"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 coupe 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 coupe 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 coupe 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 coupe 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 coupe 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 neighboring 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 neighborhood 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 cortege 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—Anglice, 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 cortege 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——