"You're very kind," retorted Barthorpe. "I shall say on! But—I warned you—what I've got to say will give a good deal of pain to my cousin there. It would have been far better if you'd kept her out of this—still, she'd have had to hear it sooner or later in a court of justice——"

"It strikes me we shall have to hear a good deal in a court of justice—as you say, sooner or later," interrupted Mr. Halfpenny, dryly. "So I don't think you need spare Miss Wynne. I should advise you to go on, and let us become acquainted with what you've got to tell us."

"Barthorpe!" said Peggie, "I do not mind what pain you give me—you can't give me much more than I've already been given this morning. But I wish"—she turned appealingly to Mr. Halfpenny and again began to draw the sealed packet from her muff—"I do wish, Mr. Halfpenny, you'd let me say something before——"

"Say nothing, my dear, at present," commanded Mr. Halfpenny, firmly. "Allow Mr. Barthorpe Herapath to have his say. Now, sir!" he went on, with a motion of his hand towards the younger solicitor. "Pray let us hear you."

"In my own fashion," retorted Barthorpe. "You're not a judge, you know. Very good—if I give pain to you, Peggie, it's not my fault. Now, Mr. Halfpenny," he continued, turning and pointing contemptuously to Mr. Tertius, "as this is wholly informal, I'll begin with an informal yet pertinent question, to you. Do you know who that man really is?"

"I believe that gentleman, sir, to be Mr. John Christopher Tertius, and my very good and much-esteemed friend," replied Mr. Halfpenny, with asperity.

"Pshaw!" sneered Barthorpe. He turned to Professor Cox-Raythwaite. "I'll put the same question to you?" he said. "Do you know who he is?"

"And I give you the same answer, sir," answered the professor.

"No doubt!" said Barthorpe, still sneeringly. "The fact is, neither of you know who he is. So I'll tell you. He's an ex-convict. He served a term of penal servitude for forgery—forgery, do you hear? And his real name is not Tertius. What it is, and who he really is, and all about him, I'm going to tell you. Forger—ex-convict—get that into your minds, all of you. For it's true!"

Mr. Tertius, who had started visibly as Barthorpe rapped out the first of his accusations, and had grown paler as they went on, quietly rose from his chair.

"Before this goes further, Halfpenny," he said, "I should like to have a word in private with Miss Wynne. Afterwards—and I shan't detain her more than a moment—I shall have no objection to hearing anything that Mr. Barthorpe Herapath has to say. My dear!—step this way with me a moment, I beg."

Mr. Halfpenny's private room was an apartment of considerable size, having in it two large recessed windows. Into one of these Mr. Tertius led Peggie, and there he spoke a few quiet words to her. Barthorpe Herapath affected to take no notice, but the other men, watching them closely, saw the girl start at something which Mr. Tertius said. But she instantly regained her self-possession and composure, and when she came back to the table her face, though pale, was firm and resolute. And Barthorpe looked at her then, and his voice, when he spoke again, was less aggressive and more civil.

"It's not to my taste to bring unpleasant family scandals into public notice," he said, "and that's why I rather welcomed your proposal that we should discuss this affair in private, Mr. Halfpenny. And now for what I've got to tell you. I shall have to go back a long way in our family history. My late uncle, Jacob Herapath, was the eldest of the three children of his father, Matthew Herapath, who was a medical practitioner at Granchester in Yorkshire—a small town on the Yorkshire and Lancashire border. The three children were Jacob, Richard, and Susan. With the main outlines of Jacob Herapath's career I believe we are all fairly well acquainted. He came to London as a youth, and he prospered, and became what we know him to have been. Richard, my father, went out to Canada, when he was very young, settled there, and there he died.

"Now we come to Susan, the only daughter. Susan Herapath, at the age of twenty, married a man named Wynne—Arthur John Wynne, who at that time was about twenty-five years of age, was the secretary and treasurer of a recently formed railway—a sort of branch railway on the coast, which had its head office at Southampton, a coast town. In Southampton, this Arthur John Wynne and his wife settled down. At the end of a year their first child was born—my cousin Margaret, who is here with us. When she—I am putting all this as briefly as I can—when she was about eighteen months old a sad affair happened. Wynne, who had been living in a style very much above his position, was suddenly arrested on a charge of forgery. Investigations proved that he had executed a number of most skilful and clever forgeries, by which he had defrauded his employers of a large—a very large—amount of money. He was sent for trial to the assizes at Lancaster, he was found guilty, and he was sentenced to seven years' penal servitude. And almost at once after the trial his wife died.

"Here my late uncle, Jacob Herapath, came forward. He went north, assumed possession and guardianship of the child, and took her away from Southampton. He took her into Buckinghamshire and there placed her in the care of some people named Bristowe, who were farmers near Aylesbury and whom he knew very well. In the care of Mrs. Bristowe, the child remained until she was between six and seven years old. Then she was removed to Jacob Herapath's own house in Portman Square, where she has remained ever since. My cousin, I believe, has a very accurate recollection of her residence with the Bristowes, and she will remember being brought from Buckinghamshire to London at the time I have spoken of."

Barthorpe paused for a moment and looked at Peggie. But Peggie, who was listening intently with downcast head, made no remark, and he presently continued.

"Now, not so very long after that—I mean, after the child was brought to Portman Square—another person came to the house as a permanent resident. His name was given to the servants as Mr. Tertius. The conditions of his residence were somewhat peculiar. He had rooms of his own; he did as he liked. Sometimes he joined Jacob Herapath at meals; sometimes he did not. There was an air of mystery about him. What was it? I will tell you in a word—the mystery or its secret, was this—the man Tertius, who sits there now, was in reality the girl's father! He was Arthur John Wynne, the ex-convict—the clever forger!"



CHAPTER XXIV

COLD STEEL

The two men who formed what one may call the alien and impartial audience at that table were mutually and similarly impressed by a certain feature of Barthorpe Herapath's speech—its exceeding malevolence. As he went on from sentence to sentence, his eyes continually turned to Mr. Tertius, who sat, composed and impassive, listening, and in them was a gleam which could not be mistaken—the gleam of bitter, personal dislike. Mr. Halfpenny and Professor Cox-Raythwaite both saw that look and drew their own conclusions, and when Barthorpe spat out his last words, the man of science turned to the man of law and muttered a sharp sentence in Latin which no one else caught. And Mr. Halfpenny nodded and muttered a word or two back before he turned to Barthorpe.

"Even supposing—mind, I only say supposing—even supposing you are correct in all you say—and I don't know that you are," he said, "what you have put before us does nothing to prove that the will which we have just inspected is not what we believe it to be—we, at any rate—the valid will of Jacob Herapath. You know as well as I do that you'd have to give stronger grounds than that before a judge and jury."

"I'll give you my grounds," answered Barthorpe eagerly. He bent over the table in his eagerness, and the old lawyer suddenly realized that Barthorpe genuinely believed himself to be in the right. "I'll give you my grounds without reserve. Consider them—I'll check them off, point by point—you can follow them:

"First. It was well known—to me, at any rate, that my uncle Jacob Herapath, had never made a will.

"Second. Is it not probable that if he wanted to make a will he would have employed me, who had acted as his solicitor for fifteen years?

"Third. I had a conversation with him about making a will just under a year ago, and he then said he'd have it done, and he mentioned that he should divide his estate equally between me and my cousin there.

"Fourth. Mr. Burchill here absolutely denies all knowledge of this alleged will.

"Fifth. My uncle's handwriting, as you all know, was exceedingly plain and very easy to imitate. Burchill's handwriting is similarly plain—of the copperplate sort—and just as easy to imitate.

"Sixth. That man across there is an expert forger! I have the account of his trial at Lancaster Assizes—the evidence shows that his work was most expert. Is it likely that his hand should have lost its cunning—even after several years?

"Seventh. That man there had every opportunity of forging this will. With his experience and knowledge it would be a simple matter to him. He did it with the idea of getting everything into the hands of his own daughter, of defrauding me of my just rights. Since my uncle's death he has made two attempts to see Burchill privately—why? To square him, of course! And——"

Mr. Tertius, who had been gazing at the table while Barthorpe went through these points, suddenly lifted his head and looked at Mr. Halfpenny. His usual nervousness seemed to have left him, and there was something very like a smile of contempt about his lips when he spoke.

"I think, Halfpenny," he said quietly, "I really think it is time all this extraordinary farce—for it is nothing less!—came to an end. May I be permitted to ask Mr. Barthorpe Herapath a few questions?"

"So far as I am concerned, as many as you please, Tertius," replied Mr. Halfpenny. "Whether he'll answer them or not is another matter. He ought to."

"I shall answer them if I please, and I shall not answer them if I don't want to," said Barthorpe sullenly. "You can put them, anyway. But they'll make no difference—I know what I'm talking about."

"So do I," said Mr. Tertius. "And really, as we come here to get at the truth, it will be all the better for everybody concerned if you do answer my questions. Now—you say I am in reality Arthur Wynne, the father of your cousin, the brother-in-law of Jacob Herapath. What you have said about Arthur John Wynne is unfortunately only too true. It is true that he erred and was punished—severely. In due course he went to Portland. I want to ask you what became of him afterwards?—you say you have full knowledge."

"You mean, what became of you afterwards," sneered Barthorpe. "I know when you left Portland. You left it for London—and you came to London to be sheltered, under your assumed name, by Jacob Herapath."

"No more than that?" asked Mr. Tertius.

"That's enough," answered Barthorpe. "You left Portland in April, 1897; you came to London when you were discharged; in June of that year you'd taken up your residence under Jacob Herapath's roof. And it's no use your trying to bluff me—I've traced your movements!"

"With the aid, no doubt, of Mr. Burchill there," observed Mr. Tertius, dryly. "But——"

Burchill drew himself up.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "That is an unwarrantable assumption, and——"

"Unwarrantable assumptions, Mr. Burchill, appear to be present in great quantity," interrupted Mr. Tertius, with an air of defiance which surprised everybody. "Don't you interrupt me, sir!—I'll deal with you before long in a way that will astonish you. Now, Mr. Barthorpe Herapath," he went on, turning to that person with determination, "I will astonish you somewhat, for I honestly believe you really have some belief in what you say. I am not Arthur John Wynne. I am what I have always been—John Christopher Tertius, as a considerable number of people in this town can prove. But I knew Arthur John Wynne. When he left Portland he came to me here in London—at the suggestion of Jacob Herapath. I then lived in Bloomsbury—I had recently lost my wife. I took Wynne to live with me. But he had not long to live. If you had searched into matters more deeply, you would have found that he got his discharge earlier than he would have done in the usual course, because of his health. As a matter of fact, he was very ill when he came to me, and he died six weeks after his arrival at my house. He is buried in the churchyard of the village from which he originally came—in Wales—and you can inspect all the documents relating to his death, and see his grave if you care to. After his death, for reasons into which I need not go, I went to live with Jacob Herapath. It was his great desire—and mine—that Wynne's daughter, your cousin, should never know her father's sad history. But for you she never would have known it! And—that is a plain answer to what you have had to allege against me. Now, sir, let me ask you a plain question. Who invented this cock-and-bull story? You don't reply—readily? Shall I assist you by a suggestion? Was it that man who sits by you—Burchill? For Burchill knows that he has lied vilely and shamelessly this morning—Burchill knows that he did see Jacob Herapath sign that will—Burchill knows that that will was duly witnessed by himself and by me in the presence of each other and of the testator! God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Tertius, thumping the table vehemently. "Why, man alive, your cousin Margaret has a document here which proves that that will is all right—a document written by Jacob Herapath himself! Bring it out, my dear—confound these men with an indisputable proof!"

But before Peggie could draw the packet from her muff, Burchill had risen and was showing signs of retreat. And Barthorpe, now pale with anger and perplexity, had risen too—and he was looking at Burchill.

Mr. Halfpenny looked at both men. Then he pointed to their chairs. "Hadn't you better sit down again?" he said. "It seems to me that we're just arriving at the most interesting stage of these proceedings."

Burchill stepped towards the door.

"I do not propose to stay in company in which I am ruthlessly insulted," he said. "It is, of course, a question of my word against Mr. Tertius's. We shall see. As for the present, I do."

"Stop!" said Barthorpe. He moved towards Burchill, motioning him towards the window in which Peggie and Mr. Tertius had spoken together. "Here—a word with you!"

But Burchill made for the door, and Mr. Halfpenny nudged Professor Cox-Raythwaite.

"I say—stop!" exclaimed Barthorpe. "There's some explanation——"

He was about to lay a hand on the door when Mr. Halfpenny touched a bell which stood in front of him on the table. And at its sharp sound the door opened from without, and Burchill fell back at what he saw—fell back upon Barthorpe, who looked past him, and started in his turn.

"Great Scot!" said Barthorpe. "Police!"

Davidge came quickly and quietly in—three other men with him. And in the room from which they emerged Barthorpe saw more men, many more men, and with them an eager, excited face which he somehow recognized—the face of the little Argus reporter who had asked him and Selwood for news on the morning after Jacob Herapath's murder.

But Barthorpe had no time to waste thoughts on Triffitt. He suddenly became alive to the fact that two exceedingly strong men had seized his arms; that two others had similarly seized Burchill. The pallor died out of his face and gave place to a dull glow of anger.

"Now, then?" he growled. "What's all this!"

"The same for both of you, Mr. Herapath," answered Davidge, cheerfully and in business-like fashion. "I'll charge both you and Mr. Burchill formally when we've got you to the station. You're both under arrest, you know. And I may as well warn you——"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Barthorpe. "Arrest!—on what charge?"

"Charge will be the same for both," answered Davidge coolly. "The murder of Jacob Herapath."

A dead silence fell on the room. Then Peggie Wynne cried out, and Barthorpe suddenly made a spring at Burchill.

"You villain!" he said in a low concentrated voice. "You've done me, you devil! Let me get my hands on——"

The other men, Triffitt on their heels, came bustling into the room, obedient to Davidge's lifted finger.

"Put the handcuffs on both of 'em," commanded Davidge. "Can't take any chances, Mr. Herapath, if you lose your temper—the other gentleman——"

It was at that moment that the other gentleman took his chance. While Barthorpe Herapath had foolishly allowed himself to become warm and excited, Burchill had remained cool and watchful and calculating. And now in the slight diversion made by the entrance of the other detectives, he suddenly and adroitly threw off the grasp of the men who held him, darted through the open door on to the stairs, and had vanished before Davidge could cry out. Davidge darted too, the other police darted, Mr. Halfpenny smote his bell and shouted to his clerks. But the clerks were downstairs, out of hearing, and the police were fleshy men, slow of movement, while Burchill was slippery as an eel and agile as an athlete. Moreover, Burchill, during his secretaryship to Jacob Herapath, had constantly visited Mr. Halfpenny's office, and was as well acquainted with its ins and outs as its tenant; he knew where, in those dark stairs there was a side stair which led to a private door in a neighbouring alley. And while the pursuers blundered this way and that, he calmly slipped out to freedom, and, in a couple of minutes was mingling with the crowds in a busy thoroughfare, safe for that time.

Then Davidge, cursing his men and his luck, took Barthorpe Herapath away, and Triffitt rushed headlong to Fleet Street, seething with excitement and brimming with news.



CHAPTER XXV

PROFESSIONAL ANALYSIS

The Argus came out in great style next morning, and it and Triffitt continued to give its vast circle of readers a similar feast of excitement for a good ten days. Triffitt, in fact, went almost foodless and sleepless; there was so much to do. To begin with, there was the daily hue and cry after Burchill, who had disappeared as completely as if his familiar evil spirits had carried him bodily away from the very door of Halfpenny and Farthing's office. Then there was the bringing up of Barthorpe Herapath before the magistrate at Bow Street, and the proceedings at the adjourned coroner's inquest. It was not until the tenth day that anything like a breathing space came. But the position of affairs on that tenth day was a fairly clear one. The coroner's jury had returned a verdict of wilful murder against Barthorpe Herapath and Frank Burchill; the magistrate had committed Barthorpe for trial; the police were still hunting high and low for Burchill. And there was scarcely a soul who had heard the evidence before the coroner and the magistrate who did not believe that both the suspected men were guilty and that both—when Burchill had been caught—would ere long stand in the Old Bailey dock and eventually hear themselves sentenced to the scaffold.

One man, however, believed nothing of the sort, and that man was Professor Cox-Raythwaite. His big, burly form had been very much in evidence at all the proceedings before coroner and magistrate. He had followed every scrap of testimony with the most scrupulous care; he had made notes from time to time; he had given up his leisure moments, and stolen some from his proper pursuits, to a deep consideration of the case as presented by the police. And on the afternoon which saw Barthorpe committed to take his trial, he went away from Bow Street, alone, thinking more deeply than ever. He walked home to his house in Endsleigh Gardens, head bent, hands clasped behind his big back, the very incarnation of deep and ponderous musing. He shut himself in his study; he threw himself into his easy chair before his hearth; he remained smoking infinite tobacco, staring into vacancy, until his dinner-bell rang. He roused himself to eat and drink; then he went out into the street, bought all the evening newspapers he could lay hands on, and, hailing a taxi-cab, drove to Portman Square.

Peggie, Mr. Tertius, and Selwood had just dined; they were sitting in a quiet little parlour, silent and melancholy. The disgrace of Barthorpe's arrest, of the revelations before coroner and magistrate, of his committal on the capital charge, had reduced Peggie to a state of intense misery; the two men felt hopelessly unable to give her any comfort. To both, the entrance of Cox-Raythwaite came as a positive relief.

Cox-Raythwaite, shown into the presence of these three, closed the door in a fashion which showed that he did not wish to be disturbed, came silently across the room, and drew a chair into the midst of the disconsolate group. His glance round commanded attention.

"Now, my friends," he said, plunging straight into his subject, "if we don't wish to see Barthorpe hanged, we've just got to stir ourselves! I've come here to begin the stirring."

Peggie looked up with a sudden heightening of colour. Mr. Tertius slowly shook his head.

"Pitiable!" he murmured. "Pitiable, most pitiable! But the evidence, my dear Cox-Raythwaite, the evidence! I only wish——"

"I've been listening to all the evidence that could be brought before coroner's jury and magistrate in police court," broke in the Professor. "Listening with all my ears until I know every scrap of it by heart. And for four solid hours this afternoon I've been analysing it. I'm going to analyse it to you—and then I'll show you why it doesn't satisfy me. Give me your close attention, all of you."

He drew a little table to his elbow, laid his bundle of papers upon it, and began to talk, checking off his points on the tips of his big, chemical-stained fingers.

"Now," he said, "we'll just go through the evidence which has been brought against these two men, Barthorpe and Burchill, which evidence has resulted in Barthorpe being committed for trial and in the police's increased anxiety to lay hold of Burchill. The police theory, after all, is a very simple one—let's take it and their evidence point by point.

"1. The police say that Jacob Herapath came to his death as the result of a conspiracy between his nephew Barthorpe Herapath and Frank Burchill.

"2. They say that the proof that that conspiracy existed is found in certain documents discovered by Davidge at Burchill's flat, in which documents Barthorpe covenants to pay Burchill ten per cent. of the value of the Herapath property if and when he, Barthorpe, comes into it.

"3. The police argue that this conspiracy to murder Jacob Herapath and upset the will was in existence before November 12th—in other words that the idea of upsetting the will came first, and that the murder arose out of it.

"4. In support of this they have proved that Barthorpe was in close touch with Burchill as soon as the murder was committed—afternoon of the same day, at any rate—and therefore presumably had been in close touch with him previously.

"5. They have proved to the full a certain matter about which there is no doubt—that Barthorpe was at the estate office about the time at which, according to medical evidence, his uncle was murdered, that he subsequently put on his uncle's coat and hat and visited this house, and afterwards returned to the estate office. That, I say, is certain—and it is the most damning thing against Barthorpe.

"6. According to the police, then, Barthorpe was the actual murderer, and Burchill was an accessory before the fact. There is no evidence that Burchill was near the estate office that night. But that, of course, doesn't matter—if, as the police suggest, there is evidence that the conspiracy to kill Jacob Herapath existed before November 12th, then it doesn't matter at all whether Burchill took an active part in it or not—he's guilty as accessory."

The Professor here paused and smote his bundle of papers. Then he lifted and wagged one of his great fingers.

"But!" he exclaimed. "But—but—always a but! And the but in this case is a mighty one. It's this—did that conspiracy exist before November 12th? Did it—did it? It's a great point—it's a great point. Now, we all know that this morning, before he was committed, Barthorpe, much against the wishes of his legal advisers, insisted, forcibly insisted, on making a statement. It's in the evening papers here, verbatim. I'll read it to you carefully—you heard him, all of you, but I want you to hear it again, read slowly. Consider it—think of it carefully—remember the circumstances under which it's made!"

He turned to the table, selected a newspaper, and read:

"'The accused, having insisted, in spite of evident strong dissuasion from his counsel, upon making a statement, said: "I wish to tell the plain and absolute truth about my concern with this affair. I have heard the evidence given by various witnesses as to my financial position. That evidence is more or less true. I lost a lot of money last winter in betting and gambling. I was not aware that my position was known to my uncle until one of these witnesses revealed that my uncle had been employing private inquiry agents to find it out. I was meaning, when his death occurred, to make a clean breast to him. I was on the best of terms with him—whatever he may have known, it made no difference that I ever noticed in his behaviour to me. I was not aware that my uncle had made a will. He never mentioned it to me. About a year ago, there was some joking conversation between us about making a will, and I said to him that he ought to do it, and give me the job, and he replied, laughingly, that he supposed he would have to, some time. I solemnly declare that on November 12th I hadn't the ghost of a notion that he had made a will.

"'"On November 12th last, about five o'clock in the afternoon, I received a note from my uncle, asking me to meet him at his estate office, at midnight. I had often met him there at that time—there was nothing unusual about such an appointment. I went there, of course—I walked there from my flat in the Adelphi. I noticed when I got there that my uncle's brougham was being slowly driven round the square across the road. The outer door of the office was slightly open. I was surprised. The usual thing when I made late calls was for me to ring a bell which sounded in my uncle's private room, and he then came and admitted me. I went in, and down the hall, and I then saw that the door of his room was also open. The electric light was burning. I went in. I at once saw my uncle—he was lying between the desk and the hearth, quite dead. There was a revolver lying near. I touched his hand and found it was quite warm.

"'"I looked round, and seeing no sign of any struggle, I concluded that my uncle had shot himself. I noticed that his keys were lying on the desk. His fur-collared overcoat and slouch hat were thrown on a sofa. Of course, I was much upset. I went outside, meaning, I believe, to call the caretaker. Everything was very still in the house. I did not call. I began to think. I knew I was in a strange position. I knew my uncle's death would make a vast difference to me. I was next of kin. I wanted to know how things stood—how I was left. Something suggested itself to me. I think the overcoat and hat suggested it. I put on the hat and coat, took the keys from the table, and the latch-key of the Portman Square house from my uncle's waistcoat pocket, turned out the light, went out, closed both doors, went to the brougham, and was driven away. I saw very well that the coachman didn't know me at all—he thought I was his master.

"'"I have heard the evidence about my visit to Portman Square. I stopped there some time. I made a fairly complete search for a will and didn't find anything. It is quite true that I used one of the glasses, and ate a sandwich, and very likely I did bite into another. It's true, too, that I have lost two front teeth, and that the evidence of that could be in the sandwich. All that's true—I admit it. It's also quite true that I got the taxi-cab at two o'clock at the corner of Orchard Street and drove back to Kensington. I re-entered the office; everything was as I'd left it. I took off the coat and hat, put the keys under some loose papers on the table, turned out the light and went home to my flat.

"'"Now I wish to tell the absolute, honest truth about Burchill and the will. When I heard of and saw the will, after Mr. Tertius produced it, I went to see Burchill at his flat. I had never seen him, never communicated with him in any way whatever since he had left my uncle's service until that afternoon. I had got his address from a letter which I found in a pocket-book of my uncle's, which I took possession of when the police and I searched his effects. I went to see Burchill about the will, of course. When I said that a will had been found he fenced with me. He would only reply ambiguously. Eventually he asked me, point-blank, if I would make it worth his while if he aided me in upsetting the will. I replied that if he could—which I doubted—I would. He told me to call at ten o'clock that night. I did so. He then told me what I had never suspected—that Mr. Tertius was, in reality, Arthur John Wynne, a convicted forger. He gave me his proofs, and I was fool enough to believe them. He then suggested that it would be the easiest thing in the world, considering Wynne's record, to prove that he had forged the will for his daughter's benefit. He offered to aid in this if I would sign documents giving him ten per cent. of the total value of my uncle's estate, and I was foolish enough to consent, and to sign. I solemnly declare that the entire suggestion about upsetting the will came from Burchill, and that there was no conspiracy between us of any sort whatever previous to that night. Whatever may happen, I've told this court the absolute, definite truth!"'"

Professor Cox-Raythwaite folded up the newspaper, laid it on the little table, and brought his big hand down on his knee with an emphatic smack.

"Now, then!" he said. "In my deliberate, coldly reasoned opinion, that statement is true! If they hang Barthorpe, they'll hang an innocent man. But——"



CHAPTER XXVI

THE REMAND PRISON

Mr. Tertius broke the significant silence which followed. He shook his head sadly, and sighed deeply.

"Ah, those buts!" he said. "As you remarked just now, Cox-Raythwaite, there is always a but. Now, this particular one—what is it?"

"Let me finish my sentence," responded the Professor. "I say, I do not believe Barthorpe to be guilty of murder, though guilty enough of a particularly mean, dirty, and sneaking conspiracy to defraud his cousin. Yes, innocent of murder—but it will be a stiff job to prove his innocence. As things stand, he'll be hanged safe enough! You know what our juries are, Tertius—evidence such as that which has been put before the coroner and the magistrate will be quite sufficient to damn him at the Old Bailey. Ample!"

"What do you suggest, then?" asked Mr. Tertius.

"Suggestion," answered the Professor, "is a difficult matter. But there are two things—perhaps more, but certainly two—on which I want light. The first is—nobody has succeeded in unearthing the man who went to the House of Commons to see Jacob on the night of the murder. In spite of everything, advertisements and all the rest of it, he's never come forward. If you remember, Halfpenny had a theory that the letter and the object which Mountain saw Jacob hand to that man were a note to the Safe Deposit people and the key of the safe. Now we know that's not so, because no one ever brought any letter to the Safe Deposit people and nobody's ever opened the safe. Halfpenny, too, believed, during the period of the police officials' masterly silence, that that man had put himself in communication with them. Now we know that the police have never heard anything whatever of him, have never traced him. I'm convinced that if we could unearth that man we should learn something. But how to do it, I don't know."

"And the other point?" asked Selwood, after a pause during which everybody seemed to be ruminating deeply. "You mentioned two."

"The other point," replied the Professor, "is one on which I am going to make a practical suggestion. It's this—I believe that Barthorpe told the truth in that statement of his which I've just read to you, but I should like to know if he told all the truth—all! He may have omitted some slight thing, some infinitesimal circumstance——"

"Do you mean about himself or—what?" asked Selwood.

"I mean some very—or seemingly very—slight thing, during his two visits to the estate office that night, which, however slight it may seem, would form a clue to the real murderer," answered the Professor. "He may have seen something, noticed something, and forgotten it, or not attached great importance to it. And, in short," he continued, with added emphasis, "in short, my friends, Barthorpe must be visited, interviewed, questioned—not merely by his legal advisers, but by some friend, and the very person to do it"—here he turned and laid his great hand on Peggie's shoulder—"is—you, my dear!"

"I!" exclaimed Peggie.

"You, certainly! Nobody better. He will tell you what he would tell no one else," said the Professor. "You're the person. Am I not right, Tertius?"

"I think you are right," assented Mr. Tertius. "Yes, I think so."

"But—he's in prison!" said Peggie. "Will they let me?"

"Oh, that's all right," answered the Professor. "Halfpenny will arrange that like winking. You must go at once—and Selwood there will go with you. Far better for you two young people to go than for either Halfpenny, or Tertius, or myself. Youth invites confidence."

Peggie turned and looked at Selwood.

"You'll go?" she asked.

Selwood felt his cheeks flush and rose to conceal his sudden show of feeling. "I'll go anywhere and do anything!" he answered quietly. "I don't know whether my opinion's worth having, but I think exactly as Professor Cox-Raythwaite does about this affair. But—who's the guilty man? Is it—can it be Burchill? If what Barthorpe Herapath says about that will affair is true, Burchill is cunning and subtle enough for——"

"Burchill, my dear lad, is at present out of our ken," interrupted Cox-Raythwaite. "Barthorpe, however, is very much within it, and Halfpenny must arrange for you two to see him without delay. And once closeted with him, you must talk to him for his soul's good—get him to search his memory, to think of every detail he can rake up—above everything, if there's anything he's keeping back, beg him, on your knees if necessary, to make a clean breast of it. Otherwise——"

Two days later Peggie, sick at heart, and Selwood, nervous and fidgety, sat in a room which gave both of them a feeling as of partial suffocation. It was not that it was not big enough for two people, or for six people, or for a dozen people to sit in—there was space for twenty. What oppressed them was the horrible sense of formality, the absence of life, colour, of anything but sure and solid security, the intrusive spick-and-spanness, the blatant cleanliness, the conscious odour of some sort of soap, used presumably for washing floors and walls, the whole crying atmosphere of incarceration. The barred window, the pictureless walls, the official look of the utterly plain chairs and tables, the grilles of iron bars which cut the place in half—these things oppressed the girl so profoundly that she felt as if a sharp scream was the only thing that would relieve her pent-up feelings. And as she sat there with thumping heart, dreading the appearance of her cousin behind those bars, yet wishing intensely that he would come, Peggie had a sudden fearful realization of what it really meant to fall into the hands of justice. There, somewhere close by, no doubt, Barthorpe was able to move hands and feet, legs and arms, body and head—but within limits. He could pace a cell, he could tramp round an exercise yard, he could eat and drink, he could use his tongue when allowed, he could do many things—but always within limits. He was held—held by an unseen power which could materialize, could make itself very much seen, at a second's notice. There he would stop until he was carried off to his trial; he would come and go during that trial, the unseen power always holding him. And one day he would either go out of the power's clutches—free, or he would be carried off, not to this remand prison but a certain cell in another place in which he would sit, or lounge, or lie, with nothing to do, until a bustling, businesslike man came in one morning with a little group of officials and in his hand a bundle of leather straps. Held!—by the strong, never-relaxing clutch of the law. That——

"Buck up!" whispered Selwood, in the blunt language of irreverent, yet good-natured, youth. "He's coming!"

Peggie looked up to see Barthorpe staring at her through the iron bars. He was not over good to look at. He had a two days' beard on his face; his linen was not fresh; his clothes were put on untidily; he stood with his hands in his pockets lumpishly—the change wrought by incarceration, even of that comparative sort, was great. He looked both sulky and sheepish; he gave Selwood no more than a curt nod; his first response to his cousin was of the nature of a growl.

"Hanged if I know what you've come for!" he said. "What's the good of it? You may mean well, but——"

"Oh, Barthorpe, how can you!" exclaimed Peggie. "Of course we've come! Do you think it possible we shouldn't come? You know very well we all believe you innocent."

"Who's all?" demanded Barthorpe, half-sneeringly. "Yourself, perhaps, and the parlour-maid!"

"All of us," said Selwood, thinking it was time a man spoke. "Cox-Raythwaite, Mr. Tertius, myself. That's a fact, anyhow, so you'd better grasp it."

Barthorpe straightened himself and looked keenly at Selwood. Then he spoke naturally and simply.

"I'm much obliged to you, Selwood," he said. "I'd shake hands with you if I could. I'm obliged to the others, too—especially to old Tertius—I've wronged him, no doubt. But"—here his face grew dark and savage—"if you only knew how I was tricked by that devil! Is he caught?—that's what I want to know."

"No!" answered Selwood. "But never mind him—we've come here to see what we can do for you. That's the important thing."

"What can anybody do?" said Barthorpe, with a mirthless laugh. "You know all the evidence. It's enough—they'll hang me on it!"

"Barthorpe, you mustn't!" expostulated Peggie. "That's not the way to treat things. Tell him," she went on, turning to Selwood, "tell him all that Professor Cox-Raythwaite said the other night."

Selwood repeated the gist of the Professor's arguments and suggestions, and Barthorpe began to show some interest. But at the end he shook his head.

"I don't know that there's anything more that I can tell," he said. "Whatever anybody may think, I told the entire truth about myself and this affair in that statement before the magistrate. Of course, you know they didn't want me to say a word—my legal advisers, I mean. They were dead against it. But you see, I was resolved on it—I wanted it to get in the papers. I told everything in that. I tried to put it as plainly as I could. No—I've told the main facts."

"But aren't there any little facts, Barthorpe?" asked Peggie. "Can't you think of any small thing—was there nothing that would give—I don't know how to put it."

"Anything that you can think of that would give a clue?" suggested Selwood. "Was there nothing you noticed—was there anything——"

Barthorpe appeared to be thinking; then to be hesitating—finally, he looked at Selwood a little shamefacedly.

"Well, there were one or two things that I didn't tell," he said. "I—the fact is, I didn't think they were of importance. One of them was about that key to the Safe Deposit. You know you and I couldn't find it when we searched the office that morning. Well, I had found it. Or rather, I took it off the bunch of keys. I wanted to search the safe at the Safe Deposit myself. But I never did. I don't know whether the detectives have found it or not—I threw it into a drawer at my office in which there are a lot of other keys. But, you know, there's nothing in that—nothing at all."

"You said one or two other things just now," remarked Selwood. "That's one—what's the other?"

Barthorpe hesitated. The three were not the only occupants of that gloomy room, and though the official ears might have been graven out of stone, he felt their presence.

"Don't keep anything back, Barthorpe," pleaded Peggie.

"Oh, well!" responded Barthorpe. "I'll tell you, though I don't know what good it will do. I didn't tell this, because—well, of course, it's not exactly a thing a man likes to tell. When I looked over Uncle Jacob's desk, just after I found him dead, you know, I found a hundred-pound note lying there. I put it in my pocket. Hundred-pound notes weren't plentiful, you know," he went on with a grim smile. "Of course, it was a shabby thing to do, sort of robbing the dead, you know, but——"

"Do you see any way in which that can help?" asked Selwood, whose mind was not disposed to dwell on nice questions of morality or conduct. "Does anything suggest itself?"

"Why, this," answered Barthorpe, rubbing his chin. "It was a brand-new note. That's puzzled me—that it should be lying there amongst papers. You might go to Uncle Jacob's bank and find out when he drew it—or rather, if he'd been drawing money that day. He used, as you and I know, to draw considerable amounts in notes. And—it's only a notion—if he'd drawn anything big that day, and he had it on him that night, why, there's a motive there. Somebody may have known he'd a considerable amount on him and have followed him in there. Don't forget that I found both doors open when I went there! That's a point that mustn't be overlooked."

"There's absolutely nothing else you can think of?" asked Selwood.

Barthorpe shook his head. No—there was nothing—he was sure of that. And then he turned eagerly to the question of finding Burchill. Burchill, he was certain, knew more than he had given him credit for, knew something, perhaps, about the actual murder. He was a deep, crafty dog, Burchill—only let the police find him!——

Time was up, then, and Peggie and Selwood had to go—their last impression that of Barthorpe thrusting his hands in his pockets and lounging away to his enforced idleness. It made the girl sick at heart, and it showed Selwood what deprivation of liberty means to a man who has hitherto been active and vigorous.

"Have we done any good?" asked Peggie, drawing a deep breath of free air as soon as they were outside the gates. "Any bit of good?"

"There's the affair of the bank-note," answered Selwood. "That may be of some moment. I'll go and report progress on that, anyway."

He put Peggie into her car to go home, and himself hailed a taxi-cab and drove straight to Mr. Halfpenny's office, where Professor Cox-Raythwaite and Mr. Tertius had arranged to meet him.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAST CHEQUE

The three elderly gentlemen, seated in Mr. Halfpenny's private room, listened with intense, if silent, interest to Selwood's account of the interview with Barthorpe. It was a small bundle of news that he had brought back and two of his hearers showed by their faces that they attached little importance to it. But Professor Cox-Raythwaite caught eagerly at the mere scrap of suggestion.

"Tertius!—Halfpenny!" he exclaimed. "That must be followed up—we must follow it up at once. That bank-note may be a most valuable and effective clue."

Mr. Halfpenny showed a decided incredulity and dissent.

"I don't see it," he answered. "Don't see it at all, Cox-Raythwaite. What is there in it? What clue can there be in the fact that Barthorpe picked up a hundred pound bank-note from his uncle's writing-desk? Lord bless me!—why, every one of us four men knows very well that hundred pound notes were as common to Jacob Herapath as half-crowns are to any of us! He was a man who carried money in large amounts on him always—I've expostulated with him about it. Don't you know—no, I dare say you don't though, because you never had business dealings with him, and perhaps Tertius doesn't, either, because he, like you, only knew him as a friend—you don't know that Jacob had a peculiarity. Perhaps Mr. Selwood knows of it, though, as he was his secretary."

"What peculiarity?" asked the Professor. "I know he had several fads, which one might call peculiarities."

"He had a business peculiarity," replied Mr. Halfpenny, "and it was well known to people in his line of business. You know that Jacob Herapath had extensive, unusually extensive, dealings in real property—land and houses. Quite apart from the Herapath Flats, he dealt on wide lines with real estate; he was always buying and selling. And his peculiarity was that all his transactions in this way were done by cash—bank-notes or gold—instead of by cheque. It didn't matter if he was buying a hundred thousand pounds' worth of property, or selling two hundred thousand pounds' worth—the affairs had to be completed by payment in that fashion. I've scolded him about it scores of times; he only laughed at me; he said that had been the custom when he went into the business, and he'd stuck to it, and wasn't going to give it up. God bless me!" concluded Mr. Halfpenny, with emphasis. "I ought to know, for Jacob Herapath has concluded many an operation in this very room, and at this very table—I've seen him handle many a hundred thousand pounds' worth of notes in my time, paying or receiving! And, as I said, the mere picking up of a hundred pound note from his desk is—why, it's no more than if I picked up a few of those coppers that are lying there on my chimney-piece!"

"Just so, just so!" observed Mr. Tertius mildly. "Jacob was a very wealthy man—the money evidence was everywhere."

But Professor Cox-Raythwaite only laughed and smote the table with his big fist.

"My dear Halfpenny!" he exclaimed. "Why, you've just given us the very best proof of what I've been saying! You're not looking deeply enough into things. The very fact to which you bear testimony proves to me that a certain theory which is assuming shape in my mind may possibly have a great deal in it. That theory, briefly, is this—on the day of his death, Jacob Herapath may have had upon his person a large amount of money in bank-notes. He may have had them paid to him. He may have drawn them from his bank, to pay to somebody else. Some evil person may have been aware of his possession of those notes and have tracked him to the estate offices, or gained entrance, or—mark this!—have been lurking—lurking!—there, in order to rob him. Don't forget two points, my friend—one, that Barthorpe (if he's speaking the truth, and I, personally, believe he is) tells us that the doors of the offices and the private room were open when he called at twelve o'clock; and, too, that, according to Mountain, the coachman, Jacob Herapath had been in those offices since twenty-five minutes to twelve—plenty of time for murder and robbery to take place. I repeat—Jacob may have had a considerable sum of money on him that night, some one may have known it, and the motive of his murder may have been—probably was—sheer robbery. And we ought to go on that, if we want to save the family honour."

Mr. Tertius nodded and murmured assent, and Mr. Halfpenny stirred uneasily in his chair.

"Family honour!" he said. "Yes, yes, that's right, of course. It would be a dreadful thing to see a nephew hanged for the murder of his uncle—quite right!"

"A much more dreadful thing to stand by and see an innocent man hanged, without moving heaven and earth to clear him," commented the Professor. "Come now, I helped to establish the fact that Barthorpe visited Portman Square that night—Tertius there helped too, by his quickness in seeing that the half-eaten sandwich had been bitten into by a man who had lost two front teeth, which, of course, was Barthorpe's case—so the least we can do is to bestir ourselves now that we believe him to have told the truth in that statement."

"But how exactly are we to bestir ourselves?" asked Mr. Halfpenny.

"I suggest a visit to Jacob Herapath's bankers, first of all," answered the Professor. "I haven't heard that any particular inquiry has been made. Did you make any, Halfpenny?"

"Jacob's bankers are Bittleston, Stocks and Bittleston," replied the old lawyer. "I did make it in my way to drop in there and to see Mr. Playbourne, the manager of their West End branch, in Piccadilly. He assured me that there was nothing whatever out of the common in Jacob Herapath's transactions with them just before his death, and nothing at all in their particulars of his banking account which could throw any possible light on his murder."

"In his opinion," said the Professor, caustically, "in his opinion, Halfpenny! But—you don't know what our opinion might be. Now, I suggest that we all go at once to see this Mr. Playbourne; there's ample time before the bank closes for the day."

"Very well," assented Mr. Halfpenny. "All the same, I'm afraid Playbourne will only say just what he said before."

Mr. Playbourne, a good typical specimen of the somewhat old-fashioned bank manager, receiving this formidable deputation of four gentlemen in his private room, said precisely what he had said before, and seemed astonished to think that any light upon such an unpleasant thing as a murder could possibly be derived from so highly respectable a quarter as that in which he moved during the greater part of the day.

"I can't think of anything in our transactions with the late Mr. Herapath that gives any clue, any idea, anything at all," he said, somewhat querulously. "Mr. Herapath's transactions with us, right up to the day of his death, were just what they had been for years. Of course, I'm willing to tell you anything, show you anything. You're acting for Miss Wynne, aren't you, Mr. Halfpenny?"

"I have a power of attorney from Miss Wynne, for that matter," answered Mr. Halfpenny. "Everything of that sort's in my hands."

"I'll tell you what, then," said the bank manager, laying his hand on a bell at his side. "You'd better see Jacob Herapath's pass-book. I recently had it posted up to the day of his death, and of course we've retained it until you demanded it. You can't have a better index to his affairs with us than you'll find in it. Sellars," he went on, as a clerk appeared, "bring me the late Mr. Herapath's pass-book—Mr. Ravensdale has it."

The visitors presently gathered round the desk on which Mr. Playbourne laid the parchment-bound book—one of a corresponding thickness with the dead man's transactions. The manager turned to the pages last filled in.

"You're aware, of course, some of you at any rate," he said, "you, Mr. Halfpenny, and you, Mr. Selwood, that the late Jacob Herapath dealt in big sums. He always had a very large balance at this branch of our bank; he was continually paying in and drawing out amounts which, to men of less means, must needs seem tremendous. Now, you can see for yourselves what his transactions with us were during the last few days of his life; I, as I have said, see nothing out of the way in them—you, of course," he continued, with a sniff, "may see a good deal!"

Professor Cox-Raythwaite ran his eye over the neatly-written pages, passing rapidly on to the important date—November 12th. And he suddenly thrust out his arm and put the tip of a big yellow finger on one particular entry.

"There!" he exclaimed. "Look at that. 'Self, L5,000.' Paid out, you see, on November 12th. Do you see?"

Mr. Playbourne laughed cynically.

"My dear sir!" he said. "Do you mean to say that you attach any importance to an entry like that? Jacob Herapath constantly drew cheques to self for five, ten, twenty, thirty—aye, fifty thousand pounds! He dealt in tens of thousands—he was always buying or selling. Five thousand pounds!—a fleabite!"

"All the same, if you please," said the Professor quietly, "I should like to know if Jacob Herapath presented that self cheque himself, and if so, how he took the money it represents."

"Oh, very well!" said the manager resignedly. He touched his bell again, and looked wearily at the clerk who answered it. "Find out if the late Mr. Herapath himself presented a cheque for five thousand on November 12th, and if so, how he took it," he said. "Well," he continued, turning to his visitors. "Do you see anything with any further possible mystery attached to it?"

"There's an entry there—the last," observed Mr. Halfpenny. "That. 'Dimambro: three thousand guineas.' That's the same date."

Mr. Playbourne suddenly showed some interest and animation. His eyes brightened; he sat up erect.

"Ah!" he said. "Well, now, that is somewhat remarkable, that entry!—though of course there's nothing out of the common in it. But that cheque was most certainly the very last ever drawn by Jacob Herapath, and according to strict law, it never ought to have been paid out by us."

"Why?" asked Professor Cox-Raythwaite.

"Because Jacob Herapath, the drawer, was dead before it was presented," replied the manager. "But of course we didn't know that. The cheque, you see, was drawn on November 12th, and it was presented here as soon as ever the doors were opened next morning and before any of us knew of what had happened during the night, and it was accordingly honoured in the usual way."

"The payee, of course, was known?" observed Mr. Halfpenny.

"No, he was not known, but he endorsed the cheque with name and address, and there can be no reason whatever to doubt that it had come to him in the ordinary way of business," replied the manager. "Quite a usual transaction, but, as I say, noteworthy, because, as you know, a cheque is no good after its drawer's demise."

Professor Cox-Raythwaite, who appeared to have fallen into a brown study for a moment, suddenly looked up.

"Now I wonder if we might be permitted to see that cheque—as a curiosity?" he said. "Can we be favoured so far?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Playbourne. "No trouble. I'll—ah, here's your information about the other cheque—the self cheque for five thousand."

He took a slip of paper from the clerk who just then entered, and read it aloud.

"Here you are," he said. "'Mr. Herapath cashed cheque for L5,000 himself, at three o'clock; the money in fifty notes of L100 each, numbered as follows'—you can take this slip, if you like," he continued, handing the paper to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, as the obviously most interested man of his party. "There are the numbers of the notes. Of course, I can't see how all this throws any light on the mystery of Herapath's murder, but perhaps you can. Sellers," he continued, turning to the clerk, and beckoning him to look at the pass-book, "find me the cheque referred to there, and bring it here."

The clerk returned in a few minutes with the cheque, which Mr. Playbourne at once exhibited to his visitors.

"There you are, gentlemen," he said. "Quite a curiosity!—certainly the last cheque ever drawn by our poor friend. There, you see, is his well-known signature with his secret little mark which you wouldn't detect—secret between him and us, eh!—big, bold handwriting, wasn't it? Sad to think that that was—very likely—the last time he used a pen!"

Professor Cox-Raythwaite in his turn handled the cheque. Its face gave him small concern; what he was most interested in was the endorsement on the back. Without saying anything to his companions, he memorized that endorsement, and he was still murmuring it to himself when, a few minutes later, he walked out of the bank.

"Luigi Dimambro, Hotel Ravenna, Soho."



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE HOTEL RAVENNA

Once closeted together in the private room at Halfpenny and Farthing's office, Mr. Halfpenny, who had seemed somewhat mystified by the happenings at the bank, looked inquiringly at Professor Cox-Raythwaite and snapped out one suggestive monosyllable:

"Well?"

"Very well indeed," answered Cox-Raythwaite. "I consider we have done good work. We have found things out. That bank manager is a pompous ass; he's a man of asinine, or possible bovine, mind! Of course, he ought to have revealed these things at both the inquest and the magisterial proceedings!—they'll certainly have to be put in evidence at Barthorpe Herapath's trial."

"What things?" demanded the old lawyer, a little testily.

"Two things—facts," replied the Professor, composedly. "First, that Jacob Herapath drew five thousand pounds in hundred pound notes at three o'clock on the day of his death. Second, that at some hour of that day he drew a cheque in favour of one Luigi Dimambro, which cheque was cashed as soon as the bank opened next morning."

"Frankly," observed Mr. Halfpenny, "frankly, candidly, Cox-Raythwaite, I do not see what these things—facts—prove."

"Very likely," said the Professor, imperturbable as ever, "but they're remarkably suggestive to me. They establish for one thing the fact that, in all probability, Jacob Herapath had those notes on him when he was murdered."

"Don't see it," retorted Mr. Halfpenny. "He got the fifty one-hundred-pound notes from the bank at three o'clock in the afternoon. He's supposed to have been murdered at twelve—midnight. That's nine hours. Plenty of time in which to pay those notes away—as he most likely did."

"If you'll let your mind go back to what came out in evidence at the inquest," said the Professor, "you'll remember that Jacob Herapath went to the House of Commons at half-past three that day and never left it until his coachman fetched him at a quarter-past eleven. It's not very likely that he'd transact business at the House."

"Plenty of time between three and half-past three," objected Mr. Halfpenny.

"Quite so, but we haven't heard of any transaction being carried out during that time. Make inquiry, and see if he did engage in any such transaction," said the Professor. "If he didn't, then my theory that he had the notes on him is correct. Moreover, Barthorpe has told Selwood that he picked up one note from the desk in his uncle's private room."

"One note!" exclaimed Mr. Halfpenny.

"One note—quite so," agreed the Professor. "May it not have been—it's all theory, of course—that Jacob had all the notes on the desk when he was murdered, that the murderer grabbed them afterwards, and in his haste, left one? Come, now!"

"Theory—theory!" said Mr. Halfpenny. "Still, I'll make inquiries all around, to see if Jacob did pay five thousand away to anybody that afternoon. Well, and your other point?"

"I should like to know what the cheque for three thousand guineas was for," answered the Professor. "It was paid out to one Luigi Dimambro, whose address was written down by himself in endorsing the cheque as Hotel Ravenna, Soho. He, presumably, is a foreigner, an Italian, or a Corsican, or a Sicilian, and the probability is that Jacob Herapath bought something from him that day, and that the transaction took place after banking hours."

"How do you deduce that?" asked Mr. Halfpenny.

"Because Dimambro cashed his cheque as soon as the bank opened its doors next morning," answered the Professor. "If he'd been given the cheque before four o'clock on November 12th, he'd have cashed it then."

"The cheque may have been posted to him," said Mr. Halfpenny.

"May be; the point is that it was drawn by Jacob on November 12th and cashed at the earliest possible hour next day," replied the Professor. "Now, though it may have nothing to do with the case, I want to know what that cheque referred to. More than this, I have an idea. May not this man Dimambro be the man who called on Jacob Herapath at the House of Commons that night—the man whom Mountain saw, but did not recognize as one of his master's usual friends or acquaintances? Do you see that point?"

Mr. Tertius and Selwood muttered expressions of acquiescence, but Mr. Halfpenny shook his head.

"Can't see anything much in it," he said. "If this foreign fellow, Dimambro, was the man who called at the House, I don't see what that's got to do with the murder. Jacob Herapath, of course, had business affairs with all sorts of queer people—Italians, Spaniards, Chinese—many a Tom, Dick, and Harry of 'em; he bought curios of all descriptions, and often sold them again as soon as bought."

"Very good suggestion," said Professor Cox-Raythwaite. "He may have bought something extremely valuable from this Dimambro that day, or that night, and—he may have had it on him when he was murdered. Clearly, we must see this Luigi Dimambro!"

"If he's the man who called at the House, you forget that he's been advertised for no end," said Selwood.

"No, I don't," responded the Professor. "But he may be out of the country: may have come to it specially to see Jacob Herapath, and left it again. I repeat, we must see this man, if he's to be found. We must make inquiries—cautious, guarded inquiries—at this hotel in Soho, which is probably a foreigners' house of call, a mere restaurant. And the very person to make those inquiries," he concluded, turning to Selwood and favouring him with a smack of the shoulder, "is—you!"

Selwood flinched, physically and mentally. He had no great love of the proposed role—private detective work did not appeal to him. And he suggested that Professor Cox-Raythwaite had far better apply to Scotland Yard.

"By no means," answered the Professor calmly. "You are the man to do the work. We don't want any police interference. This Hotel Ravenna is probably some cafe, restaurant, or saloon in Soho, frequented by foreigners—a place where, perhaps, a man can get a room for a night or two. You must go quietly, unobtrusively, there; if it's a restaurant, as it's sure to be, or at any rate, a place to which a restaurant is attached, go in and get some sort of a meal, keep your eyes open, find out the proprietor, get into talk with him, see if he knows Luigi Dimambro. All you need is tact, caution, and readiness to adapt yourself to circumstances."

Then, when they left Mr. Halfpenny's office he took Selwood aside and gave him certain hints and instructions, and enlarged upon the advantages of finding Dimambro if he was to be found. The Professor himself was enthusiastic about these recent developments, and he succeeded in communicating some of his enthusiasm to Selwood. After all, thought Selwood, as he went to Portman Square to tell Peggie of the afternoon's doings, whatever he did was being done for Peggie; moreover, he was by that time certain that however mean and base Barthorpe Herapath's conduct had been about the will, he was certainly not the murderer of his uncle. If that murderer was to be tracked—why, there was a certain zest, an appealing excitement in the tracking of him that presented a sure fascination to youthful spirits.

That evening found Selwood, quietly and unassumingly attired, examining the purlieus of Soho. It was a district of which he knew little, and for half an hour he perambulated its streets, wondering at the distinctly foreign atmosphere. And suddenly he came across the Hotel Ravenna—there it was, confronting him, at the lower end of Dean Street. He drew back and looked it well over from the opposite pavement.

The Hotel Ravenna was rather more of a pretentious establishment than Selwood had expected it to be. It was typically Italian in outward aspect. There were the usual evergreen shrubs set in the usual green wood tubs at the entrance; the usual abundance of plate-glass and garish gilt; the usual glimpse, whenever the door opened, of the usual vista of white linen, red plush, and many mirrors; the waiter who occasionally showed himself at the door, napkin in hand, was of the type which Selwood had seen a thousand times under similar circumstances. But all this related to the restaurant—Selwood was more interested that the word "Hotel" appeared in gilt letters over a door at the side of the establishment and was repeated in the windows of the upper storeys. He was half-minded to enter the door at once, and to make a guarded inquiry for Mr. Luigi Dimambro; on reflection he walked across the street and boldly entered the restaurant.

It was half-past seven o'clock, and the place was full of customers. Selwood took most of them to be foreigners. He also concluded after a first glance around him that the majority had some connection, more or less close, with either the dramatic, or the musical, or the artistic professions. There was much laughter and long hair, marvellous neckties and wondrous costumes; everybody seemed to be talking without regard to question or answer; the artillery of the voices mingled with the rattling of plates and popping of corks. Clearly this was no easy place in which to seek for a man whom one had never seen!

Selwood allowed a waiter to conduct him to a vacant seat—a plush throne half-way along the restaurant. He ordered a modest dinner and a bottle of light wine, and following what seemed to be the custom, lighted a cigarette until his first course appeared. And while he waited he looked about him, noting everything that presented itself. Out of all the folk there, waiters and customers, the idle and the busy, he quickly decided that there was only one man who possessed particular interest for him. That man was the big, smiling, frock-coated, sleek-haired patron or proprietor, who strode up and down, beaming and nodding, sharp-eyed and courteous, and whom Selwood, from a glance at the emblazoned lettering of the bill-of-fare, took to rejoice in the name of Mr. Alessandro Bioni. This man, if he was landlord, or manager, of the Ravenna Hotel, was clearly the person to approach if one wanted information about the Luigi Dimambro who had given the place as his address as recently as November 12th.

While he ate and drank, Selwood wondered how to go about his business. It seemed to him that the best thing to do, now that he had seen the place and assured himself that it was a hotel evidently doing a proper and legitimate business, was to approach its management with a plain question—was Mr. Luigi Dimambro staying there, or was he known there? Since Dimambro, whoever he might be, had given that as his address, something must be known of him. And when the smiling patron presently came round, and, seeing a new customer, asked politely if he was being served to his satisfaction, Selwood determined to settle matters at once.

"The proprietor, I presume?" he asked.

"Manager, sir," answered the other. "The proprietor, he is an old gentleman—practically retired."

"Perhaps I can ask you a question," Selwood. "Have you got a Mr. Luigi Dimambro staying at your hotel? He is, I believe"—here Selwood made a bold shot at a possibility—"a seller of curios, or art objects. I know he stops here sometimes."

The manager rubbed his hands together and reflected.

"One moment, sir," he said. "I get the register. The hotel guests, they come in here for meals, but always I do not recollect their names, and sometimes not know them. But the register——"

He sped down the room, through a side door, vanished; to return in a moment with a book which he carried to Selwood's side.

"Dimambro?" he said. "Recently, then? We shall see."

"About the beginning or middle of November," answered Selwood.

The manager found the pages: suddenly he pointed to an entry.

"See, then!" he exclaimed dramatically. "You are right, sir. There—Luigi Dimambro—November 11th to—yes—13th. Two days only. Then he go—leave us, eh?"

"Oh, then, he's not here now," said Selwood, affecting disappointment. "That's a pity. I wanted to see him. I wonder if he left any address?"

The manager showed more politeness in returning to the hotel office and making inquiry. He came back full of disappointment that he could not oblige his customer. No—no address—merely there for two nights—then gone—nobody knew where. Perhaps he would return—some day.

"Oh, it's of no great consequence, thank you," remarked Selwood. "I'm much obliged to you."

He had found out, at any rate, that a man named Dimambro had certainly stayed at the Hotel Ravenna on the critical and important date. Presumably he was the man who had presented Jacob Herapath's cheque at Bittleston's Bank first thing on the morning after the murder. But whether this man had any connection with that murder, whether to discover his whereabouts would be to reveal something of use in establishing Barthorpe Herapath's innocence, were questions which he must leave to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, to whom he was presently going with his news.

He had just finished his coffee, and was about to pay his bill when, looking up to summon the waiter, he suddenly saw a face appear behind the glass panel of the street door—the face of a man who had evidently stolen quietly into the entry between the evergreen shrubs and wished to take a surreptitious peep into the interior of the little restaurant. It was there, clearly seen through the glass, but for one fraction of a second—then it was withdrawn as swiftly as it had come and the panel of glass was blank again. But in that flash of time Selwood had recognized it.

Burchill!



CHAPTER XXIX

THE NOTE IN THE PRAYER-BOOK

Selwood hurried out of that restaurant as soon as he had paid his bill, but it was with small hopes of finding the man whose face had appeared at the glass panel for the fraction of a second. As well look for one snowflake in a drift as for one man in those crowded streets!—all the same, he spent half an hour in wandering round the neighbourhood, looking eagerly at every tall figure he met or passed. And at the end of that time he went off to Endsleigh Gardens and reported progress to Professor Cox-Raythwaite.

The Professor heard both items of news without betraying any great surprise.

"You're sure it was Burchill?" he asked.

"As sure," answered Selwood, "as that you're you! His is not a face easy to mistake."

"He's a daring fellow," observed the Professor, musingly. "A very bold fellow! There's a very good portrait of him on those bills that the police have put out and posted so freely, and he must know that every constable and detective in London is on the look-out for him, to say nothing of folk who would be glad of the reward. If that was Burchill—and I've no doubt of it, since you're so certain—it suggests a good deal to me."

"What?" asked Selwood.

"That he's not afraid of being recaptured as you'd think he would be," replied the Professor. "It suggests that he's got some card up his sleeve—which is what I've always thought. He probably knows something—you may be certain, in any case, that he's playing a deep and bold game, for his own purpose, of course. Now, I wonder if Burchill went to that restaurant on the same errand as yourself?"

"What!—to look for Dimambro?" exclaimed Selwood.

"Why not? Remember that Burchill was Jacob Herapath's secretary before you were," answered the Professor. "He was with Jacob some time, wasn't he? Well, he knew a good deal about Jacob's doings. Jacob may have had dealings with this Dimambro person in Burchill's days. You don't remember that Jacob had any such dealings in your time?"

"Never!" replied Selwood. "Never heard the man's name until yesterday—never saw any letters from him, never heard Mr. Herapath mention him. But then, as Mr. Halfpenny said, yesterday, Mr. Herapath had all sorts of queer dealings with queer people. It's a fact that he used to buy and sell all sorts of things—curios, pictures, precious stones—he'd all sorts of irons in the fire. It's a fact, too, that he was accustomed to carrying not only considerable sums of money, but valuables on him."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Professor. He rose out of his chair, put his hands behind his broad back, and began to march up and down his study. "I'll tell you what, young man!" he said earnestly. "I'm more than ever convinced that Jacob Herapath was robbed as well as murdered, and that robbery and murder—or, rather, murder and robbery, for the murder would go first—took place just before Barthorpe entered the offices to keep that appointment. Selwood!—we must find this Dimambro man!"

"Who's most likely left the country," remarked Selwood.

"That's probable—it may be certain," said the Professor. "Nevertheless, he may be here. And Burchill may be looking for him, too. Now, if Dimambro stopped two days at that Hotel Ravenna, from November 11th to 13th, there must be somebody who knows something of him. We must—you must—make more inquiry—there at the hotel. Talk quietly to that manager or the servants. Get a description of him. Do that at once—first thing tomorrow morning."

"You don't want to tell the police all this?" asked Selwood.

"No! Not at present, at any rate," answered the Professor. "The police have their own methods, and they don't thank anybody for putting them off their beaten tracks. And—for the present—we won't tell them anything about your seeing Burchill. If we did, they'd be incredulous. Police-like, they'll have watched the various seaports much more closely than they'll have watched London streets for Burchill. And Burchill's a clever devil—he'll know that he's much safer under the very nose of the people who want him than he would be fifty miles away from their toes! No, it's my opinion that Master Burchill will reveal himself, when the time comes."

"Give himself up, do you mean?" exclaimed Selwood.

"Likely—but if he does, it'll be done with a purpose," answered the Professor. "Well—keep all quiet at present, and tomorrow morning, go and see if you can find out more about Dimambro at that hotel."

Selwood repaired to the polite manager again next day and found no difficulty in getting whatever information the hotel staff—represented by a manageress, a general man-servant, and a maid or two—could give. It was meagre, and not too exact in particulars. Mr. Dimambro, who had never been there before, had stopped two days. He had occupied Room 5—the gentleman could see it if he wished. Mr. Dimambro had been in and out most of the time. On the 13th he had gone out early in the morning; by ten o'clock he had returned, paid his bill, and gone away with his luggage—one suit-case. No—he had had no callers at the hotel. But a waiter in the restaurant was discovered who remembered him as Number 5, and that on the 12th he had entertained a gentleman to dinner at seven o'clock—a tall, thin, dark-faced gentleman, who looked like—yes, like an actor: a nicely dressed gentleman. That was all the waiter could remember of the guest; he remembered just about as much of Number 5, which was that Dimambro was a shortish, stoutish gentleman, with a slight black beard and moustache. There was a good reason why the waiter remembered this occurrence—the two gentlemen had a bottle of the best champagne, a rare occurrence at the Hotel Ravenna—a whole bottle, for which the surprising sum of twelve shillings and sixpence was charged! In proof of that startling episode in the restaurant routine, he produced the desk book for that day—behold it, the entry: Number 5—1 Moet & Chandon, 12s. 6d.

"It is of a rare thing our customers call for wine so expensive," said the polite manager. "Light wines, you understand, sir, we mostly sell. Champagne at twelve and six—an event!"

Selwood carried this further news to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, who roused himself from his microscope to consider it.

"Could that tall, dark, nicely-dressed gentleman have been Burchill?" he muttered. "Sounds like him. But you've got a description of Dimambro, at any rate. Now we know of one man who saw the caller at the House of Commons—Mountain, the coachman. Come along—I'll go with you to see Mountain."

Mountain, discovered at the mews wherein the Herapath stable was kept, said at once that he remembered the gentleman who had come out of the House of Commons with his late master. But when he came to be taxed with a requirement of details, Mountain's memory proved to be of no real value. The gentleman—well, he was a well-dressed gentleman, and he wore a top hat. But whether the gentleman was dark or fair, elderly or middle-aged, short or medium-heighted, he did not know—exactly. Nevertheless——

"I should know him again, sir, if I was to set eyes on him!" said Mountain, with such belief in his powers. "Pick him out of a thousand, I could!"

"Queer how deficient most of our people are in the faculty of observation!" remarked the Professor as he and Selwood left the mews. "It really is most extraordinary that a man like that, with plenty of intelligence, and is no doubt a good man in his own line, can look at another man for a full minute and yet be utterly unable to tell you anything definite about him a month later! No help there, Selwood."

It seemed to Selwood that they were face to face with an impossible situation, and he began to feel inclined to share Mr. Halfpenny's pessimistic opinions as to the usefulness of these researches. But Professor Cox-Raythwaite was not to be easily daunted, and he was no sooner baulked in one direction than he hastened to try another.

"Now, let's see where we are," he said, as they went round to Portman Square. "We do know for a certainty that Jacob Herapath had a transaction of some sort with one Luigi Dimambro, on November 12th, and that it resulted in his handing, or sending, the said Luigi a cheque for three thousand guineas. Let's see if we can't find some trace of it, or some mention of it, or of previous dealings with Dimambro, amongst Jacob's papers. I suppose we can get access to everything here at the house, and down at the office, too, can't we? The probability is that the transaction with Dimambro was not the first. There must be something, Selwood—memoranda, letters, receipts—must be!"

But Selwood shook his head and uttered a dismal groan.

"Another of my late employer's peculiarities," he answered, "was that he never gave or took receipts in what one may call word-of-mouth transactions! He had a rooted—almost savage—objection to anybody asking him for a receipt for cash; he absolutely refused to take one if he paid cash. I've seen him pay several thousand pounds for a purchase and fling the proffered receipt in the fire in the purchaser's presence. He used to ask—vehemently!—if you wanted receipts for a loaf of bread or a pound of beef-steak. I'm afraid we shan't find much of that sort. As to letters and memoranda, Mr. Herapath had a curious habit which gave me considerable trouble of mind when I first went to him, though I admit it was a simple one. He destroyed every letter he ever got as soon as he'd answered it. And as he insisted on everything being answered there and then, there's no great accumulation of paper in that way!"

"We'll see what there is, anyhow," said the Professor. "If we could find something, anything—a mere business card, a letter-heading—that would give us Dimambro's permanent address, it would be of use. For I'm more and more convinced that Dimambro was the man who called at the House of Commons that night, and if it was Burchill who dined with him that same evening, why, then—but come along, let's have a look at Jacob's desk in the house here, and after that we'll go down to the estate offices and see if we can find anything there."

This was a Saturday morning—during the whole of that afternoon and evening the Professor and Selwood examined every drawer and receptacle in which Jacob Herapath's papers lay, both at Portman Square and at Kensington. And, exactly as Selwood had said, there was next to nothing of a private nature. Papers relating to Parliamentary matters, to building schemes, to business affairs, there were in plenty, duly filed, docketed, and arranged, but there was nothing of the sort that Cox-Raythwaite hoped to find, and when they parted, late at night, they were no wiser than when they began their investigations.

"Go home to bed," counselled the Professor. "Put the whole thing out of your head until Monday morning. Don't even think about it. Come and see me on Monday, first thing, and we'll start again. For by the Lord Harry! I'll find out yet what the real nature of Jacob Herapath's transaction with Dimambro was, if I have to track Dimambro all through Italy!"

Selwood was glad enough to put everything out of his mind; it seemed to him a hopeless task to search for a man to whose identity they only had the very faintest clue. But before noon of the next day—Sunday—he was face to face with a new phase of the problem. Since her uncle's death, Peggie had begun to show a quiet reliance on Selwood. It had come to be tacitly understood between them that he was to be in constant attendance on her for the present, at any rate. He spent all his time at the house in Portman Square; he saved its young mistress all the trouble he could; he accompanied her in her goings and comings. And of late he had taken to attending her to a certain neighbouring church, whereto Peggie, like a well-regulated young lady, was constant in her Sunday visits. There in the Herapath family pew, he and Peggie sat together on this particular Sunday morning, neither with any thought that the Herapath mystery had penetrated to their sacred surroundings. Selwood had been glad to take Cox-Raythwaite's advice and to put the thing out of his mind for thirty-six hours: Peggie had nothing in her mind but what was proper to the occasion.

Jacob Herapath had been an old-fashioned man in many respects; one of his fads was an insistence upon having a family pew in the church which he attended, and in furnishing it with his own cushions, mats, and books. Consequently Peggie left her own prayer-book in that pew from Sunday to Sunday. She picked it up now, and opened it at the usual familiar place. And from that place immediately dropped a folded note.

Had this communication been a billet-doux, Peggie could hardly have betrayed more alarm and confusion. For a moment she let the thing rest in the palm of her hand, holding the hand out towards Selwood at her side; then with trembling fingers she unfolded it in such a fashion that she and Selwood read it together. With astonished eyes and beating hearts they found themselves looking at a half-sheet of thin, foreign-looking notepaper, on which were two or three lines of typewriting:

"If you wish to save your cousin Barthorpe's life, leave the church and speak to the lady whom you will find in a private automobile at the entrance to the churchyard."



CHAPTER XXX

THE WHITE-HAIRED LADY

The two young people who bent over this mysterious message in the shelter of that old-fashioned pew were each conscious of a similar feeling—they were thankful that they were together. Peggie Wynne had never been so glad of anything in her life as for Selwood's immediate presence at that moment: Selwood felt a world of unspeakable gratitude that he was there, just when help and protection were wanted. For each recognized, with a sure instinct and intuition, that those innocent-looking lines of type-script signified much, heralded some event of dire importance. To save Barthorpe Herapath's life!—that could only mean that somebody—the sender of the note—knew that Barthorpe was innocent and some other person guilty.

For a moment the girl stared with startled eyes and flushed cheeks at the scrap of paper; then she turned with a quick, questioning look at her companion. And Selwood reached for his hat and his stick, and murmured one word:

"Come!"

Peggie saw nothing of the surprised and questioning looks which were turned on Selwood and herself as they left the pew and passed down the aisle of the crowded church. She had but one thought—whom was she going to meet outside, what revelation was going to be made to her? Unconsciously, she laid a hand on Selwood's arm as they passed through the porch, and Selwood, with a quick throb of pride, took it and held it. Then, arm in arm, they walked out, and a verger who opened the outer door for them, smiled as they passed him; he foresaw another passing-out, whereat Peggie would wear orange blossoms.

The yard of this particular church was not a place of green sward, ancient trees, and tumble-down tombs; instead it was an expanse of bare flagstones, shut in by high walls which terminated at a pair of iron gates. Outside those gates an automobile was drawn up; its driver stood attentively at its door. Selwood narrowly inspected both, as he and Peggie approached. The car was evidently a private one: a quiet, yet smart affair; its driver was equally smart in his dark green livery. And that he had received his orders was evident from the fact that as the two young people approached he touched his cap and laid a hand on the door of the car.

"Be watchful and careful," whispered Selwood, as he and Peggie crossed the pavement. "Leave all to me!"

He himself was keenly alert to whatever might be going to happen. It seemed to him, from the chauffeur's action, that they were to be invited, or Peggie was to be invited, to enter the car. Very good—but he was going to know who was in that car before any communications of any sort were entered upon. Also, Peggie was not going to exchange one word with anybody, go one step with anybody, unless he remained in close attendance upon her. The phraseology of the mysterious note; the clandestine fashion in which it had been brought under Peggie's notice; the extraordinary method adopted of procuring an interview with her—all these things had aroused Selwood's suspicions, and his natural sense of caution was at its full stretch as he walked across to the car, wondering what he and Peggie were about to confront.

What they did confront was a pleasant-faced, white-haired, elderly lady, evidently a woman of fashion and of culture, who bent forward from her seat with a kindly, half-apologetic smile.

"Miss Wynne?" she said inquiringly. "How do you do? And this gentleman is, no doubt, Mr. Selwood, of whom I have heard? You must forgive this strange conduct, this extraordinary manner of getting speech with you—I am not a free agent. Now, as I have something to say—will you both come into the car and hear it?"

Peggie, who was greatly surprised at this reception, turned diffidently to her companion. And Selwood, who had been gazing earnestly at the elderly lady's face, and had seen nothing but good intention in it, felt himself considerably embarrassed.

"I—well, really, this is such a very strange affair altogether that I don't know what we ought to do," he said. "May I suggest that if you wish to talk to Miss Wynne, we should go to her house? It's only just round the corner, and——"

"But that's just what I am not to do," replied the lady, with an amused laugh. "I repeat—I am not exactly a free agent. It's all very strange, and very unpleasant, and sounds, no doubt, very mysterious, but I am acting—practically—under orders. Let me suggest something—will you and Miss Wynne come into the car, and I will tell the man to drive gently about until you have heard what I have to say? Come now!—I am not going to kidnap you, and you can't come to much harm by driving round about Portman Square for a few minutes, in the company of an old woman! Dickerson," she went on, as Selwood motioned Peggie to enter the car, "drive us very slowly round about here until I tell you to stop—go round the square—anywhere."

The car moved gently up Baker Street, and Selwood glanced inquiringly at their captor.

"May we have the pleasure of——"

The elderly lady brought out a card-case and some papers.

"I am Mrs. Engledew," she said. "I live in the Herapath Flats. I don't suppose you ever heard of me, Miss Wynne, but I knew your uncle very well—we had been acquaintances, nay, friends, for years. I thought it might be necessary to prove my bona fides," she continued, with a laugh, "so I brought some letters of Jacob Herapath's with me—letters written to me—you recognize his big, bold hand, of course."

There was no mistaking Jacob Herapath's writing, and the two young people, after one glance at it, exchanged glances with each other.

"Now you want to know why I am here," said Mrs. Engledew. "The answer is plain—if astonishing. I have managed to get mixed up in this matter of Jacob Herapath's murder! That sounds odd, doesn't it?—nevertheless, it's true. But we can't go into that now. And I cannot do more than tell you that I simply bring a message and want an answer. My dear!" she continued, laying a hand on Peggie's arm, "you do not wish to see Barthorpe Herapath hanged?"

"We believe him innocent," replied Peggie.

"Quite so—he is innocent—of murder, anyway," said Mrs. Engledew. "Now—I speak in absolute confidence, remember!—there are two men who know who the real murderer is. They are in touch with me—that is, one of them is, on behalf of both. I am really here as their emissary. They are prepared to give you and the police full particulars about the murder—for a price."

Selwood felt himself grow more suspicious than ever. This lady was of charming address, pleasant smile, and apparently candid manners, but—price!—price for telling the truth in a case like this!

"What price?" he asked.

"Their price is ten thousand pounds—cash," answered Mrs. Engledew, with a little shrug of her shoulders. "Seems a great deal, doesn't it? But that is their price. They will not be moved from it. If Miss Wynne will agree to pay that sum, they will at once not only give their evidence as to the real murderer of Jacob Herapath, but they will point him out."

"When?" demanded Selwood.

"Tonight!" replied Mrs. Engledew. "Tonight—at an hour to be fixed after your agreement to their terms."

Selwood felt himself in a difficult position. Mr. Tertius was out of town for the day, gone to visit an antiquarian friend in Berkshire: Mr. Halfpenny lived away down amongst the Surrey hills. Still, there was Cox-Raythwaite to turn to. But it seemed as if the lady desired an immediate answer.

"You know these men?" he asked.

"One only, who represents both," answered Mrs. Engledew.

"Why not point him out to the police, and let them deal with them?" suggested Selwood. "They would get his evidence out of him without any question of price!"

"I have given my word," said Mrs. Engledew. "I—the fact is, I am mixed up in this, quite innocently, of course. And I am sure that no living person knows the truth except these men, and just as sure that they will not tell what they know unless they are paid. The police could not make them speak if they didn't want to speak. They know very well that they have got the whip-hand of all of us in that respect!"

"Of you, too?" asked Selwood.

"Of me, too!" she answered. "Nobody in the world, I'm sure, knows the secret but these men. And it's important to me personally that they should reveal it. In fact, though I'm not rich, I'll join Miss Wynne in paying their price, so far as a thousand pounds is concerned. I would pay more, but I really haven't got the money—I daren't go beyond a thousand."

Selwood felt himself impressed by this candid offer.

"Precisely what do they ask—what do they propose?" he asked.

"This. If you agree to pay them ten thousand pounds, you and Professor Cox-Raythwaite are to meet them tonight. They will then tell the true story, and they will further take you and the police to the man, the real murderer," answered Mrs. Engledew. "It is important that all this should be done tonight."

"Where is this meeting to take place?" demanded Selwood.

"It can take place at my flat: in fact, it must, because, as I say, I am unfortunately mixed up," said Mrs. Engledew. "If you agree to the terms, you are to telephone to me—I have written my number on the card—at two o'clock this afternoon. Then I shall telephone the time of meeting tonight, and you must bring the money with you."

"Ten thousand pounds in cash—on Sunday!" exclaimed Selwood. "That, of course, is utterly impossible."

"Not cash in that sense," replied Mrs. Engledew. "An open cheque will do. And, don't you see, that, I think, proves the bona fides of the men. If they fail to do what they say they can and will do, you can stop payment of that cheque first thing tomorrow morning."

"Yes, that's so," agreed Selwood. He glanced at Peggie, who was silently listening with deep interest. "I don't know how things stand," he went on. "Mr. Halfpenny, Miss Wynne's solicitor, lives a long way out of town. Miss Wynne would doubtless cheerfully sacrifice ten thousand pounds to save her cousin——"

"Oh, twenty thousand—anything!" exclaimed Peggie. "Don't let us hesitate about money, please."

"But I don't know whether she can draw a cheque," continued Selwood. "At least, for such an amount as that. Perhaps Professor Cox-Raythwaite can tell us. Let me ask you a question or two, if you please, Mrs. Engledew," he went on. "You say you only know one of these men. Do you know his name?"

"No—I don't," confessed Mrs. Engledew. "Everything is secret and mysterious."

"Are you convinced—has he done anything to convince you—of his good faith?"

"Yes—absolutely!"

"You don't doubt his—their—ability to clear all this up?"

"I'm quite sure they can clear it up."

"Have you any idea as to the identity of the real murderer?"

"Not the least!"

"One more question, then," concluded Selwood. "Are the police to be there when Cox-Raythwaite and I come tonight?"

"That I don't know," replied Mrs. Engledew. "All I know is—just what I am ordered to say. Pay them the money—they will tell the truth and take you and the police to the real criminal. One more thing—it is understood that you will not approach the police between now and this evening. That part—the police part—is to be left to them."

"I understand," said Selwood. "Very well—we will get out, if you please, and we will go straight to Professor Cox-Raythwaite. At two o'clock I shall ring you up and give you our answer."

He hurried Peggie into a taxi-cab as soon as Mrs. Engledew's car had gone away, and they went hastily to Endsleigh Gardens, where Professor Cox-Raythwaite listened to the strange story in dead silence.

"Mrs. Engledew—lady living in Herapath Flats—old friend of Jacob's—possessed letters of his—instrument for two men in possession of secret—willing to fork out a thousand of her own," he muttered. "Gad!—I take that to be genuine, Selwood! The only question is for Peggie here—does she wish to throw away nine thousand to save Barthorpe's neck?"

"The only question, Professor," said Peggie, reprovingly, "is—can I do it? Can I draw a cheque for that amount?"

"Why not?" replied the Professor. "Everything's in order. Barthorpe withdrew that wretched caveat—the will's been proved—every penny that Jacob possessed is yours. Draw a cheque for fifty thousand, if you like!"

"And you will go with Mr. Selwood?" asked Peggie, with a touch of anxiety which was not lost on the Professor.

"Go with him—and take care of him, too," answered the Professor, digging his big fingers into Selwood's ribs. "Very good. Now stop here and lunch with me, and at two o'clock we'll telephone."

He and Peggie stood breathlessly waiting in the hall that afternoon while Selwood was busy at the telephone in an adjacent lobby. Selwood came back to them nodding his head.

"All right!" he said. "You and I, Professor, at her flat—tonight, at nine o'clock."



CHAPTER XXXI

THE INTERRUPTED DINNER-PARTY

Triffitt's recent inquiries in connection with the Herapath affair had been all very well from a strictly professional point of view, but not so well from another. For nearly twelve months he had been engaged to a sweet girl, of whom he was very fond, and who thoroughly reciprocated his affection; up to the time of the Herapath murder he had contrived to spend a certain portion of each day with her, and to her he had invariably devoted the whole of his Sundays. In this love affair he was joined by his friend, to whom Triffitt's young lady had introduced her great friend, with whom Carver had promptly become infatuated. These ladies, both very young and undeniably charming, spent the greater part of the working week at the School of Needlework, in South Kensington, where they fashioned various beautiful objects with busy needles; Sundays they gave up to their swains, and every Sunday ended with a little dinner of four at some cheap restaurant whereat you could get quite a number of courses at the fixed price of half a crown or so and drink light wine which was very little dearer than pale ale. All parties concerned looked forward throughout the week to these joyful occasions; the girls wore their best frocks, and the young men came out bravely in the matter of neckties; there was laughter and gaiety and a general escape from the prosaic matters which obtained from Monday to Saturday—consequently, Triffitt felt it a serious thing that attention to this Herapath business had come to interfere with his love-making and his Sunday feast of mirth and gladness. More than once he had been obliged to let Carver go alone to the usual rendezvous; he himself had been running hither and thither after chances of news which never materialized, while his sweetheart played gooseberry to the more favoured people. And as he was very much in love, Triffitt had often been tempted to throw his clues and his theories to the winds, and to vow himself to the service of Venus rather than to that of Mercury.