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!"