapath, had constantly
visited Mr. Halfpenny's office, and was as well acquainted with its ins
and outs as its tenant; he knew where, in those dark stairs there was
a side stair which led to a private door in a neighbouring alley. And
while the pursuers blundered this way and that, he calmly slipped out to
freedom, and, in a couple of minutes was mingling with the crowds in a
busy thoroughfare, safe for that time.

Then Davidge, cursing his men and his luck, took Barthorpe Herapath away,
and Triffitt rushed headlong to Fleet Street, seething with excitement and
brimming with news.




CHAPTER XXV

PROFESSIONAL ANALYSIS


The _Argus_ came out in great style next morning, and it and Triffitt
continued to give its vast circle of readers a similar feast of
excitement for a good ten days. Triffitt, in fact, went almost foodless
and sleepless; there was so much to do. To begin with, there was the
daily hue and cry after Burchill, who had disappeared as completely as
if his familiar evil spirits had carried him bodily away from the very
door of Halfpenny and Farthing's office. Then there was the bringing up
of Barthorpe Herapath before the magistrate at Bow Street, and the
proceedings at the adjourned coroner's inquest. It was not until the
tenth day that anything like a breathing space came. But the position of
affairs on that tenth day was a fairly clear one. The coroner's jury had
returned a verdict of wilful murder against Barthorpe Herapath and Frank
Burchill; the magistrate had committed Barthorpe for trial; the police
were still hunting high and low for Burchill. And there was scarcely a
soul who had heard the evidence before the coroner and the magistrate
who did not believe that both the suspected men were guilty and that
both--when Burchill had been caught--would ere long stand in the Old
Bailey dock and eventually hear themselves sentenced to the scaffold.

One man, however, believed nothing of the sort, and that man was
Professor Cox-Raythwaite. His big, burly form had been very much in
evidence at all the proceedings before coroner and magistrate. He had
followed every scrap of testimony with the most scrupulous care; he had
made notes from time to time; he had given up his leisure moments, and
stolen some from his proper pursuits, to a deep consideration of the
case as presented by the police. And on the afternoon which saw
Barthorpe committed to take his trial, he went away from Bow Street,
alone, thinking more deeply than ever. He walked home to his house in
Endsleigh Gardens, head bent, hands clasped behind his big back, the
very incarnation of deep and ponderous musing. He shut himself in his
study; he threw himself into his easy chair before his hearth; he
remained smoking infinite tobacco, staring into vacancy, until his
dinner-bell rang. He roused himself to eat and drink; then he went out
into the street, bought all the evening newspapers he could lay hands
on, and, hailing a taxi-cab, drove to Portman Square.

Peggie, Mr. Tertius, and Selwood had just dined; they were sitting in a
quiet little parlour, silent and melancholy. The disgrace of Barthorpe's
arrest, of the revelations before coroner and magistrate, of his
committal on the capital charge, had reduced Peggie to a state of
intense misery; the two men felt hopelessly unable to give her any
comfort. To both, the entrance of Cox-Raythwaite came as a positive
relief.

Cox-Raythwaite, shown into the presence of these three, closed the door
in a fashion which showed that he did not wish to be disturbed, came
silently across the room, and drew a chair into the midst of the
disconsolate group. His glance round commanded attention.

"Now, my friends," he said, plunging straight into his subject, "if we
don't wish to see Barthorpe hanged, we've just got to stir ourselves!
I've come here to begin the stirring."

Peggie looked up with a sudden heightening of colour. Mr. Tertius slowly
shook his head.

"Pitiable!" he murmured. "Pitiable, most pitiable! But the evidence, my
dear Cox-Raythwaite, the evidence! I only wish----"

"I've been listening to all the evidence that could be brought before
coroner's jury and magistrate in police court," broke in the Professor.
"Listening with all my ears until I know every scrap of it by heart. And
for four solid hours this afternoon I've been analysing it. I'm going to
analyse it to you--and then I'll show you why it doesn't satisfy me.
Give me your close attention, all of you."

He drew a little table to his elbow, laid his bundle of papers upon it,
and began to talk, checking off his points on the tips of his big,
chemical-stained fingers.

"Now," he said, "we'll just go through the evidence which has been
brought against these two men, Barthorpe and Burchill, which evidence
has resulted in Barthorpe being committed for trial and in the police's
increased anxiety to lay hold of Burchill. The police theory, after all,
is a very simple one--let's take it and their evidence point by point.

    "1. The police say that Jacob Herapath came to his death
        as the result of a conspiracy between his nephew
        Barthorpe Herapath and Frank Burchill.

    "2. They say that the proof that that conspiracy existed
        is found in certain documents discovered by Davidge at
        Burchill's flat, in which documents Barthorpe
        covenants to pay Burchill ten per cent. of the value
        of the Herapath property if and when he, Barthorpe,
        comes into it.

    "3. The police argue that this conspiracy to murder Jacob
        Herapath and upset the will was in existence before
        November 12th--in other words that the idea of
        upsetting the will came first, and that the murder
        arose out of it.

    "4. In support of this they have proved that Barthorpe was
        in close touch with Burchill as soon as the murder was
        committed--afternoon of the same day, at any rate--and
        therefore presumably had been in close touch with him
        previously.

    "5. They have proved to the full a certain matter about
        which there is no doubt--that Barthorpe was at the
        estate office about the time at which, according to
        medical evidence, his uncle was murdered, that he
        subsequently put on his uncle's coat and hat and
        visited this house, and afterwards returned to the
        estate office. That, I say, is certain--and it is the
        most damning thing against Barthorpe.

    "6. According to the police, then, Barthorpe was the
        actual murderer, and Burchill was an accessory before
        the fact. There is no evidence that Burchill was near
        the estate office that night. But that, of course,
        doesn't matter--if, as the police suggest, there is
        evidence that the conspiracy to kill Jacob Herapath
        existed before November 12th, then it doesn't matter
        at all whether Burchill took an active part in it or
        not--he's guilty as accessory."

The Professor here paused and smote his bundle of papers. Then he lifted
and wagged one of his great fingers.

"But!" he exclaimed. "But--but--always a but! And the but in this case
is a mighty one. It's this--did that conspiracy exist before November
12th? Did it--did it? It's a great point--it's a great point. Now, we
all know that this morning, before he was committed, Barthorpe, much
against the wishes of his legal advisers, insisted, forcibly insisted,
on making a statement. It's in the evening papers here, verbatim. I'll
read it to you carefully--you heard him, all of you, but I want you to
hear it again, read slowly. Consider it--think of it carefully--remember
the circumstances under which it's made!"

He turned to the table, selected a newspaper, and read:

      "'The accused, having insisted, in spite of evident
    strong dissuasion from his counsel, upon making a
    statement, said: "I wish to tell the plain and absolute
    truth about my concern with this affair. I have heard
    the evidence given by various witnesses as to my
    financial position. That evidence is more or less true. I
    lost a lot of money last winter in betting and gambling.
    I was not aware that my position was known to my uncle
    until one of these witnesses revealed that my uncle had
    been employing private inquiry agents to find it out. I
    was meaning, when his death occurred, to make a clean
    breast to him. I was on the best of terms with
    him--whatever he may have known, it made no difference
    that I ever noticed in his behaviour to me. I was not
    aware that my uncle had made a will. He never mentioned
    it to me. About a year ago, there was some joking
    conversation between us about making a will, and I said
    to him that he ought to do it, and give me the job, and
    he replied, laughingly, that he supposed he would have
    to, some time. I solemnly declare that on November 12th I
    hadn't the ghost of a notion that he had made a will.

      "'"On November 12th last, about five o'clock in the
    afternoon, I received a note from my uncle, asking me to
    meet him at his estate office, at midnight. I had often
    met him there at that time--there was nothing unusual
    about such an appointment. I went there, of course--I
    walked there from my flat in the Adelphi. I noticed when I
    got there that my uncle's brougham was being slowly driven
    round the square across the road. The outer door of the
    office was slightly open. I was surprised. The usual thing
    when I made late calls was for me to ring a bell which
    sounded in my uncle's private room, and he then came and
    admitted me. I went in, and down the hall, and I then saw
    that the door of his room was also open. The electric
    light was burning. I went in. I at once saw my uncle--he
    was lying between the desk and the hearth, quite dead.
    There was a revolver lying near. I touched his hand and
    found it was quite warm.

      "'"I looked round, and seeing no sign of any struggle, I
    concluded that my uncle had shot himself. I noticed that
    his keys were lying on the desk. His fur-collared overcoat
    and slouch hat were thrown on a sofa. Of course, I was
    much upset. I went outside, meaning, I believe, to call
    the caretaker. Everything was very still in the house. I
    did not call. I began to think. I knew I was in a strange
    position. I knew my uncle's death would make a vast
    difference to me. I was next of kin. I wanted to know how
    things stood--how I was left. Something suggested itself
    to me. I think the overcoat and hat suggested it. I put on
    the hat and coat, took the keys from the table, and the
    latch-key of the Portman Square house from my uncle's
    waistcoat pocket, turned out the light, went out, closed
    both doors, went to the brougham, and was driven away. I
    saw very well that the coachman didn't know me at all--he
    thought I was his master.

      "'"I have heard the evidence about my visit to Portman
    Square. I stopped there some time. I made a fairly
    complete search for a will and didn't find anything. It is
    quite true that I used one of the glasses, and ate a
    sandwich, and very likely I did bite into another. It's
    true, too, that I have lost two front teeth, and that the
    evidence of that could be in the sandwich. All that's
    true--I admit it. It's also quite true that I got the
    taxi-cab at two o'clock at the corner of Orchard Street
    and drove back to Kensington. I re-entered the office;
    everything was as I'd left it. I took off the coat and
    hat, put the keys under some loose papers on the table,
    turned out the light and went home to my flat.

      "'"Now I wish to tell the absolute, honest truth about
    Burchill and the will. When I heard of and saw the will,
    after Mr. Tertius produced it, I went to see Burchill at
    his flat. I had never seen him, never communicated with
    him in any way whatever since he had left my uncle's
    service until that afternoon. I had got his address from a
    letter which I found in a pocket-book of my uncle's, which
    I took possession of when the police and I searched his
    effects. I went to see Burchill about the will, of course.
    When I said that a will had been found he fenced with me.
    He would only reply ambiguously. Eventually he asked me,
    point-blank, if I would make it worth his while if he
    aided me in upsetting the will. I replied that if he
    could--which I doubted--I would. He told me to call at ten
    o'clock that night. I did so. He then told me what I had
    never suspected--that Mr. Tertius was, in reality, Arthur
    John Wynne, a convicted forger. He gave me his proofs, and
    I was fool enough to believe them. He then suggested that
    it would be the easiest thing in the world, considering
    Wynne's record, to prove that he had forged the will for
    his daughter's benefit. He offered to aid in this if I
    would sign documents giving him ten per cent. of the total
    value of my uncle's estate, and I was foolish enough to
    consent, and to sign. I solemnly declare that the entire
    suggestion about upsetting the will came from Burchill,
    and that there was no conspiracy between us of any sort
    whatever previous to that night. Whatever may happen, I've
    told this court the absolute, definite truth!"'"

Professor Cox-Raythwaite folded up the newspaper, laid it on the little
table, and brought his big hand down on his knee with an emphatic smack.

"Now, then!" he said. "In my deliberate, coldly reasoned opinion, that
statement is true! If they hang Barthorpe, they'll hang an innocent man.
But----"




CHAPTER XXVI

THE REMAND PRISON


Mr. Tertius broke the significant silence which followed. He shook his
head sadly, and sighed deeply.

"Ah, those buts!" he said. "As you remarked just now, Cox-Raythwaite,
there is always a but. Now, this particular one--what is it?"

"Let me finish my sentence," responded the Professor. "I say, I do not
believe Barthorpe to be guilty of murder, though guilty enough of a
particularly mean, dirty, and sneaking conspiracy to defraud his cousin.
Yes, innocent of murder--but it will be a stiff job to prove his
innocence. As things stand, he'll be hanged safe enough! You know what
our juries are, Tertius--evidence such as that which has been put before
the coroner and the magistrate will be quite sufficient to damn him at
the Old Bailey. Ample!"

"What do you suggest, then?" asked Mr. Tertius.

"Suggestion," answered the Professor, "is a difficult matter. But there
are two things--perhaps more, but certainly two--on which I want light.
The first is--nobody has succeeded in unearthing the man who went to the
House of Commons to see Jacob on the night of the murder. In spite of
everything, advertisements and all the rest of it, he's never come
forward. If you remember, Halfpenny had a theory that the letter and
the object which Mountain saw Jacob hand to that man were a note to the
Safe Deposit people and the key of the safe. Now we know that's not so,
because no one ever brought any letter to the Safe Deposit people and
nobody's ever opened the safe. Halfpenny, too, believed, during the
period of the police officials' masterly silence, that that man had put
himself in communication with them. Now we know that the police have
never heard anything whatever of him, have never traced him. I'm
convinced that if we could unearth that man we should learn something.
But how to do it, I don't know."

"And the other point?" asked Selwood, after a pause during which
everybody seemed to be ruminating deeply. "You mentioned two."

"The other point," replied the Professor, "is one on which I am going to
make a practical suggestion. It's this--I believe that Barthorpe told
the truth in that statement of his which I've just read to you, but I
should like to know if he told all the truth--all! He may have omitted
some slight thing, some infinitesimal circumstance----"

"Do you mean about himself or--what?" asked Selwood.

"I mean some very--or seemingly very--slight thing, during his two
visits to the estate office that night, which, however slight it may
seem, would form a clue to the real murderer," answered the Professor.
"He may have seen something, noticed something, and forgotten it, or not
attached great importance to it. And, in short," he continued, with
added emphasis, "in short, my friends, Barthorpe must be visited,
interviewed, questioned--not merely by his legal advisers, but by some
friend, and the very person to do it"--here he turned and laid his great
hand on Peggie's shoulder--"is--you, my dear!"

"I!" exclaimed Peggie.

"You, certainly! Nobody better. He will tell you what he would tell no
one else," said the Professor. "You're the person. Am I not right,
Tertius?"

"I think you are right," assented Mr. Tertius. "Yes, I think so."

"But--he's in prison!" said Peggie. "Will they let me?"

"Oh, that's all right," answered the Professor. "Halfpenny will arrange
that like winking. You must go at once--and Selwood there will go with
you. Far better for you two young people to go than for either
Halfpenny, or Tertius, or myself. Youth invites confidence."

Peggie turned and looked at Selwood.

"You'll go?" she asked.

Selwood felt his cheeks flush and rose to conceal his sudden show of
feeling. "I'll go anywhere and do anything!" he answered quietly. "I
don't know whether my opinion's worth having, but I think exactly as
Professor Cox-Raythwaite does about this affair. But--who's the guilty
man? Is it--can it be Burchill? If what Barthorpe Herapath says about
that will affair is true, Burchill is cunning and subtle enough for----"

"Burchill, my dear lad, is at present out of our ken," interrupted
Cox-Raythwaite. "Barthorpe, however, is very much within it, and
Halfpenny must arrange for you two to see him without delay. And once
closeted with him, you must talk to him for his soul's good--get him to
search his memory, to think of every detail he can rake up--above
everything, if there's anything he's keeping back, beg him, on your
knees if necessary, to make a clean breast of it. Otherwise----"

Two days later Peggie, sick at heart, and Selwood, nervous and fidgety,
sat in a room which gave both of them a feeling as of partial suffocation.
It was not that it was not big enough for two people, or for six people,
or for a dozen people to sit in--there was space for twenty. What
oppressed them was the horrible sense of formality, the absence of
life, colour, of anything but sure and solid security, the intrusive
spick-and-spanness, the blatant cleanliness, the conscious odour of some
sort of soap, used presumably for washing floors and walls, the whole
crying atmosphere of incarceration. The barred window, the pictureless
walls, the official look of the utterly plain chairs and tables, the
grilles of iron bars which cut the place in half--these things oppressed
the girl so profoundly that she felt as if a sharp scream was the only
thing that would relieve her pent-up feelings. And as she sat there with
thumping heart, dreading the appearance of her cousin behind those bars,
yet wishing intensely that he would come, Peggie had a sudden fearful
realization of what it really meant to fall into the hands of justice.
There, somewhere close by, no doubt, Barthorpe was able to move hands
and feet, legs and arms, body and head--but within limits. He could pace
a cell, he could tramp round an exercise yard, he could eat and drink,
he could use his tongue when allowed, he could do many things--but
always within limits. He was held--held by an unseen power which could
materialize, could make itself very much seen, at a second's notice.
There he would stop until he was carried off to his trial; he would come
and go during that trial, the unseen power always holding him. And one
day he would either go out of the power's clutches--free, or he would be
carried off, not to this remand prison but a certain cell in another
place in which he would sit, or lounge, or lie, with nothing to do,
until a bustling, businesslike man came in one morning with a little
group of officials and in his hand a bundle of leather straps. Held!--by
the strong, never-relaxing clutch of the law. That----

"Buck up!" whispered Selwood, in the blunt language of irreverent, yet
good-natured, youth. "He's coming!"

Peggie looked up to see Barthorpe staring at her through the iron bars.
He was not over good to look at. He had a two days' beard on his face;
his linen was not fresh; his clothes were put on untidily; he stood with
his hands in his pockets lumpishly--the change wrought by incarceration,
even of that comparative sort, was great. He looked both sulky and
sheepish; he gave Selwood no more than a curt nod; his first response to
his cousin was of the nature of a growl.

"Hanged if I know what you've come for!" he said. "What's the good of
it? You may mean well, but----"

"Oh, Barthorpe, how can you!" exclaimed Peggie. "Of course we've come!
Do you think it possible we shouldn't come? You know very well we all
believe you innocent."

"Who's all?" demanded Barthorpe, half-sneeringly. "Yourself, perhaps,
and the parlour-maid!"

"All of us," said Selwood, thinking it was time a man spoke.
"Cox-Raythwaite, Mr. Tertius, myself. That's a fact, anyhow, so you'd
better grasp it."

Barthorpe straightened himself and looked keenly at Selwood. Then he
spoke naturally and simply.

"I'm much obliged to you, Selwood," he said. "I'd shake hands with you if
I could. I'm obliged to the others, too--especially to old Tertius--I've
wronged him, no doubt. But"--here his face grew dark and savage--"if you
only knew how I was tricked by that devil! Is he caught?--that's what I
want to know."

"No!" answered Selwood. "But never mind him--we've come here to see what
we can do for you. That's the important thing."

"What can anybody do?" said Barthorpe, with a mirthless laugh. "You know
all the evidence. It's enough--they'll hang me on it!"

"Barthorpe, you mustn't!" expostulated Peggie. "That's not the way to
treat things. Tell him," she went on, turning to Selwood, "tell him all
that Professor Cox-Raythwaite said the other night."

Selwood repeated the gist of the Professor's arguments and suggestions,
and Barthorpe began to show some interest. But at the end he shook his
head.

"I don't know that there's anything more that I can tell," he said.
"Whatever anybody may think, I told the entire truth about myself and
this affair in that statement before the magistrate. Of course, you know
they didn't want me to say a word--my legal advisers, I mean. They were
dead against it. But you see, I was resolved on it--I wanted it to get
in the papers. I told everything in that. I tried to put it as plainly
as I could. No--I've told the main facts."

"But aren't there any little facts, Barthorpe?" asked Peggie. "Can't you
think of any small thing--was there nothing that would give--I don't
know how to put it."

"Anything that you can think of that would give a clue?" suggested
Selwood. "Was there nothing you noticed--was there anything----"

Barthorpe appeared to be thinking; then to be hesitating--finally, he
looked at Selwood a little shamefacedly.

"Well, there were one or two things that I didn't tell," he said.
"I--the fact is, I didn't think they were of importance. One of them was
about that key to the Safe Deposit. You know you and I couldn't find it
when we searched the office that morning. Well, I had found it. Or
rather, I took it off the bunch of keys. I wanted to search the safe at
the Safe Deposit myself. But I never did. I don't know whether the
detectives have found it or not--I threw it into a drawer at my office
in which there are a lot of other keys. But, you know, there's nothing
in that--nothing at all."

"You said one or two other things just now," remarked Selwood. "That's
one--what's the other?"

Barthorpe hesitated. The three were not the only occupants of that
gloomy room, and though the official ears might have been graven out of
stone, he felt their presence.

"Don't keep anything back, Barthorpe," pleaded Peggie.

"Oh, well!" responded Barthorpe. "I'll tell you, though I don't know
what good it will do. I didn't tell this, because--well, of course, it's
not exactly a thing a man likes to tell. When I looked over Uncle
Jacob's desk, just after I found him dead, you know, I found a
hundred-pound note lying there. I put it in my pocket. Hundred-pound
notes weren't plentiful, you know," he went on with a grim smile. "Of
course, it was a shabby thing to do, sort of robbing the dead, you know,
but----"

"Do you see any way in which that can help?" asked Selwood, whose mind
was not disposed to dwell on nice questions of morality or conduct.
"Does anything suggest itself?"

"Why, this," answered Barthorpe, rubbing his chin. "It was a brand-new
note. That's puzzled me--that it should be lying there amongst papers.
You might go to Uncle Jacob's bank and find out when he drew it--or
rather, if he'd been drawing money that day. He used, as you and I know,
to draw considerable amounts in notes. And--it's only a notion--if he'd
drawn anything big that day, and he had it on him that night, why,
there's a motive there. Somebody may have known he'd a considerable
amount on him and have followed him in there. Don't forget that I found
both doors open when I went there! That's a point that mustn't be
overlooked."

"There's absolutely nothing else you can think of?" asked Selwood.

Barthorpe shook his head. No--there was nothing--he was sure of that.
And then he turned eagerly to the question of finding Burchill.
Burchill, he was certain, knew more than he had given him credit for,
knew something, perhaps, about the actual murder. He was a deep, crafty
dog, Burchill--only let the police find him!----

Time was up, then, and Peggie and Selwood had to go--their last
impression that of Barthorpe thrusting his hands in his pockets and
lounging away to his enforced idleness. It made the girl sick at heart,
and it showed Selwood what deprivation of liberty means to a man who has
hitherto been active and vigorous.

"Have we done any good?" asked Peggie, drawing a deep breath of free air
as soon as they were outside the gates. "Any bit of good?"

"There's the affair of the bank-note," answered Selwood. "That may be of
some moment. I'll go and report progress on that, anyway."

He put Peggie into her car to go home, and himself hailed a taxi-cab and
drove straight to Mr. Halfpenny's office, where Professor Cox-Raythwaite
and Mr. Tertius had arranged to meet him.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAST CHEQUE


The three elderly gentlemen, seated in Mr. Halfpenny's private room,
listened with intense, if silent, interest to Selwood's account of the
interview with Barthorpe. It was a small bundle of news that he had
brought back and two of his hearers showed by their faces that they
attached little importance to it. But Professor Cox-Raythwaite caught
eagerly at the mere scrap of suggestion.

"Tertius!--Halfpenny!" he exclaimed. "That must be followed up--we must
follow it up at once. That bank-note may be a most valuable and
effective clue."

Mr. Halfpenny showed a decided incredulity and dissent.

"I don't see it," he answered. "Don't see it at all, Cox-Raythwaite. What
is there in it? What clue can there be in the fact that Barthorpe picked
up a hundred pound bank-note from his uncle's writing-desk? Lord bless
me!--why, every one of us four men knows very well that hundred pound
notes were as common to Jacob Herapath as half-crowns are to any of
us! He was a man who carried money in large amounts on him always--I've
expostulated with him about it. Don't you know--no, I dare say you don't
though, because you never had business dealings with him, and perhaps
Tertius doesn't, either, because he, like you, only knew him as a
friend--you don't know that Jacob had a peculiarity. Perhaps Mr. Selwood
knows of it, though, as he was his secretary."

"What peculiarity?" asked the Professor. "I know he had several fads,
which one might call peculiarities."

"He had a business peculiarity," replied Mr. Halfpenny, "and it was well
known to people in his line of business. You know that Jacob Herapath
had extensive, unusually extensive, dealings in real property--land and
houses. Quite apart from the Herapath Flats, he dealt on wide lines with
real estate; he was always buying and selling. And his peculiarity was
that all his transactions in this way were done by cash--bank-notes or
gold--instead of by cheque. It didn't matter if he was buying a hundred
thousand pounds' worth of property, or selling two hundred thousand
pounds' worth--the affairs had to be completed by payment in that
fashion. I've scolded him about it scores of times; he only laughed at
me; he said that had been the custom when he went into the business, and
he'd stuck to it, and wasn't going to give it up. God bless me!"
concluded Mr. Halfpenny, with emphasis. "I ought to know, for Jacob
Herapath has concluded many an operation in this very room, and at this
very table--I've seen him handle many a hundred thousand pounds' worth
of notes in my time, paying or receiving! And, as I said, the mere
picking up of a hundred pound note from his desk is--why, it's no more
than if I picked up a few of those coppers that are lying there on my
chimney-piece!"

"Just so, just so!" observed Mr. Tertius mildly. "Jacob was a very
wealthy man--the money evidence was everywhere."

But Professor Cox-Raythwaite only laughed and smote the table with his
big fist.

"My dear Halfpenny!" he exclaimed. "Why, you've just given us the very
best proof of what I've been saying! You're not looking deeply enough
into things. The very fact to which you bear testimony proves to me that
a certain theory which is assuming shape in my mind may possibly have a
great deal in it. That theory, briefly, is this--on the day of his death,
Jacob Herapath may have had upon his person a large amount of money in
bank-notes. He may have had them paid to him. He may have drawn them from
his bank, to pay to somebody else. Some evil person may have been aware of
his possession of those notes and have tracked him to the estate offices,
or gained entrance, or--mark this!--have been lurking--lurking!--there, in
order to rob him. Don't forget two points, my friend--one, that Barthorpe
(if he's speaking the truth, and I, personally, believe he is) tells us
that the doors of the offices and the private room were open when he
called at twelve o'clock; and, too, that, according to Mountain, the
coachman, Jacob Herapath had been in those offices since twenty-five
minutes to twelve--plenty of time for murder and robbery to take place.
I repeat--Jacob may have had a considerable sum of money on him that
night, some one may have known it, and the motive of his murder may have
been--probably was--sheer robbery. And we ought to go on that, if we want
to save the family honour."

Mr. Tertius nodded and murmured assent, and Mr. Halfpenny stirred
uneasily in his chair.

"Family honour!" he said. "Yes, yes, that's right, of course. It would
be a dreadful thing to see a nephew hanged for the murder of his
uncle--quite right!"

"A much more dreadful thing to stand by and see an innocent man hanged,
without moving heaven and earth to clear him," commented the Professor.
"Come now, I helped to establish the fact that Barthorpe visited Portman
Square that night--Tertius there helped too, by his quickness in seeing
that the half-eaten sandwich had been bitten into by a man who had lost
two front teeth, which, of course, was Barthorpe's case--so the least we
can do is to bestir ourselves now that we believe him to have told the
truth in that statement."

"But how exactly are we to bestir ourselves?" asked Mr. Halfpenny.

"I suggest a visit to Jacob Herapath's bankers, first of all," answered
the Professor. "I haven't heard that any particular inquiry has been
made. Did you make any, Halfpenny?"

"Jacob's bankers are Bittleston, Stocks and Bittleston," replied the old
lawyer. "I did make it in my way to drop in there and to see Mr.
Playbourne, the manager of their West End branch, in Piccadilly. He
assured me that there was nothing whatever out of the common in Jacob
Herapath's transactions with them just before his death, and nothing at
all in their particulars of his banking account which could throw any
possible light on his murder."

"In his opinion," said the Professor, caustically, "in his opinion,
Halfpenny! But--you don't know what our opinion might be. Now, I suggest
that we all go at once to see this Mr. Playbourne; there's ample time
before the bank closes for the day."

"Very well," assented Mr. Halfpenny. "All the same, I'm afraid
Playbourne will only say just what he said before."

Mr. Playbourne, a good typical specimen of the somewhat old-fashioned
bank manager, receiving this formidable deputation of four gentlemen in
his private room, said precisely what he had said before, and seemed
astonished to think that any light upon such an unpleasant thing as a
murder could possibly be derived from so highly respectable a quarter as
that in which he moved during the greater part of the day.

"I can't think of anything in our transactions with the late Mr.
Herapath that gives any clue, any idea, anything at all," he said,
somewhat querulously. "Mr. Herapath's transactions with us, right up to
the day of his death, were just what they had been for years. Of course,
I'm willing to tell you anything, show you anything. You're acting for
Miss Wynne, aren't you, Mr. Halfpenny?"

"I have a power of attorney from Miss Wynne, for that matter," answered
Mr. Halfpenny. "Everything of that sort's in my hands."

"I'll tell you what, then," said the bank manager, laying his hand on a
bell at his side. "You'd better see Jacob Herapath's pass-book. I
recently had it posted up to the day of his death, and of course we've
retained it until you demanded it. You can't have a better index to his
affairs with us than you'll find in it. Sellars," he went on, as a clerk
appeared, "bring me the late Mr. Herapath's pass-book--Mr. Ravensdale
has it."

The visitors presently gathered round the desk on which Mr. Playbourne
laid the parchment-bound book--one of a corresponding thickness with the
dead man's transactions. The manager turned to the pages last filled in.

"You're aware, of course, some of you at any rate," he said, "you, Mr.
Halfpenny, and you, Mr. Selwood, that the late Jacob Herapath dealt in
big sums. He always had a very large balance at this branch of our bank;
he was continually paying in and drawing out amounts which, to men of
less means, must needs seem tremendous. Now, you can see for yourselves
what his transactions with us were during the last few days of his life;
I, as I have said, see nothing out of the way in them--you, of course,"
he continued, with a sniff, "may see a good deal!"

Professor Cox-Raythwaite ran his eye over the neatly-written pages,
passing rapidly on to the important date--November 12th. And he suddenly
thrust out his arm and put the tip of a big yellow finger on one
particular entry.

"There!" he exclaimed. "Look at that. 'Self, £5,000.' Paid out, you see,
on November 12th. Do you see?"

Mr. Playbourne laughed cynically.

"My dear sir!" he said. "Do you mean to say that you attach any
importance to an entry like that? Jacob Herapath constantly drew cheques
to self for five, ten, twenty, thirty--aye, fifty thousand pounds! He
dealt in tens of thousands--he was always buying or selling. Five
thousand pounds!--a fleabite!"

"All the same, if you please," said the Professor quietly, "I should
like to know if Jacob Herapath presented that self cheque himself, and
if so, how he took the money it represents."

"Oh, very well!" said the manager resignedly. He touched his bell again,
and looked wearily at the clerk who answered it. "Find out if the late
Mr. Herapath himself presented a cheque for five thousand on November
12th, and if so, how he took it," he said. "Well," he continued, turning
to his visitors. "Do you see anything with any further possible mystery
attached to it?"

"There's an entry there--the last," observed Mr. Halfpenny. "That.
'Dimambro: three thousand guineas.' That's the same date."

Mr. Playbourne suddenly showed some interest and animation. His eyes
brightened; he sat up erect.

"Ah!" he said. "Well, now, that is somewhat remarkable, that entry!--though
of course there's nothing out of the common in it. But that cheque was
most certainly the very last ever drawn by Jacob Herapath, and according
to strict law, it never ought to have been paid out by us."

"Why?" asked Professor Cox-Raythwaite.

"Because Jacob Herapath, the drawer, was dead before it was presented,"
replied the manager. "But of course we didn't know that. The cheque, you
see, was drawn on November 12th, and it was presented here as soon as
ever the doors were opened next morning and before any of us knew of
what had happened during the night, and it was accordingly honoured in
the usual way."

"The payee, of course, was known?" observed Mr. Halfpenny.

"No, he was not known, but he endorsed the cheque with name and address,
and there can be no reason whatever to doubt that it had come to him in
the ordinary way of business," replied the manager. "Quite a usual
transaction, but, as I say, noteworthy, because, as you know, a cheque
is no good after its drawer's demise."

Professor Cox-Raythwaite, who appeared to have fallen into a brown study
for a moment, suddenly looked up.

"Now I wonder if we might be permitted to see that cheque--as a
curiosity?" he said. "Can we be favoured so far?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Playbourne. "No trouble.
I'll--ah, here's your information about the other cheque--the self
cheque for five thousand."

He took a slip of paper from the clerk who just then entered, and read
it aloud.

"Here you are," he said. "'Mr. Herapath cashed cheque for £5,000
himself, at three o'clock; the money in fifty notes of £100 each,
numbered as follows'--you can take this slip, if you like," he
continued, handing the paper to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, as the
obviously most interested man of his party. "There are the numbers of
the notes. Of course, I can't see how all this throws any light on the
mystery of Herapath's murder, but perhaps you can. Sellers," he
continued, turning to the clerk, and beckoning him to look at the
pass-book, "find me the cheque referred to there, and bring it here."

The clerk returned in a few minutes with the cheque, which Mr.
Playbourne at once exhibited to his visitors.

"There you are, gentlemen," he said. "Quite a curiosity!--certainly the
last cheque ever drawn by our poor friend. There, you see, is his
well-known signature with his secret little mark which you wouldn't
detect--secret between him and us, eh!--big, bold handwriting, wasn't
it? Sad to think that that was--very likely--the last time he used a
pen!"

Professor Cox-Raythwaite in his turn handled the cheque. Its face gave
him small concern; what he was most interested in was the endorsement on
the back. Without saying anything to his companions, he memorized that
endorsement, and he was still murmuring it to himself when, a few
minutes later, he walked out of the bank.

"Luigi Dimambro, Hotel Ravenna, Soho."




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE HOTEL RAVENNA


Once closeted together in the private room at Halfpenny and Farthing's
office, Mr. Halfpenny, who had seemed somewhat mystified by the
happenings at the bank, looked inquiringly at Professor Cox-Raythwaite
and snapped out one suggestive monosyllable:

"Well?"

"Very well indeed," answered Cox-Raythwaite. "I consider we have done
good work. We have found things out. That bank manager is a pompous ass;
he's a man of asinine, or possible bovine, mind! Of course, he ought to
have revealed these things at both the inquest and the magisterial
proceedings!--they'll certainly have to be put in evidence at Barthorpe
Herapath's trial."

"What things?" demanded the old lawyer, a little testily.

"Two things--facts," replied the Professor, composedly. "First, that
Jacob Herapath drew five thousand pounds in hundred pound notes at three
o'clock on the day of his death. Second, that at some hour of that day
he drew a cheque in favour of one Luigi Dimambro, which cheque was
cashed as soon as the bank opened next morning."

"Frankly," observed Mr. Halfpenny, "frankly, candidly, Cox-Raythwaite,
I do not see what these things--facts--prove."

"Very likely," said the Professor, imperturbable as ever, "but they're
remarkably suggestive to me. They establish for one thing the fact that,
in all probability, Jacob Herapath had those notes on him when he was
murdered."

"Don't see it," retorted Mr. Halfpenny. "He got the fifty one-hundred-pound
notes from the bank at three o'clock in the afternoon. He's supposed to
have been murdered at twelve--midnight. That's nine hours. Plenty of time
in which to pay those notes away--as he most likely did."

"If you'll let your mind go back to what came out in evidence at the
inquest," said the Professor, "you'll remember that Jacob Herapath went
to the House of Commons at half-past three that day and never left it
until his coachman fetched him at a quarter-past eleven. It's not very
likely that he'd transact business at the House."

"Plenty of time between three and half-past three," objected Mr.
Halfpenny.

"Quite so, but we haven't heard of any transaction being carried out
during that time. Make inquiry, and see if he did engage in any such
transaction," said the Professor. "If he didn't, then my theory that he
had the notes on him is correct. Moreover, Barthorpe has told Selwood
that he picked up one note from the desk in his uncle's private room."

"One note!" exclaimed Mr. Halfpenny.

"One note--quite so," agreed the Professor. "May it not have been--it's
all theory, of course--that Jacob had all the notes on the desk when he
was murdered, that the murderer grabbed them afterwards, and in his
haste, left one? Come, now!"

"Theory--theory!" said Mr. Halfpenny. "Still, I'll make inquiries all
around, to see if Jacob did pay five thousand away to anybody that
afternoon. Well, and your other point?"

"I should like to know what the cheque for three thousand guineas was
for," answered the Professor. "It was paid out to one Luigi Dimambro,
whose address was written down by himself in endorsing the cheque as
Hotel Ravenna, Soho. He, presumably, is a foreigner, an Italian, or a
Corsican, or a Sicilian, and the probability is that Jacob Herapath
bought something from him that day, and that the transaction took place
after banking hours."

"How do you deduce that?" asked Mr. Halfpenny.

"Because Dimambro cashed his cheque as soon as the bank opened its doors
next morning," answered the Professor. "If he'd been given the cheque
before four o'clock on November 12th, he'd have cashed it then."

"The cheque may have been posted to him," said Mr. Halfpenny.

"May be; the point is that it was drawn by Jacob on November 12th and
cashed at the earliest possible hour next day," replied the Professor.
"Now, though it may have nothing to do with the case, I want to know
what that cheque referred to. More than this, I have an idea. May not
this man Dimambro be the man who called on Jacob Herapath at the House
of Commons that night--the man whom Mountain saw, but did not recognize
as one of his master's usual friends or acquaintances? Do you see that
point?"

Mr. Tertius and Selwood muttered expressions of acquiescence, but Mr.
Halfpenny shook his head.

"Can't see anything much in it," he said. "If this foreign fellow,
Dimambro, was the man who called at the House, I don't see what that's got
to do with the murder. Jacob Herapath, of course, had business affairs
with all sorts of queer people--Italians, Spaniards, Chinese--many a Tom,
Dick, and Harry of 'em; he bought curios of all descriptions, and often
sold them again as soon as bought."

"Very good suggestion," said Professor Cox-Raythwaite. "He may have
bought something extremely valuable from this Dimambro that day, or that
night, and--he may have had it on him when he was murdered. Clearly, we
must see this Luigi Dimambro!"

"If he's the man who called at the House, you forget that he's been
advertised for no end," said Selwood.

"No, I don't," responded the Professor. "But he may be out of the
country: may have come to it specially to see Jacob Herapath, and left
it again. I repeat, we must see this man, if he's to be found. We must
make inquiries--cautious, guarded inquiries--at this hotel in Soho,
which is probably a foreigners' house of call, a mere restaurant. And
the very person to make those inquiries," he concluded, turning to
Selwood and favouring him with a smack of the shoulder, "is--you!"

Selwood flinched, physically and mentally. He had no great love of the
proposed rôle--private detective work did not appeal to him. And he
suggested that Professor Cox-Raythwaite had far better apply to Scotland
Yard.

"By no means," answered the Professor calmly. "You are the man to do the
work. We don't want any police interference. This Hotel Ravenna is
probably some café, restaurant, or saloon in Soho, frequented by
foreigners--a place where, perhaps, a man can get a room for a night or
two. You must go quietly, unobtrusively, there; if it's a restaurant, as
it's sure to be, or at any rate, a place to which a restaurant is
attached, go in and get some sort of a meal, keep your eyes open, find
out the proprietor, get into talk with him, see if he knows Luigi
Dimambro. All you need is tact, caution, and readiness to adapt yourself
to circumstances."

Then, when they left Mr. Halfpenny's office he took Selwood aside and
gave him certain hints and instructions, and enlarged upon the
advantages of finding Dimambro if he was to be found. The Professor
himself was enthusiastic about these recent developments, and he
succeeded in communicating some of his enthusiasm to Selwood. After all,
thought Selwood, as he went to Portman Square to tell Peggie of the
afternoon's doings, whatever he did was being done for Peggie; moreover,
he was by that time certain that however mean and base Barthorpe
Herapath's conduct had been about the will, he was certainly not the
murderer of his uncle. If that murderer was to be tracked--why, there
was a certain zest, an appealing excitement in the tracking of him that
presented a sure fascination to youthful spirits.

That evening found Selwood, quietly and unassumingly attired, examining
the purlieus of Soho. It was a district of which he knew little, and for
half an hour he perambulated its streets, wondering at the distinctly
foreign atmosphere. And suddenly he came across the Hotel Ravenna--there
it was, confronting him, at the lower end of Dean Street. He drew back
and looked it well over from the opposite pavement.

The Hotel Ravenna was rather more of a pretentious establishment than
Selwood had expected it to be. It was typically Italian in outward
aspect. There were the usual evergreen shrubs set in the usual green
wood tubs at the entrance; the usual abundance of plate-glass and garish
gilt; the usual glimpse, whenever the door opened, of the usual vista of
white linen, red plush, and many mirrors; the waiter who occasionally
showed himself at the door, napkin in hand, was of the type which
Selwood had seen a thousand times under similar circumstances. But all
this related to the restaurant--Selwood was more interested that the
word "Hotel" appeared in gilt letters over a door at the side of the
establishment and was repeated in the windows of the upper storeys. He
was half-minded to enter the door at once, and to make a guarded inquiry
for Mr. Luigi Dimambro; on reflection he walked across the street and
boldly entered the restaurant.

It was half-past seven o'clock, and the place was full of customers.
Selwood took most of them to be foreigners. He also concluded after a
first glance around him that the majority had some connection, more or
less close, with either the dramatic, or the musical, or the artistic
professions. There was much laughter and long hair, marvellous neckties
and wondrous costumes; everybody seemed to be talking without regard to
question or answer; the artillery of the voices mingled with the
rattling of plates and popping of corks. Clearly this was no easy place
in which to seek for a man whom one had never seen!

Selwood allowed a waiter to conduct him to a vacant seat--a plush throne
half-way along the restaurant. He ordered a modest dinner and a bottle
of light wine, and following what seemed to be the custom, lighted a
cigarette until his first course appeared. And while he waited he looked
about him, noting everything that presented itself. Out of all the folk
there, waiters and customers, the idle and the busy, he quickly decided
that there was only one man who possessed particular interest for him.
That man was the big, smiling, frock-coated, sleek-haired patron or
proprietor, who strode up and down, beaming and nodding, sharp-eyed and
courteous, and whom Selwood, from a glance at the emblazoned lettering
of the bill-of-fare, took to rejoice in the name of Mr. Alessandro
Bioni. This man, if he was landlord, or manager, of the Ravenna Hotel,
was clearly the person to approach if one wanted information about the
Luigi Dimambro who had given the place as his address as recently as
November 12th.

While he ate and drank, Selwood wondered how to go about his business.
It seemed to him that the best thing to do, now that he had seen the
place and assured himself that it was a hotel evidently doing a proper
and legitimate business, was to approach its management with a plain
question--was Mr. Luigi Dimambro staying there, or was he known there?
Since Dimambro, whoever he might be, had given that as his address,
something must be known of him. And when the smiling patron presently
came round, and, seeing a new customer, asked politely if he was being
served to his satisfaction, Selwood determined to settle matters at
once.

"The proprietor, I presume?" he asked.

"Manager, sir," answered the other. "The proprietor, he is an old
gentleman--practically retired."

"Perhaps I can ask you a question," Selwood. "Have you got a Mr. Luigi
Dimambro staying at your hotel? He is, I believe"--here Selwood made a
bold shot at a possibility--"a seller of curios, or art objects. I know
he stops here sometimes."

The manager rubbed his hands together and reflected.

"One moment, sir," he said. "I get the register. The hotel guests, they
come in here for meals, but always I do not recollect their names, and
sometimes not know them. But the register----"

He sped down the room, through a side door, vanished; to return in a
moment with a book which he carried to Selwood's side.

"Dimambro?" he said. "Recently, then? We shall see."

"About the beginning or middle of November," answered Selwood.

The manager found the pages: suddenly he pointed to an entry.

"See, then!" he exclaimed dramatically. "You are right, sir. There--Luigi
Dimambro--November 11th to--yes--13th. Two days only. Then he go--leave
us, eh?"

"Oh, then, he's not here now," said Selwood, affecting disappointment.
"That's a pity. I wanted to see him. I wonder if he left any address?"

The manager showed more politeness in returning to the hotel office and
making inquiry. He came back full of disappointment that he could not
oblige his customer. No--no address--merely there for two nights--then
gone--nobody knew where. Perhaps he would return--some day.

"Oh, it's of no great consequence, thank you," remarked Selwood. "I'm
much obliged to you."

He had found out, at any rate, that a man named Dimambro had certainly
stayed at the Hotel Ravenna on the critical and important date.
Presumably he was the man who had presented Jacob Herapath's cheque at
Bittleston's Bank first thing on the morning after the murder. But
whether this man had any connection with that murder, whether to
discover his whereabouts would be to reveal something of use in
establishing Barthorpe Herapath's innocence, were questions which he
must leave to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, to whom he was presently going
with his news.

He had just finished his coffee, and was about to pay his bill when,
looking up to summon the waiter, he suddenly saw a face appear behind
the glass panel of the street door--the face of a man who had evidently
stolen quietly into the entry between the evergreen shrubs and wished to
take a surreptitious peep into the interior of the little restaurant. It
was there, clearly seen through the glass, but for one fraction of a
second--then it was withdrawn as swiftly as it had come and the panel of
glass was blank again. But in that flash of time Selwood had recognized
it.

Burchill!




CHAPTER XXIX

THE NOTE IN THE PRAYER-BOOK


Selwood hurried out of that restaurant as soon as he had paid his bill,
but it was with small hopes of finding the man whose face had appeared
at the glass panel for the fraction of a second. As well look for one
snowflake in a drift as for one man in those crowded streets!--all the
same, he spent half an hour in wandering round the neighbourhood,
looking eagerly at every tall figure he met or passed. And at the end of
that time he went off to Endsleigh Gardens and reported progress to
Professor Cox-Raythwaite.

The Professor heard both items of news without betraying any great
surprise.

"You're sure it was Burchill?" he asked.

"As sure," answered Selwood, "as that you're you! His is not a face easy
to mistake."

"He's a daring fellow," observed the Professor, musingly. "A very bold
fellow! There's a very good portrait of him on those bills that the police
have put out and posted so freely, and he must know that every constable
and detective in London is on the look-out for him, to say nothing of folk
who would be glad of the reward. If that was Burchill--and I've no doubt
of it, since you're so certain--it suggests a good deal to me."

"What?" asked Selwood.

"That he's not afraid of being recaptured as you'd think he would
be," replied the Professor. "It suggests that he's got some card
up his sleeve--which is what I've always thought. He probably knows
something--you may be certain, in any case, that he's playing a deep
and bold game, for his own purpose, of course. Now, I wonder if
Burchill went to that restaurant on the same errand as yourself?"

"What!--to look for Dimambro?" exclaimed Selwood.

"Why not? Remember that Burchill was Jacob Herapath's secretary before
you were," answered the Professor. "He was with Jacob some time,
wasn't he? Well, he knew a good deal about Jacob's doings. Jacob may
have had dealings with this Dimambro person in Burchill's days. You
don't remember that Jacob had any such dealings in your time?"

"Never!" replied Selwood. "Never heard the man's name until
yesterday--never saw any letters from him, never heard Mr. Herapath
mention him. But then, as Mr. Halfpenny said, yesterday, Mr. Herapath
had all sorts of queer dealings with queer people. It's a fact that he
used to buy and sell all sorts of things--curios, pictures, precious
stones--he'd all sorts of irons in the fire. It's a fact, too, that he
was accustomed to carrying not only considerable sums of money, but
valuables on him."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Professor. He rose out of his chair, put his hands
behind his broad back, and began to march up and down his study. "I'll
tell you what, young man!" he said earnestly. "I'm more than ever
convinced that Jacob Herapath was robbed as well as murdered, and that
robbery and murder--or, rather, murder and robbery, for the murder would
go first--took place just before Barthorpe entered the offices to keep
that appointment. Selwood!--we must find this Dimambro man!"

"Who's most likely left the country," remarked Selwood.

"That's probable--it may be certain," said the Professor. "Nevertheless,
he may be here. And Burchill may be looking for him, too. Now, if Dimambro
stopped two days at that Hotel Ravenna, from November 11th to 13th, there
must be somebody who knows something of him. We must--you must--make more
inquiry--there at the hotel. Talk quietly to that manager or the servants.
Get a description of him. Do that at once--first thing tomorrow morning."

"You don't want to tell the police all this?" asked Selwood.

"No! Not at present, at any rate," answered the Professor. "The police
have their own methods, and they don't thank anybody for putting them
off their beaten tracks. And--for the present--we won't tell them
anything about your seeing Burchill. If we did, they'd be incredulous.
Police-like, they'll have watched the various seaports much more closely
than they'll have watched London streets for Burchill. And Burchill's a
clever devil--he'll know that he's much safer under the very nose of the
people who want him than he would be fifty miles away from their toes!
No, it's my opinion that Master Burchill will reveal himself, when the
time comes."

"Give himself up, do you mean?" exclaimed Selwood.

"Likely--but if he does, it'll be done with a purpose," answered the
Professor. "Well--keep all quiet at present, and tomorrow morning, go
and see if you can find out more about Dimambro at that hotel."

Selwood repaired to the polite manager again next day and found no
difficulty in getting whatever information the hotel staff--represented
by a manageress, a general man-servant, and a maid or two--could give.
It was meagre, and not too exact in particulars. Mr. Dimambro, who had
never been there before, had stopped two days. He had occupied Room
5--the gentleman could see it if he wished. Mr. Dimambro had been in and
out most of the time. On the 13th he had gone out early in the morning;
by ten o'clock he had returned, paid his bill, and gone away with his
luggage--one suit-case. No--he had had no callers at the hotel. But a
waiter in the restaurant was discovered who remembered him as Number 5,
and that on the 12th he had entertained a gentleman to dinner at seven
o'clock--a tall, thin, dark-faced gentleman, who looked like--yes, like
an actor: a nicely dressed gentleman. That was all the waiter could
remember of the guest; he remembered just about as much of Number 5,
which was that Dimambro was a shortish, stoutish gentleman, with a
slight black beard and moustache. There was a good reason why the
waiter remembered this occurrence--the two gentlemen had a bottle of the
best champagne, a rare occurrence at the Hotel Ravenna--a whole bottle,
for which the surprising sum of twelve shillings and sixpence was
charged! In proof of that startling episode in the restaurant routine,
he produced the desk book for that day--behold it, the entry: Number
5--1 Moet & Chandon, 12_s._ 6_d._

"It is of a rare thing our customers call for wine so expensive," said
the polite manager. "Light wines, you understand, sir, we mostly sell.
Champagne at twelve and six--an event!"

Selwood carried this further news to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, who
roused himself from his microscope to consider it.

"Could that tall, dark, nicely-dressed gentleman have been Burchill?" he
muttered. "Sounds like him. But you've got a description of Dimambro, at
any rate. Now we know of one man who saw the caller at the House of
Commons--Mountain, the coachman. Come along--I'll go with you to see
Mountain."

Mountain, discovered at the mews wherein the Herapath stable was kept,
said at once that he remembered the gentleman who had come out of the
House of Commons with his late master. But when he came to be taxed with
a requirement of details, Mountain's memory proved to be of no real
value. The gentleman--well, he was a well-dressed gentleman, and he wore
a top hat. But whether the gentleman was dark or fair, elderly or
middle-aged, short or medium-heighted, he did not know--exactly.
Nevertheless----

"I should know him again, sir, if I was to set eyes on him!" said
Mountain, with such belief in his powers. "Pick him out of a thousand, I
could!"

"Queer how deficient most of our people are in the faculty of observation!"
remarked the Professor as he and Selwood left the mews. "It really is most
extraordinary that a man like that, with plenty of intelligence, and is no
doubt a good man in his own line, can look at another man for a full minute
and yet be utterly unable to tell you anything definite about him a month
later! No help there, Selwood."

It seemed to Selwood that they were face to face with an impossible
situation, and he began to feel inclined to share Mr. Halfpenny's
pessimistic opinions as to the usefulness of these researches. But
Professor Cox-Raythwaite was not to be easily daunted, and he was no
sooner baulked in one direction than he hastened to try another.

"Now, let's see where we are," he said, as they went round to Portman
Square. "We do know for a certainty that Jacob Herapath had a transaction
of some sort with one Luigi Dimambro, on November 12th, and that it
resulted in his handing, or sending, the said Luigi a cheque for three
thousand guineas. Let's see if we can't find some trace of it, or some
mention of it, or of previous dealings with Dimambro, amongst Jacob's
papers. I suppose we can get access to everything here at the house,
and down at the office, too, can't we? The probability is that the
transaction with Dimambro was not the first. There must be something,
Selwood--memoranda, letters, receipts--must be!"

But Selwood shook his head and uttered a dismal groan.

"Another of my late employer's peculiarities," he answered, "was that
he never gave or took receipts in what one may call word-of-mouth
transactions! He had a rooted--almost savage--objection to anybody
asking him for a receipt for cash; he absolutely refused to take one if
he paid cash. I've seen him pay several thousand pounds for a purchase
and fling the proffered receipt in the fire in the purchaser's presence.
He used to ask--vehemently!--if you wanted receipts for a loaf of bread
or a pound of beef-steak. I'm afraid we shan't find much of that sort.
As to letters and memoranda, Mr. Herapath had a curious habit which gave
me considerable trouble of mind when I first went to him, though I admit
it was a simple one. He destroyed every letter he ever got as soon as
he'd answered it. And as he insisted on everything being answered there
and then, there's no great accumulation of paper in that way!"

"We'll see what there is, anyhow," said the Professor. "If we could find
something, anything--a mere business card, a letter-heading--that would
give us Dimambro's permanent address, it would be of use. For I'm more
and more convinced that Dimambro was the man who called at the House of
Commons that night, and if it was Burchill who dined with him that same
evening, why, then--but come along, let's have a look at Jacob's desk
in the house here, and after that we'll go down to the estate offices
and see if we can find anything there."

This was a Saturday morning--during the whole of that afternoon and
evening the Professor and Selwood examined every drawer and receptacle
in which Jacob Herapath's papers lay, both at Portman Square and at
Kensington. And, exactly as Selwood had said, there was next to nothing
of a private nature. Papers relating to Parliamentary matters, to
building schemes, to business affairs, there were in plenty, duly filed,
docketed, and arranged, but there was nothing of the sort that
Cox-Raythwaite hoped to find, and when they parted, late at night, they
were no wiser than when they began their investigations.

"Go home to bed," counselled the Professor. "Put the whole thing out of
your head until Monday morning. Don't even think about it. Come and see
me on Monday, first thing, and we'll start again. For by the Lord Harry!
I'll find out yet what the real nature of Jacob Herapath's transaction
with Dimambro was, if I have to track Dimambro all through Italy!"

Selwood was glad enough to put everything out of his mind; it seemed to him
a hopeless task to search for a man to whose identity they only had the
very faintest clue. But before noon of the next day--Sunday--he was face
to face with a new phase of the problem. Since her uncle's death, Peggie
had begun to show a quiet reliance on Selwood. It had come to be tacitly
understood between them that he was to be in constant attendance on her
for the present, at any rate. He spent all his time at the house in
Portman Square; he saved its young mistress all the trouble he could; he
accompanied her in her goings and comings. And of late he had taken to
attending her to a certain neighbouring church, whereto Peggie, like a
well-regulated young lady, was constant in her Sunday visits. There in
the Herapath family pew, he and Peggie sat together on this particular
Sunday morning, neither with any thought that the Herapath mystery had
penetrated to their sacred surroundings. Selwood had been glad to take
Cox-Raythwaite's advice and to put the thing out of his mind for thirty-six
hours: Peggie had nothing in her mind but what was proper to the occasion.

Jacob Herapath had been an old-fashioned man in many respects; one of
his fads was an insistence upon having a family pew in the church which
he attended, and in furnishing it with his own cushions, mats, and
books. Consequently Peggie left her own prayer-book in that pew from
Sunday to Sunday. She picked it up now, and opened it at the usual
familiar place. And from that place immediately dropped a folded note.

Had this communication been a _billet-doux_, Peggie could hardly have
betrayed more alarm and confusion. For a moment she let the thing rest
in the palm of her hand, holding the hand out towards Selwood at her
side; then with trembling fingers she unfolded it in such a fashion that
she and Selwood read it together. With astonished eyes and beating hearts
they found themselves looking at a half-sheet of thin, foreign-looking
notepaper, on which were two or three lines of typewriting:

      "If you wish to save your cousin Barthorpe's life,
    leave the church and speak to the lady whom you will find
    in a private automobile at the entrance to the
    churchyard."




CHAPTER XXX

THE WHITE-HAIRED LADY


The two young people who bent over this mysterious message in the shelter
of that old-fashioned pew were each conscious of a similar feeling--they
were thankful that they were together. Peggie Wynne had never been so glad
of anything in her life as for Selwood's immediate presence at that moment:
Selwood felt a world of unspeakable gratitude that he was there, just when
help and protection were wanted. For each recognized, with a sure instinct
and intuition, that those innocent-looking lines of type-script signified
much, heralded some event of dire importance. To save Barthorpe Herapath's
life!--that could only mean that somebody--the sender of the note--knew
that Barthorpe was innocent and some other person guilty.

For a moment the girl stared with startled eyes and flushed cheeks at
the scrap of paper; then she turned with a quick, questioning look at
her companion. And Selwood reached for his hat and his stick, and
murmured one word:

"Come!"

Peggie saw nothing of the surprised and questioning looks which were turned
on Selwood and herself as they left the pew and passed down the aisle of
the crowded church. She had but one thought--whom was she going to meet
outside, what revelation was going to be made to her? Unconsciously, she
laid a hand on Selwood's arm as they passed through the porch, and Selwood,
with a quick throb of pride, took it and held it. Then, arm in arm, they
walked out, and a verger who opened the outer door for them, smiled as they
passed him; he foresaw another passing-out, whereat Peggie would wear
orange blossoms.

The yard of this particular church was not a place of green sward,
ancient trees, and tumble-down tombs; instead it was an expanse of bare
flagstones, shut in by high walls which terminated at a pair of iron
gates. Outside those gates an automobile was drawn up; its driver stood
attentively at its door. Selwood narrowly inspected both, as he and
Peggie approached. The car was evidently a private one: a quiet, yet
smart affair; its driver was equally smart in his dark green livery. And
that he had received his orders was evident from the fact that as the
two young people approached he touched his cap and laid a hand on the
door of the car.

"Be watchful and careful," whispered Selwood, as he and Peggie crossed
the pavement. "Leave all to me!"

He himself was keenly alert to whatever might be going to happen. It
seemed to him, from the chauffeur's action, that they were to be
invited, or Peggie was to be invited, to enter the car. Very good--but
he was going to know who was in that car before any communications of
any sort were entered upon. Also, Peggie was not going to exchange one
word with anybody, go one step with anybody, unless he remained in close
attendance upon her. The phraseology of the mysterious note; the
clandestine fashion in which it had been brought under Peggie's notice;
the extraordinary method adopted of procuring an interview with her--all
these things had aroused Selwood's suspicions, and his natural sense of
caution was at its full stretch as he walked across to the car,
wondering what he and Peggie were about to confront.

What they did confront was a pleasant-faced, white-haired, elderly lady,
evidently a woman of fashion and of culture, who bent forward from her
seat with a kindly, half-apologetic smile.

"Miss Wynne?" she said inquiringly. "How do you do? And this gentleman
is, no doubt, Mr. Selwood, of whom I have heard? You must forgive this
strange conduct, this extraordinary manner of getting speech with you--I
am not a free agent. Now, as I have something to say--will you both come
into the car and hear it?"

Peggie, who was greatly surprised at this reception, turned diffidently
to her companion. And Selwood, who had been gazing earnestly at the
elderly lady's face, and had seen nothing but good intention in it, felt
himself considerably embarrassed.

"I--well, really, this is such a very strange affair altogether that I
don't know what we ought to do," he said. "May I suggest that if you
wish to talk to Miss Wynne, we should go to her house? It's only just
round the corner, and----"

"But that's just what I am not to do," replied the lady, with an amused
laugh. "I repeat--I am not exactly a free agent. It's all very strange,
and very unpleasant, and sounds, no doubt, very mysterious, but I am
acting--practically--under orders. Let me suggest something--will you
and Miss Wynne come into the car, and I will tell the man to drive
gently about until you have heard what I have to say? Come now!--I am
not going to kidnap you, and you can't come to much harm by driving
round about Portman Square for a few minutes, in the company of an old
woman! Dickerson," she went on, as Selwood motioned Peggie to enter the
car, "drive us very slowly round about here until I tell you to stop--go
round the square--anywhere."

The car moved gently up Baker Street, and Selwood glanced inquiringly at
their captor.

"May we have the pleasure of----"

The elderly lady brought out a card-case and some papers.

"I am Mrs. Engledew," she said. "I live in the Herapath Flats. I don't
suppose you ever heard of me, Miss Wynne, but I knew your uncle very
well--we had been acquaintances, nay, friends, for years. I thought it
might be necessary to prove my _bona fides_," she continued, with a
laugh, "so I brought some letters of Jacob Herapath's with me--letters
written to me--you recognize his big, bold hand, of course."

There was no mistaking Jacob Herapath's writing, and the two young
people, after one glance at it, exchanged glances with each other.

"Now you want to know why I am here," said Mrs. Engledew. "The answer
is plain--if astonishing. I have managed to get mixed up in this matter
of Jacob Herapath's murder! That sounds odd, doesn't it?--nevertheless,
it's true. But we can't go into that now. And I cannot do more than tell
you that I simply bring a message and want an answer. My dear!" she
continued, laying a hand on Peggie's arm, "you do not wish to see
Barthorpe Herapath hanged?"

"We believe him innocent," replied Peggie.

"Quite so--he is innocent--of murder, anyway," said Mrs. Engledew.
"Now--I speak in absolute confidence, remember!--there are two men who
know who the real murderer is. They are in touch with me--that is, one
of them is, on behalf of both. I am really here as their emissary. They
are prepared to give you and the police full particulars about the
murder--for a price."

Selwood felt himself grow more suspicious than ever. This lady was of
charming address, pleasant smile, and apparently candid manners,
but--price!--price for telling the truth in a case like this!

"What price?" he asked.

"Their price is ten thousand pounds--cash," answered Mrs. Engledew, with
a little shrug of her shoulders. "Seems a great deal, doesn't it? But
that is their price. They will not be moved from it. If Miss Wynne will
agree to pay that sum, they will at once not only give their evidence as
to the real murderer of Jacob Herapath, but they will point him out."

"When?" demanded Selwood.

"Tonight!" replied Mrs. Engledew. "Tonight--at an hour to be fixed after
your agreement to their terms."

Selwood felt himself in a difficult position. Mr. Tertius was out of
town for the day, gone to visit an antiquarian friend in Berkshire: Mr.
Halfpenny lived away down amongst the Surrey hills. Still, there was
Cox-Raythwaite to turn to. But it seemed as if the lady desired an
immediate answer.

"You know these men?" he asked.

"One only, who represents both," answered Mrs. Engledew.

"Why not point him out to the police, and let them deal with them?"
suggested Selwood. "They would get his evidence out of him without any
question of price!"

"I have given my word," said Mrs. Engledew. "I--the fact is, I am mixed
up in this, quite innocently, of course. And I am sure that no living
person knows the truth except these men, and just as sure that they will
not tell what they know unless they are paid. The police could not make
them speak if they didn't want to speak. They know very well that they
have got the whip-hand of all of us in that respect!"

"Of you, too?" asked Selwood.

"Of me, too!" she answered. "Nobody in the world, I'm sure, knows the
secret but these men. And it's important to me personally that they
should reveal it. In fact, though I'm not rich, I'll join Miss Wynne in
paying their price, so far as a thousand pounds is concerned. I would
pay more, but I really haven't got the money--I daren't go beyond a
thousand."

Selwood felt himself impressed by this candid offer.

"Precisely what do they ask--what do they propose?" he asked.

"This. If you agree to pay them ten thousand pounds, you and Professor
Cox-Raythwaite are to meet them tonight. They will then tell the true
story, and they will further take you and the police to the man, the
real murderer," answered Mrs. Engledew. "It is important that all this
should be done tonight."

"Where is this meeting to take place?" demanded Selwood.

"It can take place at my flat: in fact, it must, because, as I say, I am
unfortunately mixed up," said Mrs. Engledew. "If you agree to the terms,
you are to telephone to me--I have written my number on the card--at two
o'clock this afternoon. Then I shall telephone the time of meeting
tonight, and you must bring the money with you."

"Ten thousand pounds in cash--on Sunday!" exclaimed Selwood. "That, of
course, is utterly impossible."

"Not cash in that sense," replied Mrs. Engledew. "An open cheque will
do. And, don't you see, that, I think, proves the _bona fides_ of the
men. If they fail to do what they say they can and will do, you can stop
payment of that cheque first thing tomorrow morning."

"Yes, that's so," agreed Selwood. He glanced at Peggie, who was
silently listening with deep interest. "I don't know how things stand,"
he went on. "Mr. Halfpenny, Miss Wynne's solicitor, lives a long way out
of town. Miss Wynne would doubtless cheerfully sacrifice ten thousand
pounds to save her cousin----"

"Oh, twenty thousand--anything!" exclaimed Peggie. "Don't let us
hesitate about money, please."

"But I don't know whether she can draw a cheque," continued Selwood. "At
least, for such an amount as that. Perhaps Professor Cox-Raythwaite can
tell us. Let me ask you a question or two, if you please, Mrs.
Engledew," he went on. "You say you only know one of these men. Do you
know his name?"

"No--I don't," confessed Mrs. Engledew. "Everything is secret and
mysterious."

"Are you convinced--has he done anything to convince you--of his good
faith?"

"Yes--absolutely!"

"You don't doubt his--their--ability to clear all this up?"

"I'm quite sure they can clear it up."

"Have you any idea as to the identity of the real murderer?"

"Not the least!"

"One more question, then," concluded Selwood. "Are the police to be
there when Cox-Raythwaite and I come tonight?"

"That I don't know," replied Mrs. Engledew. "All I know is--just what I
am ordered to say. Pay them the money--they will tell the truth and take
you and the police to the real criminal. One more thing--it is
understood that you will not approach the police between now and this
evening. That part--the police part--is to be left to them."

"I understand," said Selwood. "Very well--we will get out, if you
please, and we will go straight to Professor Cox-Raythwaite. At two
o'clock I shall ring you up and give you our answer."

He hurried Peggie into a taxi-cab as soon as Mrs. Engledew's car had
gone away, and they went hastily to Endsleigh Gardens, where Professor
Cox-Raythwaite listened to the strange story in dead silence.

"Mrs. Engledew--lady living in Herapath Flats--old friend of
Jacob's--possessed letters of his--instrument for two men in possession of
secret--willing to fork out a thousand of her own," he muttered. "Gad!--I
take that to be genuine, Selwood! The only question is for Peggie
here--does she wish to throw away nine thousand to save Barthorpe's neck?"

"The only question, Professor," said Peggie, reprovingly, "is--can I do
it? Can I draw a cheque for that amount?"

"Why not?" replied the Professor. "Everything's in order. Barthorpe
withdrew that wretched caveat--the will's been proved--every penny that
Jacob possessed is yours. Draw a cheque for fifty thousand, if you
like!"

"And you will go with Mr. Selwood?" asked Peggie, with a touch of
anxiety which was not lost on the Professor.

"Go with him--and take care of him, too," answered the Professor,
digging his big fingers into Selwood's ribs. "Very good. Now stop here
and lunch with me, and at two o'clock we'll telephone."

He and Peggie stood breathlessly waiting in the hall that afternoon
while Selwood was busy at the telephone in an adjacent lobby. Selwood
came back to them nodding his head.

"All right!" he said. "You and I, Professor, at her flat--tonight, at
nine o'clock."




CHAPTER XXXI

THE INTERRUPTED DINNER-PARTY


Triffitt's recent inquiries in connection with the Herapath affair had been
all very well from a strictly professional point of view, but not so well
from another. For nearly twelve months he had been engaged to a sweet girl,
of whom he was very fond, and who thoroughly reciprocated his affection;
up to the time of the Herapath murder he had contrived to spend a certain
portion of each day with her, and to her he had invariably devoted the
whole of his Sundays. In this love affair he was joined by his friend,
to whom Triffitt's young lady had introduced her great friend, with whom
Carver had promptly become infatuated. These ladies, both very young and
undeniably charming, spent the greater part of the working week at the
School of Needlework, in South Kensington, where they fashioned various
beautiful objects with busy needles; Sundays they gave up to their
swains, and every Sunday ended with a little dinner of four at some cheap
restaurant whereat you could get quite a number of courses at the fixed
price of half a crown or so and drink light wine which was very little
dearer than pale ale. All parties concerned looked forward throughout the
week to these joyful occasions; the girls wore their best frocks, and the
young men came out bravely in the matter of neckties; there was laughter
and gaiety and a general escape from the prosaic matters which obtained
from Monday to Saturday--consequently, Triffitt felt it a serious thing
that attention to this Herapath business had come to interfere with his
love-making and his Sunday feast of mirth and gladness. More than once he
had been obliged to let Carver go alone to the usual rendezvous; he himself
had been running hither and thither after chances of news which never
materialized, while his sweetheart played gooseberry to the more favoured
people. And as he was very much in love, Triffitt had often been tempted to
throw his clues and his theories to the winds, and to vow himself to the
service of Venus rather than to that of Mercury.

But on that Sunday which saw the white-haired lady interviewing Peggie
Wynne and Selwood, Triffitt, to his great delight, found that newspaper
requirements were not going to interfere with him. The hue-and-cry after
the missing Burchill was dying down--the police (so Davidge told Triffitt
in strict confidence) were of the firm opinion that Burchill had escaped
to the continent--probably within a few hours of the moment wherein he
made his unceremonious exit from Mr. Halfpenny's office. Even Markledew was
not so keen about the Herapath affair as he had been. His policy was--a
new day, a new affair. The Herapath mystery was becoming a little stale--it
would get staler unless a fresh and startling development took place. As
it was, nothing was likely to arise which would titillate the public until
Barthorpe Herapath, now safely lodged in the remand prison, was brought
to trial, or unless Burchill was arrested. Consequently, Triffitt was not
expected to make up a half or a whole column of recent and sensational
Herapath news every morning. And so he gladly took this Sunday for a return
to the primrose paths. He and Carver met their sweethearts; they took them
to the Albert Hall Sunday afternoon concert--nothing better offering in
the middle of winter--they went to tea at the sweethearts' lodgings; later
in the evening they carried them off to the accustomed Sunday dinner.

Triffitt and Carver had become thoroughly seasoned men of the world in
the matter of finding out good places whereat to dine well and cheaply.
They knew all the Soho restaurants. They had sampled several in Oxford
Street and in Tottenham Court Road. But by sheer luck they had found
one--an Italian restaurant--in South Kensington which was, in their
opinion, superior to all of their acquaintance. This establishment had
many advantages for lovers. To begin with, it bore a poetical name--the
Café Venezia--Triffitt, who frequently read Byron and Shelley to his
adored one, said it made one think of moonlight and gondolas, and
similar adjuncts to what he called _parfaite amour_. Then it was divided
off into little cabinets, just holding four people--that was an
advantage when you were sure of your company. And for the _prix fixe_ of
two shillings they gave you quite a good dinner; also their Chianti was
of exceptional quality, and according to the proprietor, it came
straight from Siena.

On this Sunday evening, then, Triffitt on one side of a table with his
lady-love, Carver on the other with his, made merry, with no thought of
anything but the joys of the moment. They had arrived at the last stages
of the feast; the heroes puffed cigarettes and sipped Benedictine; the
heroines daintily drank their sweetened coffee. They all chattered
gaily, out of the fulness of their youthful hearts; not one of them had
any idea that anything was going to happen. And in the midst of their
lightsomeness, Triffitt, who faced a mirror, started, dropped his
cigarette, upset his liqueur glass and turned pale. For an instant he
clutched the tablecloth, staring straight in front of him; then with a
great effort he controlled his emotion and with a cautious hissing of
his breath, gazed warningly at Carver.

"'Sh!" whispered Triffitt. "Not a word! And don't move--don't show a
sign, any of you. Carver--turn your head very slowly and look behind
you. At the bar!"

At the entrance to that restaurant there was a bar, whereat it was
possible to get a drink. There were two or three men, so occupied,
standing at this bar at that moment--Carver, leisurely turning to
inspect them, suddenly started as violently as Triffitt had started a
moment before.

"Good heavens!" he muttered. "Burchill!"

"Quiet!" commanded Triffitt. "Quiet, all of you. By Gad!--this is----"

He ended in an eloquent silence and with a glare at his companions
which would have imposed silence on an unruly class-room. He was already
at work--the quick, sure journalistic instinct had come up on top and
was rapidly realizing the situation. That the man standing there,
openly, calmly, taking a drink of some sort, was Frank Burchill he had
no more doubt than of his own identity. The thing was--what was to be
done?

Triffitt was as quick of action as of thought--in two seconds he had
made up his mind. With another warning glance at the startled girls, he
bent across the table to Carver.

"Carver!" he whispered. "Do exactly what I tell you. When Burchill goes
out, Trixie and I'll follow him. You pay the bill--then you and Lettie
jump into the first taxi you can get and go to Scotland Yard. Find
Davidge! If Davidge isn't there, get somebody else. Wait there until I
ring you up! What I'll do will be this--we'll follow Burchill, and if I
see that he's going to take to train or cab I'll call help and stop him.
You follow me? As soon as I've taken action, or run him to earth, I'll
ring up Scotland Yard, and then----"

"He's going," announced Carver, who had taken advantage of the many
mirrors to keep his eye on Burchill. "He's off! I understand----"

Triffitt was already leading his sweetheart quietly out. In the gloom of
the street he saw Burchill's tall figure striding away towards Cromwell
Road. Triffitt's companion was an athletically inclined young woman--long
walks in the country on summer Sundays had toughened her powers of
locomotion and she strode out manfully in response to Triffitt's command
to hurry up.

"Lucky that you were with me, Trixie!" exclaimed Triffitt. "You make a
splendid blind. Supposing he does look round and sees that he's being
followed? Why, he'd never think that we were after him. Slip your hand in
my arm--he'll think we're just a couple of sweethearts, going his way.
Gad!--what a surprise! And what a cheek he has--with all those bills out
against him!"

"You don't think he'll shoot you if he catches sight of you?" asked
Trixie, anxiously. "He'd be sure to recognize you, wouldn't he?"

"We'll not come within shooting distance," replied Triffitt grimly. "All
I want to do is to track him. Of course, if he gets into any vehicle,
I'll have to act. Let's draw a bit nearer."

Burchill showed no sign of hailing any vehicle; indeed, he showed no
sign of anything but cool confidence. It was certainly nearly nine
o'clock of a dark winter evening, but there was plenty of artificial
light in the streets, and Burchill made no attempt to escape its glare.
He walked on, smoking a cigar, jauntily swinging an umbrella, he passed
and was passed by innumerable people; more than one policeman glanced at
his tall figure and took no notice. And Triffitt chuckled cynically.

"There you are, Trixie!" he said. "There's a fellow who's wanted about as
badly as can be, whose picture's posted up outside every police-station in
London, and at every port in England, and he walks about, and stares at
people, and passes policemen as unconcernedly as I do. The fact of the case
is that if I went to that bobby and pointed Burchill out, and told the
bobby who he is, all that bobby would say would be, 'Who are you a-kiddin'
of?'--or words to that equivalent. And so--still ahead he goes, and we
after him! And--where?"

Burchill evidently knew very well where he was going. He crossed Cromwell
Road, went up Queen's Road, turned into Queen's Gate Terrace, and
leisurely pursuing his way, proceeded to cut through various streets and
thoroughfares towards Kensington High Street. Always he looked forward;
never once did he turn nor seem to have any suspicion that he was being
followed. There was nothing here of the furtive slink, the frightened
slouch of the criminal escaped from justice; the man's entire bearing
was that of fearlessness; he strode across Kensington High Street in the
full glare of light before the Town Hall and under the noses of several
policemen.

Five minutes later Triffitt pulled himself and Trixie up with a gasp. The
chase had come to an end--for that moment, at any rate. Boldly, openly,
with absolute nonchalance, Burchill walked into a brilliantly-lighted
entrance of the Herapath Flats!




CHAPTER XXXII

THE YORKSHIRE PROVERB


In the course of Triffitt's brief and fairly glorious journalistic
career, he had enjoyed and suffered a few startling experiences. He had
been fastened up in the darker regions of a London sewer in flood,
wondering if he would ever breathe the fine air of Fleet Street again or
go down with the rats that scurried by him. He had been down a coal-mine
in the bad hour which follows an explosion. He had several times risked
his neck; his limbs had often been in danger; he had known what it was
to feel thumpings of the heart and catchings of the breath from sheer
fright. He had come face to face with surprise, with astonishment, with
audacious turnings of Fortune's glass. But never in all his life had he
been so surprised as he now was, and after one long, low whistle he
relieved his feelings by quoting verse:

            "Is things what they seem?
            Or is visions about?

"Trixie!" he went on in a low, concentrated voice. "This licks all! This
bangs Banagher! This--but words fail me, Trixie!"

"What is it, Herbert?" demanded Trixie anxiously. "What does it all
mean?"

"Ah!" responded Triffitt, wildly smiting the crown of his deerstalker.
"That's just it! What does it all mean, my dear! Gad!--this is--to use
the common language of the common man, a fair licker! That that chap
Burchill should march as bold as brass into those Herapath Flats,
is--well, I couldn't be more surprised, Trixie, than if you were to tell
me that you are the Queen of Sheba's grand-daughter! Not so much so, in
fact. You see----"

But at that moment a taxi-cab came speeding round the corner, and from
it presently emerged Carver and Davidge. The detective, phlegmatic,
quiet as ever, nodded familiarly to Triffitt and lifted his hat to
Trixie.

"Evening, Mr. Triffitt," he said quietly.

"He's in there!" exclaimed Triffitt, grabbing Davidge's arm and pointing
wildly to the brilliantly lighted entrance, wherein two or three
uniformed servants lounged about to open doors and attend to elevators.
"Walked in as if the whole place belonged to him! You know--Burchill!"

"Ah, just so!" responded Davidge unconcernedly. "Quite so--I wouldn't
name no names in the street if I were you, Mr. Triffitt. Ah!--to be
sure, now. Well, of course, he would have to go in somewhere, wouldn't
he?--as well here as anywhere, perhaps. Yes. Now, if this young lady
would join the other young lady in the cab, Mr. Carver'll escort 'em
home, and then he can come back here if he likes--we might have a bit of
a job for him. And when the ladies retire, you and me can do our bit of
business, d'ye see, Mr. Triffitt. What?"

Trixie, urged towards the cab, showed signs of uneasiness.

"Promise me you won't get shot, or poisoned, or anything, Herbert!" she
entreated. "If you do----"

"We aren't going in for any shooting tonight, miss," said Davidge
gravely. "Some other night, perhaps. All quiet and serene tonight--just
a little family gathering, as it were--all pleasant!"

"But that dreadful man!" exclaimed Trixie, pointing to the door of the
flats. "Supposing----"

"Ah, but we won't suppose," answered Davidge. "He's all right, he is.
Mild as milk we shall find him--my word on it, miss. Now," he continued,
when he had gently but firmly assisted Trixie into the cab, said a word
or two to Carver, taken Triffitt's arm, and led him across the street,
"now we'll talk a bit, quietly. So he's gone in there, has he, Mr.
Triffitt? Just so. Alone, now?"

"Quite alone," replied Triffitt. "What's it all about--what does it
mean? You seem remarkably cool about it!"

"I shouldn't be much use in my trade if I didn't keep cool, Mr.
Triffitt," answered Davidge. "You see, I know a bit--perhaps a good
deal--of what's going on--or what's going to go on, presently. So will
you. I'll take you in there."

"There? Where?" demanded Triffitt.

"Where he's gone," said Davidge. "Where--if I'm not mistaken--that
chap's going."

He pointed to a man who had come quickly round the corner from the
direction of the High Street, a middle-sized, apparently well-dressed
man, who hurried up the broad steps and disappeared within the
glass-panelled doors.

"That's another of 'em," observed Davidge. "And I'm a Dutchman if this
taxi-cab doesn't hold t'other two. You'll recognize them, easy."

Triffitt gaped with astonishment as he saw Professor Cox-Raythwaite and
Selwood descend from the taxi-cab, pass up the steps, and disappear.

"Talk of mysteries!" he said. "This----"

Davidge pulled out an old-fashioned watch.

"Nine o'clock," he remarked. "Come on--we'll go in. Now, then, Mr.
Triffitt," he continued, pressing his companion's arm, "let me give you
a tip. You mayn't know that I'm a Yorkshireman--I am! We've a good old
proverb--it's often cast up against us: 'Hear all--say naught!' You'll
see me act on it tonight--act on it yourself. And--a word in your
ear!--you're going to have the biggest surprise you ever had in your
life--and so's a certain somebody else that we shall see in five
minutes! Come on!"

He took Triffitt's arm firmly in his, led him up the stairs, in at the
doors. The hall-porter came forward.

"Take me up," said Davidge, "to Mrs. Engledew's flat."




CHAPTER XXXIII

BURCHILL FILLS THE STAGE


It seemed to Triffitt, who possessed, and sedulously cultivated, a sense
of the dramatic, that the scene to which he and Davidge were presently
conducted by a trim and somewhat surprised-looking parlour-maid, was one
which might have been bodily lifted from the stage of any theatre
devoted to work of the melodramatic order. The detective and the
reporter found themselves on the threshold of a handsomely furnished
dining-room, vividly lighted by lamps which threw a warm pink glow over
the old oak furniture and luxurious fittings. On one side of the big
table sat Professor Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood both looking a little
mystified; at the further end sat a shortish, rather fat man, obviously
a foreigner, who betrayed anxiety in every line of his rather oily
countenance. And posed in an elegant attitude on the hearthrug, one
elbow resting on the black marble of the mantelpiece, one hand toying
with a cigarette, stood Burchill, scrupulously attired as usual, and
conveying, or endeavouring to convey to whoever looked upon him, that
he, of all people present, was master of himself and all of the scene.

Triffitt took all this in at a glance; his next glance was at the
elegant, white-haired lady who came forward to meet him and his
companion. Davidge gave him a nudge as he executed a duck-like bow.

"Servant, ma'am," said Davidge in his quietest and coolest manner. "I
took the liberty of bringing a friend with me. You see, ma'am, as these
proceedings are in what we may call the public way, Mrs. Engledew, no
objection I'm sure to having a press gentleman at them. Mr. Triffitt,
ma'am, of the _Argus_ newspaper. Known to these gentlemen--all of
'em--unless it's the gentleman at the far end, there. Known, at any
rate, to Mr. Selwood and the Professor," continued Davidge, nodding with
much familiarity to the person he named. "And likewise to Mr. Burchill
there. How do you do, sir, this evening? You and me, I think, has met
before, and shall no doubt meet again. Well, ma'am, and now that I've
come, perhaps I might ask a question. What have I come for?"

Davidge had kept up this flow of talk while he took stock of his
surroundings, and now, with another nudge of his companion's elbow, he
took a chair between the door and the table, planted himself firmly in
it, put his hands on top of his stout stick, and propped his chin on his
hands. He looked at Mrs. Engledew once more, and then let his eyes make
another inspection of her guests.

"What have I come for, ma'am?" he repeated. "To hear those revelations
you spoke of when you called on me this afternoon? Just so. Well, ma'am,
the only question now is--who's going to make 'em? For," he added,
sitting up again after his further inspection, and bestowing a general
smile all round, "revelations, ma'am, is what I chiefly hanker after,
and I shall be glad--delighted!--to hear any specimens from--anybody as
chooses to make 'em!"

Mrs. Engledew looked at Burchill as she resumed her seat.

"I think Mr. Burchill is the most likely person to tell you what there
is to tell," she said. "His friend----"

"Ah!--the gentleman at the other end of the table, no doubt," observed
Davidge. "How do you do, sir? And what might that gentleman's name be,
now?"

Burchill, who had been watching the detective carefully, threw away his
cigarette and showed an inclination to speak.

"Look here, Davidge!" he said. "You know very well why you're here--you're
here to hear the real truth about the Herapath murder! Mrs. Engledew told
you that this afternoon, when she called on you at Scotland Yard. Now the
only two people who know the real truth are myself and my friend there--Mr.
Dimambro."

Selwood and Cox-Raythwaite, who until then had remained in ignorance of the
little foreigner's identity, started and looked at him with interest. So
this was the missing witness! But Davidge remained cool and unimpressed.

"Ah, just so!" he said. "Foreign gentleman, no doubt. And you and Mr.
Dimambro are the only persons who know the real truth about that little
affair, eh, Mr. Burchill. Very good, so as----"

"As Mr. Dimambro doesn't speak English very well----" began Burchill.

"I speak it--you understand--enough to say a good many words--but not so
good as him," observed Mr. Dimambro, waving a fat hand. "He say it for
me--for both of us, eh?"

"To be sure, sir, to be sure," said Davidge. "Mr. Burchill is gifted
that way, of course. Well, Mr. Burchill, and what might this story be,
now? Deeply interesting, I'll be bound."

Burchill pulled a chair to the table, opposite Selwood and the
Professor. He put the tips of his fingers together and assumed an
explanatory manner.

"I shall have to begin at the beginning," he said. "You'll all please to
follow me closely. Now, to commence--Mrs. Engledew permits me to speak for
her as well as for Mr. Dimambro. The fact is, I can put the circumstances
of the whole affair into a consecutive manner. And I will preface what I
have to say by making a statement respecting a fact in the life of the late
Mr. Herapath which will, I believe, be substantiated by Mr. Selwood, my
successor as secretary to the deceased gentleman. Mr. Herapath, in addition
to being an authority on the building of up-to-date flats, was also more or
less of an expert in precious stones. He not only bought and sold in these
things, but he gave advice to his friends in matters relating to them. Mr.
Selwood has, I am sure, had experience of that fact?"

"To a certain extent--yes," agreed Selwood. "But I had not been long
enough in Mr. Herapath's employ to know how much he went in for that sort
of thing."

"That is immaterial," continued Burchill. "We establish the fact that
he did. Now we come to the first chapter of our story. This lady, Mrs.
Engledew, a tenant of this flat since the Herapath Estate was built, is
an old acquaintance--I am permitted to say, friend--of the late Jacob
Herapath. She occasionally consulted him on matters of business. On
November 12th last she consulted him on another affair--though it had, of
course, a business complexion. Mrs. Engledew, by the death of a relative,
had just come into possession of some old family jewels--chiefly diamonds.
These diamonds, which, Mrs. Engledew tells me, had been valued by Spinks at
about seven thousand pounds, were in very old, considerably worn settings.
Mrs. Engledew wished to have them reset. Knowing that Jacob Herapath had
great taste and knowledge in that direction, she saw him at his office on
the noon of November 12th, showed him the diamonds, and asked his advice.
Jacob Herapath--I am giving you Mrs. Engledew's account--told her to leave
the diamonds with him, as he was going to see, that very day, an expert in
that line, to whom he would show the stones with the idea of his giving
him his opinion on what ought to be done with them. Mrs. Engledew handed
him the diamonds in a small case, which he put in his pocket. I hope,"
added Burchill, turning to Mrs. Engledew, "that I have given all this
quite correctly?"

"Quite," assented Mrs. Engledew. "It is perfectly correct."

"Then," continued Burchill, "we pass on to Mr. Dimambro. Mr. Luigi Dimambro
is a dealer in precious stones, who resides in Genoa, but travels widely
about Europe in pursuance of his business. Mr. Dimambro had had several
dealings with Jacob Herapath during past years, but previous to November
12th last they had not met for something like twelve months. On their last
previous meeting Jacob Herapath told Mr. Dimambro that he was collecting
pearls of a certain sort and size--specimens of which he showed him--with a
view to presenting his niece, Miss Wynne, with a necklace which was to be
formed of them. He gave Dimambro a commission to collect such pearls for
him. On November 11th last Dimambro arrived in London from the Continent,
and wrote to Mr. Herapath to tell him of his arrival, and to notify him
that he had brought with him some pearls of the sort he wanted. Mr.
Herapath thereupon made an appointment with Dimambro at the House of
Commons on the evening of November 12th at half-past ten o'clock. Dimambro
kept that appointment, showed Mr. Herapath the pearls which he had brought,
sold them to him, and received from him, in payment for them, a cheque for
three thousand guineas. This transaction being conducted, Mr. Herapath drew
from his pocket (the same pocket in which he had already placed the pearls,
which I understand, were wrapped up in a small bag or case of wash-leather)
the diamonds which Mrs. Engledew had entrusted to him, showed them to
Dimambro, and asked his opinion as to how they could best be reset. It
is not material to this explanation to repeat what Dimambro said on that
matter--suffice it to say that Dimambro gave an expert opinion, that Mr.
Herapath once more pocketed the diamonds, and soon afterwards left the
House of Commons for his estate offices with both lots of valuable stones
in his possession--some ten thousand pounds' worth in all. As for Dimambro,
he went home to the hotel at which he was stopping--a little place called
the Ravenna, in Soho, an Italian house--next morning, first thing, he
cashed his cheque, and before noon he left for the Continent. He had not
heard of the murder of Jacob Herapath when he left London, and he did not
hear of it until next day. I think I have given Mr. Dimambro's account
accurately--his account so far," concluded Burchill, turning to the
Italian. "If not, he will correct me."

"Quite right, quite right!" said Dimambro, who had listened eagerly. "I
do not hear of the murder, eh, until I am in Berlin--it is, yes, next
day--day after I leave London--that I hear of it, you understand? I then
see it in the newspaper--English news, eh?"

"Why did you not come back at once?" asked Cox-Raythwaite.

Dimambro spread out his hands.

"Oh, I have my business--very particular," he said. "Besides, it has
nothing to do with me, eh? I don't see no--no connection between me and
that--no! But in time, I do come back, and then--he tell you," he broke
off, pointing to Burchill. "He tell you better, see?"

"I am taking everything in order," said Burchill. "And for the present I
have done with Mr. Dimambro. Now I come to myself. I shall have to go
into details about myself which I should not give if it were not for
these exceptional circumstances. Mr. Davidge, I am sure, will understand
me. Well, about myself--you will all remember that at both the coroner's
inquest and at the proceedings before the magistrate at which Barthorpe
Herapath was present and I--for reasons well known!--was not, there was
mention made of a letter which I had written to Jacob Herapath and was
subsequently found in Barthorpe's possession, on his arrest. That letter
was taken to be a blackmailing letter--I don't know whether any of you
will believe me, and I don't care whether you do or not, but I declare
that it was not meant to be a letter of that sort, though its wording
might set up that opinion. However, Jacob Herapath resented that letter,
and on its receipt he wrote to me showing that it had greatly displeased
him. Now, I did not want to displease Jacob Herapath, and on receipt of
his letter, I determined to see him personally at once. Being, of
course, thoroughly familiar with his habits, I knew that he generally
left the House of Commons about a quarter past eleven, every night when
the House was sitting. I accordingly walked down to Palace Yard,
intending to accost him. I arrived at the entrance to the Hall soon
after eleven. A few minutes later Mountain, the coachman, drove up with
the coupé brougham. I remained within the shadow of the porch--there
were other people about--several Members, and men who were with them. At
a quarter past eleven Jacob Herapath came down the Hall, accompanied by
Dimambro. I knew Dimambro, though I had not seen him for some time--I
used to see him, very occasionally, during my secretaryship to Mr.
Herapath. When I saw these two in conversation, I drew back, and neither
of them saw me. I did not want to accost Mr. Herapath in the presence of
a second party. I watched him part from Dimambro, and I heard him tell
Mountain to drive to the estate office. When both he and Dimambro had
gone, I walked out into Parliament Square, and after thinking things
over, I hailed a passing taxi-cab, and told the driver to go to
Kensington High Street, and to pull up by the Metropolitan Station."

Burchill here paused--to give Davidge a peculiarly knowing look.

"Now I want you all--and particularly Mr. Davidge--to follow closely
what I'm going to tell you," he continued. "I got out of the cab at the
station in the High Street, dismissed it, walked a little way along the
street, and then crossed over and made for the Herapath Flats--for the
estate office entrance. I think you are all very well acquainted with
that entrance. You know that it lies in a covered carriage way which
leads from the side-street into the big quadrangle round which the flats
are built. As I went up the side-street, on the opposite side, mind, to
the entrance, I saw a man come out of the covered carriage way. That
man I knew!"

Burchill made a dramatic pause, looking impressively around him amidst a
dead silence.

"Knew!" he repeated, shaking his finger at the expectant faces. "Knew
well! But--I am not going to tell you his name at this moment. For the
present we will call him Mr. X."




CHAPTER XXXIV

DAVIDGE'S TRUMP CARD


Burchill paused for a moment, to give full effect to this dramatic
announcement, which, to tell truth, certainly impressed every member of
his audience but one. That one skilfully concealed his real feelings
under a show of feigned interest.

"You never say!" exclaimed Davidge, dropping into a favourite colloquialism
of his native county. "Dear me, today! A man that you knew, Mr. Burchill,
and that for the present you'll call Mr. X. You knew him well, then?"

"Better than I know you," replied Burchill. He was beginning to be
suspicious of Davidge's tone, and his resentment of it showed in his
answer. "Well enough to know him and not to mistake him, anyhow! And
mind you, there was nothing surprising in his being there at that time
of night--that's a point that you should bear in mind, Davidge--it's in
your line, that. I knew so much of Jacob Herapath's methods and doings
that it was quite a reasonable thing for this man to be coming out of
the estate offices just before midnight."

"Exactly, sir--I follow you," said Davidge. "Ah!--and what might this
Mr. X. do then, Mr. Burchill?"

Burchill, who had addressed his remarks chiefly to the listeners on the
other side of the table, and notably to Cox-Raythwaite, turned away from
the detective and went on.

"This man--Mr. X," he said, "came quickly out of the door, turned down the
side-street a little, then turned back, passed the carriage-entrance, and
went away up the street in the opposite direction. He turned on his own
tracks so quickly that I was certain he had seen somebody coming whom he
did not wish to meet. He----"

"Excuse me a moment," broke in Cox-Raythwaite. "How was it X. didn't see
you?"

"Because I was on the opposite side of the street, in deep shadow,"
replied Burchill. "Besides that, the instant I caught sight of him I
quietly slipped back into a doorway. I remained there while he turned
and hurried up the street, for I was sure he had seen somebody coming,
and I wanted to find out who it was. And in another minute Barthorpe
Herapath came along, walking quickly. Then I understood--X. had seen him
in the distance, and didn't want to meet him."

"Just so, just so," murmured Davidge. "To be sure."

"Barthorpe Herapath turned into the carriageway and went into the
office," continued Burchill. "Now, as I've already said, I knew Jacob
Herapath's methods; I hadn't served him for nothing. He was the sort of
man who makes no distinction between day and night--it was quite a
common thing for him to fix up business appointments with people at
midnight. I've been present at such appointments many a time. So, I
dare say, has Mr. Selwood; any one who acted as secretary to Jacob
Herapath knows well that he'd think nothing of transacting business at
three o'clock in the morning. So I knew, of course, that Barthorpe had
gone there to keep some such appointment. I also knew that it would
probably last some time. Now I wanted to see Jacob Herapath alone. And
as there didn't seem to be any chance of it just then, I went home to my
flat in Maida Vale."

"Walked in?" asked Davidge.

"If you're particular as to the means, I took a taxi-cab at the Gardens
end of the High Street," replied Burchill, half-contemptuously. He
turned his attention to Selwood and the Professor again. "Now, I'm going
to tell you the plain truth about what happened afterwards," he
continued. "This part of the story is for the particular benefit of you
two gentlemen, though it has its proper connection with all the rest of
the narrative. I sat up rather late when I got home that night, and I
lay in bed next day until afternoon--in fact, I'd only just risen when
Barthorpe Herapath called on me at three o'clock. Now, as I don't have
papers delivered, but go out to buy what I want, it's the fact that I
never heard of Jacob Herapath's murder until Barthorpe told me of it,
then! That's the truth. And I'll at once anticipate the question that
you'll naturally want to ask. Why didn't I at once tell Barthorpe of
what I'd seen the night before?--of the presence of the man whom we're
calling Mr. X.?"

"Just so!" murmured Davidge. "Ah, yes, why not?"

"I'll tell you," continued Burchill. "Because Barthorpe immediately
sprang upon me the matter of the will. And I just as immediately
recognized--I think I may count myself as a quick thinker--that the
really important matter just then was not the murder of Jacob Herapath,
but the ultimate disposal of Jacob Herapath's immense wealth."

"Clever!" sighed Davidge. "Uncommonly clever!"

"Now, Professor Cox-Raythwaite, and you, Mr. Selwood," Burchill went on,
adding new earnestness to his tone. "I want you to fully understand that
I'm giving you the exact truth. I firmly believed at that moment, and I
continued to believe until the eventful conference at Mr. Halfpenny's
office, that the gentleman whom I had known as Mr. Tertius was in
reality Arthur John Wynne, forger and ex-convict. I say I firmly
believed it, and I'll tell you why. During my secretaryship to Jacob
Herapath, he one day asked me to clear out a box full of old papers and
documents. In doing so I came across an old North-country newspaper
which contained a full account of the trial at Lancaster Assizes of
Arthur John Wynne on various charges of forgery. Jacob Herapath's name,
of course, cropped up in it, as a relative. The similarity of the names
of Jacob Herapath's ward, Miss Wynne, and that of the forger, roused my
suspicions, and I not only put two and two together, but I made some
inquiries privately, and I formed the definite conclusion that Tertius
and Wynne were identical, and that the semi-mystery of Tertius's
residence in Jacob Herapath's house was then fully accounted for. So
when Barthorpe told me what he did, and explained his anxiety about the
will, I saw my way to upsetting that will, for his benefit and for my
own. If I swore that I'd never signed that will, and could prove that
Tertius was Wynne, the forger, why then, of course, the will would be
upset, for it seemed to me that any jury would believe that Tertius, or
Wynne, had forged the will for his daughter's benefit. And so Barthorpe
and I fixed that up. Reprehensible, no doubt, gentlemen, but we all have
to live, and besides, Barthorpe promised me that he'd treat Miss Wynne
most handsomely. Well, that procedure was settled--with the result that
we're all aware of. And now I'd like to ask Mr. Davidge there a
question--as I'm about to tell him who the real murderer of Jacob
Herapath was, perhaps he'll answer it. I take it, Davidge, that the only
evidence you had against me in regard to the murder was the document
which you found at my flat, by which Barthorpe Herapath promised to pay
me ten per cent. on the value of the Herapath estate? That and the fact
that Barthorpe and I were in league about the will? Come now--as all's
being cleared up, isn't that so?"

Davidge rubbed his chin with affected indifference.

"Oh, well, you can put it down at something like that, if you like, Mr.
Burchill," he answered. "You're a very clever young fellow, and I dare
say you're as well aware of what the law about accessories is as I am.
'Tisn't necessary for a party to a murder to be actually present at the
execution of the crime, sir--no! And there's such a thing as being
accessory after the crime--of course. Leave it at that, Mr. Burchill,
leave it at that!"

Cox-Raythwaite, who had been eyeing Burchill with ill-concealed disgust,
spoke sharply.

"And--the rest?" he asked.

"I'm going along in order," answered Burchill coolly. "Well, I come to
the time when Davidge there arrested Barthorpe and myself at Halfpenny
and Farthing's, and when I escaped. There's no need to tell you what I
did with myself," he went on, with an obvious sneer in the detective's
direction. "But I can tell you that I didn't particularly restrict my
movements. And eventually--a few days ago--I come into touch with
Dimambro, who had returned to England. As I said before, we had met
during the time I was secretary to Jacob Herapath. Dimambro, when I met
him--accidentally--was on his way to the police, to tell them what he
knew. I stopped him--he told his story to me instead. I told him mine.
And the result of our deliberations was that we got an interview--at
least I did--with Mrs. Engledew here, with respect to the diamonds which
she had entrusted to Jacob Herapath. And----"

"I should like to ask you a question, Mrs. Engledew," said Cox-Raythwaite,
interrupting Burchill without ceremony. "Why did you not inform the police
about your diamonds as soon as you heard of the murder?"

Mrs. Engledew betrayed slight signs of confusion, and Davidge gave the
questioner a look.

"I think if I were you, I shouldn't go into that matter just now,
Professor," he said apologetically. "Ladies, you know, have their reasons
for these little--what shall we call 'em?--peculiarities. No, I wouldn't
press that point, sir. We're having a nice, straight story--quite like
a printed one!--from Mr. Burchill there, and I think we'd better let
him come to what we may term the last chapter in his own way--what?"

"I'm at the last chapter," said Burchill. "And it's a short one. I saw Mrs.
Engledew and made certain arrangements with her. And just after they were
made--yesterday in fact--Dimambro and I got a new piece of evidence. When
Dimambro was collecting those pearls for Jacob Herapath he bought some
from a well-known dealer in Amsterdam, a specialist in pearls. Yesterday,
Dimambro got a letter from this man telling him that a small parcel of
those very pearls had been sent to him from London, for sale. He gave
Dimambro the name and address of the sender, who, of course, was the Mr. X.
of whom I have spoken. So then Dimambro and I resolved to act, through Mrs.
Engledew----"

"For a slight consideration, I think," suggested Davidge dryly. "A matter
of a little cheque, I believe, Mr. Burchill."

"We've quite as much right to be paid for our detective services,
amateur though they are, as you have for yours, Davidge," retorted
Burchill. "However, I've come to an end, and it only remains for me to
tell you who Mr. X. really is. He hasn't the slightest notion that he's
suspected, and if you and your men, Davidge, go round to his house,
which isn't half a mile away, you'll probably find him eating his Sunday
evening supper in peace and quietness. The man is----"

Davidge suddenly rose from his chair, nudging Triffitt as he moved. He
laughed--and the laugh made Burchill start to his feet.

"You needn't trouble yourself, Mr. Burchill!" said Davidge. "Much
obliged to you for your talk, there's nothing like letting some folks
wag their tongues till they're tired. I know who murdered Jacob Herapath
as well as you do, and who your Mr. X. is. Jacob Herapath, gentlemen,"
he added, turning to his astonished listeners, "was shot dead and robbed
by his office manager, James Frankton, and if James Frankton's eating
his Sunday supper in peace and quietness, it's in one of our cells, for
I arrested him at seven o'clock this very evening--and with no help from
you, Mr. Burchill! I'm not quite such a fool as I may look, my lad, and
if I made one mistake when I let you slip I didn't make another when I
got on the track of the real man. And now, ma'am," he concluded, with an
old-fashioned bow to Mrs. Engledew, "there's no more to be said--by me,
at all events, and I've the honour to wish you a good night. Mr.
Triffitt--we'll depart."

Outside, Davidge took the reporter's arm in a firm grip, and chuckled as
he led him towards the elevator.

"That's surprise one!" he whispered. "Wait till we get downstairs and
into the street, and you'll have another, and it'll be of a bit livelier
nature!"




CHAPTER XXXV

THE SECOND WARRANT


Davidge preserved a strict silence as he and Triffitt went down in the
elevator, but when they had reached the ground floor he took the
reporter's arm again, and as they crossed the entrance hall gave it a
significant squeeze.

"You'll see two or three rather heavy swells, some of 'em in evening
dress, hanging about the door," he murmured. "Look like residents,
coming in or going out, puffing their cigars and their cigarettes, eh?
They're my men--all of 'em! Take no notice--there'll be your friend
Carver outside--I gave him a hint. Join him, and hang about--you'll have
something to do a bit of newspaper copy about presently."

Triffitt, greatly mystified, joined Carver at the edge of the pavement
outside the wide entrance door. Glancing around him he saw several men
lounging about--two, of eminently military appearance, with evening
dress under their overcoats, stood chatting on the lower steps; two or
three others, all very prosperous looking, were talking close by. There
was nothing in their outward show to arouse suspicion--at any other
time, and under any other circumstances Triffitt would certainly have
taken them for residents of the Herapath Flats. Carver, however, winked
at him.

"Detectives," he said. "They've gathered here while you were upstairs.
What's up now, Triffitt? Heard anything?"

"Piles!" answered Triffitt. "Heaps! But I don't know what this is all
about. Some new departure. Hullo!--here's the secretary and the
Professor."

Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood just then appeared at the entrance door and
began to descend the steps. Davidge, who had stopped on the steps to
speak to a man, hailed and drew them aside.

"What has gone on up there?" asked Carver. "Anything really----"

Triffitt suddenly grasped his companion's shoulder, twisting him round
towards the door. His lips emitted a warning to silence; his eyes
signalled Carver to look.

Burchill came out of the doors, closely followed by Dimambro. Jauntily
swinging his walking-cane he began to descend, affecting utter
unconsciousness of the presence of Cox-Raythwaite, Selwood, and Davidge.
He passed close by the men in evening dress, brushing the sleeve of one.
And the man thus brushed turned quickly, and his companion turned
too--and then something happened that made the two reporters exclaim
joyfully and run up the steps.

"Gad!--that was quick--quick!" exclaimed Triffitt, with the delight of a
schoolboy. "Never saw the bracelets put on more neatly. Bully for you,
Davidge, old man!--got him this time, anyhow!"

Burchill, taken aback by the sudden onslaught of Davidge's satellites,
drew himself up indignantly and looked down at his bands, around the
wrists of which his captors had snapped a pair of handcuffs. He lifted a
face white with rage and passion and glanced at Cox-Raythwaite and
Selwood.

"Liars!" he hissed between his teeth. "You gave me safe conduct! It was
understood that I was to come and go without interference, you hounds!"

"Not with me, nor I should think with anybody, my lad," exclaimed
Davidge, bustling forward. "Not likely! You forget that you're under
arrest for the old charge yet, and though you'll get off for that, you
won't go scot-free, my friend! I've got a second warrant for you, and
the charge'll be read to you when you get to the station. You'll clear
yourself of the charge of murder, but not of t'other charge, I'm
thinking!"

"Second warrant! Another charge!" growled Burchill. "What charge?"

"I should think you know as well as I do," replied Davidge quietly.
"You're a bigger fool than I take you for if you don't. Conspiracy, of
course! It's a good thing to have two strings to one's bow, Mr. Frank
Burchill, in dealing with birds like you. This is my second string. Take
him off," he added, motioning to his men, "and get him searched, and put
everything carefully aside for me--especially a cheque for ten thousand
pounds which you'll find in one of his pockets."

When the detectives had hurried Burchill into a taxi-cab which suddenly
sprang into useful proximity to the excited group, Davidge spat on the
ground and made a face. He motioned Cox-Raythwaite, Selwood, and the
two reporters to go down the street; he himself turned to Dimambro. What
he said to that highly-excited gentleman they did not hear, but the
Italian presently walked off looking very crestfallen, while Davidge,
joining them, looked highly pleased with himself.

"Of course, you'll stop payment of that cheque at the bank first thing
tomorrow, gentlemen," he said. "Though that'll only be for form's sake,
because I shall take charge of it when I go round to the police-station
presently--they'll have got Burchill searched when I get there. Of
course, I wasn't going to say anything up there, but Mrs. Engledew has
been in with us at this, and she took Burchill and Dimambro in as
beautifully as ever I saw it done in my life! Clever woman, that! We
knew about her diamonds, gentlemen, within a few hours of the discovery
of the murder, and of course, I thought Barthorpe had got them; I did,
mistaken though I was! I didn't want anybody to know about those
diamonds, though, and I kept it all dark until these fellows came on the
scene. And, anyway, we didn't get the real culprit through the diamonds,
either!"

"That's what we want to know," said Selwood. "Have you got the real
culprit? Are you certain? And how on earth did you get him--a man that
none of us ever suspected!"

"Just so!" answered Davidge with a grim laugh. "As nice and quiet-mannered
a man as ever I entered as a candidate for the gallows! It's very often
the case, gentlemen. Oh, yes--it's true enough! He's confessed--crumpled
up like a bit of tissue paper when we took him--confessed everything to me
just before I came along here. Of course we didn't get him through anything
we've heard tonight; quite different line altogether, and a simple one."

"We should like to know about it," said Cox-Raythwaite. "Can't you give
us a mere outline?"

"I was going to," answered Davidge. "No secret about it. I may as well
tell you that after hearing what Barthorpe Herapath insisted on saying
before the magistrate, I began to feel that he was very likely telling
the truth, and that somebody'd murdered and robbed his uncle just before
he got to the offices. But, of course, there was nothing to connect the
murder and robbery with any person that I knew of. Well, now then, this
is how we got on the track. Only two or three days ago a little, quiet
man, who turned out to be a bit of a property-owner down at Fulham, came
to me and said that ever since Mr. Jacob Herapath's murder he'd been
what he called studying over it, and he thought he ought to tell me
something. He said he was a very slow thinker, and it had taken him a
long time to think all this out. Then he told me his tale. He said that
for some time Jacob Herapath had been waiting to buy a certain bit of
land which he had to sell. On November 12th last he called to see Jacob
at these offices, and they agreed on the matter, price to be £5,000.
Jacob told him to come in at ten o'clock next morning, and in accordance
with his usual way of doing business, he'd hand him the money in
cash--notes, of course. Well, the chap called next morning, only to hear
of what had happened, and so his business had fallen through. And it
wasn't until some time later--he's a bit of a slow-witted fellow,
dullish of brain, you understand," continued Davidge indulgently, "that
he remembered a certain conversation, or rather a remark which Jacob
Herapath made during that deal. This man, James Frankton, the manager,
was present when the deal was being effected, and when they'd concluded
terms, Jacob said, turning to Frankton. 'I'll get the money in notes
from the bank this afternoon, Frankton, and if I don't give it to you in
the meantime, you'll find the notes in the top left-hand drawer of my
desk tomorrow morning.' Well, that was what the man told me; said he'd
been bothering his brains in wondering if Jacob did draw that money, and
so on--Frankton, of course, had told him that he knew nothing about it,
and that as Jacob was dead, no more could be done in the matter. Now on
that, I at once began some inquiries. I found out a thing or two--never
mind what--one was to trace a hundred pound note which Frankton had
cashed recently. I found, only yesterday morning, that that note was one
of fifty similar notes paid to Jacob Herapath by his bankers in exchange
for his own cheque on the afternoon of November 12th. And, on that, I
had Frankton watched all yesterday, last night, and today, and as I
said, I arrested him tonight--and, in all my experience I never saw a
man more surprised, and never knew one who so lost his nerve."

"And his confession?" asked Selwood.

"Oh! ordinary," answered Davidge. "Jacob had made an appointment with
him for half-past eleven or so. Got there a bit late, found his master
sitting at his desk with a wad of bank notes on the blotting-pad, a
paper of pearls on one side of him, a lot of diamond ornaments at the
other--big temptation to a chap, who, as it turns out, was hard up, and
had got into the hands of money-lenders. And, oh, just the ordinary
thing in such cases, happened to have on him a revolver that he'd bought
abroad, yielded to temptation, shot his man, took money and valuables,
went home, and turned up at the office next day to lift his hands in
horror at the dreadful news. You see what truth is, gentlemen, when you
get at it--just a common, vulgar murder, for the sake of robbery. And
he'll swing!"

"'Just a common, vulgar murder, and he'll swing!'" softly repeated
Cox-Raythwaite, as he and Selwood walked up the steps of the house in
Portman Square half an hour later. "Well, that's solved, anyway. As for
the other two----"

"I suppose there's no doubt of their guilt with respect to their
conspiring to upset the will?" said Selwood. "And that's a serious
offence, isn't it?"

"In this eminently commercial country, very," answered Cox-Raythwaite,
sententiously. "Barthorpe and Burchill will inevitably retire to the
shelter of a convict establishment for awhile. Um! Well, my boy, good
night!"

"Not coming in?" asked Selwood, as he put a key in the latch.

The Professor gave his companion's shoulder a pressure of his big hand.

"I think," he said, turning down the steps with a shy laugh, "I think
Peggie will prefer to receive you--alone."

THE END




                        _THE MYSTERY STORIES OF_

                       _J .  S .  F L E T C H E R_

  "_We always feel as though we were really spreading happiness when we
  can announce a genuinely satisfactory mystery story, such as J. S.
  Fletcher's new one._"--N. P. D. in the New York Globe.

THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER [1918]

"Unquestionably, _the_ detective story of the season and, therefore, one
which no lover of detective fiction should miss."--_The Broadside._

THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM [1920]

"A crackerjack mystery tale; the story of Linford Pratt, who earnestly
desired to get on in life, by hook or by crook--with no objection
whatever to crookedness, so long at it could be performed in safety and
secrecy."--_Knickerbocker Press._

THE PARADISE MYSTERY [1920]

"As a weaver of detective tales Mr. Fletcher is entitled to a seat among
the elect. His numerous followers will find his latest book fully as
absorbing as anything from his pen that has previously appeared."--_New
York Times._

DEAD MEN'S MONEY [1920]

"The story is one that holds the reader with more than the mere interest
of sensational events; Mr. Fletcher writes in a notable style."--_Newark
Evening News._

THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND [1921]

". . . A rattling good yarn. . . . An uncommonly well written tale."--_New
York Times._

THE CHESTERMARKE INSTINCT [1921]

"Mr. Fletcher is a master of plot. . . . To tell a story as well as this
is a literary achievement."--_Boston Transcript._

THE BOROUGH TREASURER [1921]

"As mystifying a tale as even Mr. Fletcher himself has written."--_New
York Times._

THE HERAPATH PROPERTY [1921]

Numerous complications lead from the murder of Jacob Herapath and the
search for his will.

SCARHAVEN KEEP [1922]

The mystery of the disappearance of Bassett Oliver, famous actor.

RAVENSDENE COURT [1922]

Two men are struck down by an unseen hand, at the same time in widely
separated places--who killed them?

       _$2.00 net each at all booksellers or from the Publisher_

                       ALFRED A. KNOPF, New York.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES


The advertisement "The Mystery Stories of J. S. Fletcher" has been moved
from the front of the book to the back.

Spacing around ellipses and em-dashes is as in the original.

The following corrections have been applied:

    Advertisement: "As mystifying{original had mystifyng} a tale as
    even Mr. Fletcher himself has written."

    Page vi: XXIV{original had XIV} COLD STEEL

    Page 18: but when she had left the room to make ready for the
    drive Mr.{original omitted period} Tertius turned to Selwood.

    Page 66: the detective, armed with a magnifying glass, was
    examining the edges of the door, the smooth backs of chairs,
    even the surface of the desk, presumably for
    finger-marks{original had fingermarks}.

    Page 72: "Mr. Selwood!" she exclaimed imploringly. "You--I
    can't.{The original text has no em-dash, and it's not clear what
    the author's intention was.} You open it, and--"

    Page 85: "Pardon," interrupted Burchill, "a{original had A}
    holograph?

    Page 128: And it was as well that he was not looking{original
    had look-} at Triffitt

    Page 160: perhaps you'll{original had you'l} drop me a line and
    make an appointment at your office some day--then I'll call,
    d'you see?"{original omitted closing quotation mark}

    Page 166: "So long as justice is done," remarked
    Peggie.{original omitted period}

    Page 178: There were peculiarities about the fellow, said
    Triffitt{original had Triffit}, which you couldn't forget

    Page 186: "All right," said Triffitt, "keep{original had Keep} a
    still tongue as regards me

    Page 186: {original had a quotation mark here}Outside Triffitt
    gave his companion's arm a confidential squeeze.

    Page 187: Markledew{original had Markledek} listened to
    Triffitt's story next day in his usual rapt silence.

    Page 196: "Then we'll get to work," said Davidge. "{original
    omitted quotation mark}Mr. Triffitt, I can't ask you to come
    with us

    Page 201: "I haven't{original had haven'} the least objection
    to Cox-Raythwaite's presence, nor yours," said Barthorpe.

    Page 211: Peggie Wynne, who during Barthorpe's last speech had
    manifested signs of a desire to speak, and had begun to produce
    a sealed packet from her muff.{original had a superfluous
    quotation mark here}

    Page 214: as they{original had ast hey} went on, quietly rose
    from his chair.

    Page 218: Is it not probable that if he wanted to make a will
    he{original had be} would have employed me

    Page 273: Peggie{original had Peggy} Wynne had never been so
    glad of anything in her life as for Selwood's immediate presence
    at that moment

    Page 287: You follow me? As soon as I've taken action, or run
    him to earth, I'll ring up Scotland Yard, and{original had an}
    then----"

    Page 293: "Nine o'clock," he remarked. "{original omitted this
    quotation mark}Come on--we'll go in. Now, then, Mr. Triffitt,"
    he continued,

The following unusual spellings are as printed:

    Page 143: He flung Markledew's half-sheet of notepaper before
    the news editor, and the news editor, seeing the great man's
    sprawling caligraphy{sic}, read, wonderingly:--

The following words appear with and without a hyphen. They have been
left as in the original.

    bank-notes/banknotes

    business-like/businesslike

    hearth-rug/hearthrug

    note-book/notebook

    note-paper/notepaper

    parlour-maid/parlourmaid





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