Mr. Lindsey was always one of the coolest of hands at receiving news of a startling nature, and now, instead of breaking out into exclamations, he just nodded his head, and dropped into the nearest chair.
"Aye?" he remarked quietly. "So her ladyship's disappeared, too, has she?And when did you get to hear that, now?"
"Half an hour ago," replied Murray. "The butler at Hathercleugh House has just been in—driven over in a hurry—to tell us. What do you make of it at all?"
"Before I answer that, I want to know what's been happening here while I've been away," replied Mr. Lindsey. "What's happened within your own province—officially, I mean?"
"Not much," answered Murray. "There began to be talk evening before last, amongst the fishermen, about Sir Gilbert's yacht. He'd been seen, of course, to go out with Moneylaws there, two days ago, at noon. And—there is Moneylaws! Doesn't he know anything? Where's Sir Gilbert, Moneylaws?"
"He'll tell all that—when I tell him to," said Mr. Lindsey, with a glance at me. "Go on with your story, first."
The superintendent shook his head, as if all these things were beyond his comprehension.
"Oh, well!" he continued. "I tell you there was talk—you know how they gossip down yonder on the beach. It was said the yacht had never come in, and, though many of them had been out, they'd never set eyes on her, and rumours of her soon began to spread. So I sent Chisholm there out to Hathercleugh to make some inquiry—tell Mr. Lindsey what you heard," he went on, turning to the sergeant. "Not much, I think."
"Next to nothing," replied Chisholm. "I saw Lady Carstairs. She laughed at me. She said Sir Gilbert was not likely to come to harm—he'd been sailing yachts, big and little, for many a year, and he'd no doubt gone further on this occasion than he'd first intended. I pointed out that he'd Mr. Moneylaws with him, and that he'd been due at his business early that morning. She laughed again at that, and said she'd no doubt Sir Gilbert and Mr. Moneylaws had settled that matter between them, and that, as she'd no anxieties, she was sure Berwick folk needn't have any. And so I came away."
"And we heard no more until we got your wire yesterday from Dundee, Mr. Lindsey," said Murray; "and that was followed not so very long after by one from the police at Largo, which I reported to you."
"Now, here's an important question," put in Mr. Lindsey, a bit hurriedly, as if something had just struck him. "Did you communicate the news from Largo to Hathercleugh?"
"We did, at once," answered Murray. "I telephoned immediately to LadyCarstairs—I spoke to her over the wire myself, telling her what theLargo police reported."
"What time would that be?" asked Mr. Lindsey, sharply.
"Half-past eleven," replied Murray.
"Then, according to what you tell me, she left Hathercleugh soon after you telephoned to her?" said Mr. Lindsey.
"According to what the butler told us this morning," answered Murray, "Lady Carstairs went out on her bicycle at exactly noon yesterday—and she's never been seen or heard of since."
"She left no message at the house?" asked Mr. Lindsey.
"None! And," added the superintendent, significantly, "she didn't mention to the butler that I'd just telephoned to her. It's a queer business, this, I'm thinking, Mr. Lindsey. But—what's your own news?—and what's Moneylaws got to tell about Sir Gilbert?"
Mr. Lindsey took no notice of the last question. He sat in silence for a while, evidently thinking. And in the end he pointed to some telegram forms that lay on the superintendent's desk.
"There's one thing must be done at once, Murray," he said; "and I'll take the responsibility of doing it myself. We must communicate with the Carstairs family solicitors."
"I'd have done it, as soon as the butler brought me the news about LadyCarstairs," remarked Murray, "but I don't know who they are."
"I do!" answered Mr. Lindsey. "Holmshaw and Portlethorpe of Newcastle. Here," he went on, passing a telegram form to me. "Write out this message: 'Sir Gilbert and Lady Carstairs are both missing from Hathercleugh under strange circumstances please send some authorized person here at once.' Sign that with my name, Hugh—and take it to the post-office, and come back here."
When I got back, Mr. Lindsey had evidently told Murray and Chisholm all about my adventures with Sir Gilbert, and the two men regarded me with a new interest as if I had suddenly become a person of the first importance. And the superintendent at once fell upon me for my reticence.
"You made a bad mistake, young man, in keeping back what you ought to have told at the inquest on Phillips!" he said, reprovingly. "Indeed, you ought to have told it before that—you should have told us."
"Aye!—if I'd only known as much as that," began Chisholm, "I'd have—"
"You'd probably have done just what he did!" broke in Mr. Lindsey—"held your tongue till you knew more!—so let that pass—the lad did what he thought was for the best. You never suspected Sir Gilbert of any share in these affairs, either of you—so come, now!"
"Why, as to that, Mr. Lindsey," remarked Murray, who looked somewhat nettled by this last passage, "you didn't suspect him yourself—or, if you did, you kept it uncommonly quiet!"
"Does Mr. Lindsey suspect him now?" asked Chisholm, a bit maliciously."For if he does, maybe he'll give us a hand."
Mr. Lindsey looked at both of them in a way that he had of looking at people of whose abilities he had no very great idea—but there was some indulgence in the look on this occasion.
"Well, now that things have come to this pass," he said, "and after Sir Gilbert's deliberate attempt to get rid of Moneylaws—to murder him, in fact—I don't mind telling you the truth. I do suspect Sir Gilbert of the murder of Crone—and that's why I produced that ice-ax in court the other day. And—when he saw that ice-ax, he knew that I suspected him, and that's why he took Moneylaws out with him, intending to rid himself of a man that could give evidence against him. If I'd known that Moneylaws was going with him, I'd have likely charged Sir Gilbert there and then!—anyway, I wouldn't have let Moneylaws go."
"Aye!—you know something, then?" exclaimed Murray. "You're in possession of some evidence that we know nothing about?"
"I know this—and I'll make you a present of it, now," answered Mr. Lindsey. "As you're aware, I'm a bit of a mountaineer—you know that I've spent a good many of my holidays in Switzerland, climbing. Consequently, I know what alpenstocks and ice-axes are. And when I came to reflect on the circumstances of Crone's murder, I remember that not so long since, happening to be out along the riverside, I chanced across Sir Gilbert Carstairs using a very late type of ice-ax as a walking-stick—as he well could do, and might have picked up in his hall as some men'll pick up a golf-stick to go walking with, and I've done that myself, hundred of times. And I knew that I had an ice-ax of that very pattern at home—and so I just shoved it under the doctor's nose in court, and asked him if that hole in Crone's head couldn't have been made by the spike of it. Why? Because I knew that Carstairs would be present in court, and I wanted to see if he would catch what I was after!"
"And—you think he did?" asked the superintendent, eagerly.
"I kept the corner of an eye on him," answered Mr. Lindsey, knowingly. "He saw what I was after! He's a clever fellow, that—but he took the mask off his face for the thousandth part of a second. I saw!"
The two listeners were so amazed by this that they sat in silence for a while, staring at Mr. Lindsey with open-mouthed amazement.
"It's a dark, dark business!" sighed Murray at last. "What's the true meaning of it, do you think, Mr. Lindsey?"
"Some secret that's being gradually got at," replied Mr. Lindsey, promptly. "That's what it is. And there's nothing to do, just now, but wait until somebody comes from Holmshaw and Portlethorpe's. Holmshaw is an old man—probably Portlethorpe himself will come along. He may know something—they've been family solicitors to the Carstairs lot for many a year. But it's my impression that Sir Gilbert Carstairs is away!—and that his wife's after him. And if you want to be doing something, try to find out where she went on her bicycle yesterday—likely, she rode to some station in the neighbourhood, and then took train."
Mr. Lindsey and I then went to the office, and we had not been there long when a telegram arrived from Newcastle. Mr. Portlethorpe himself was coming on to Berwick immediately. And in the middle of the afternoon he arrived—a middle-aged, somewhat nervous-mannered man, whom I had seen two or three times when we had business at the Assizes, and whom Mr. Lindsey evidently knew pretty well, judging by their familiar manner of greeting each other.
"What's all this, Lindsey?" asked Mr. Portlethorpe, as soon as he walked in, and without any preliminaries. "Your wire says Sir Gilbert and Lady Carstairs have disappeared. Does that mean—"
"Did you read your newspaper yesterday?" interrupted Mr. Lindsey, who knew that what we had read in theDundee Advertiserhad also appeared in theNewcastle Daily Chronicle. "Evidently not, Portlethorpe, or you'd have known, in part at any rate, what my wire meant. But I'll tell you in a hundred words—and then I'll ask you a couple of questions before we go any further."
He gave Mr. Portlethorpe an epitomized account of the situation, and Mr. Portlethorpe listened attentively to the end. And without making any comment he said three words:
"Well—your questions?"
"The first," answered Mr. Lindsey, "is this—How long is it since you saw or heard from Sir Gilbert Carstairs?"
"A week—by letter," replied Mr. Portlethorpe.
"The second," continued Mr. Lindsey, "is much more important—much! What,Portlethorpe, do you know of Sir Gilbert Carstairs?"
Mr. Portlethorpe hesitated a moment. Then he replied, frankly and with evident candour.
"To tell you the truth, Lindsey," he said, "beyond knowing that he is SirGilbert Carstairs—nothing!"
Mr. Lindsey made no remark on this answer, and for a minute or two he and Mr. Portlethorpe sat looking at each other. Then Mr. Portlethorpe bent forward a little, his hands on his knees, and gave Mr. Lindsey a sort of quizzical but earnest glance.
"Now, why do you ask that last question?" he said quietly. "You've some object?"
"It's like this," answered Mr. Lindsey. "Here's a man comes into these parts to take up a title and estates, who certainly had been out of them for thirty years. His recent conduct is something more than suspicious—no one can deny that he left my clerk there to drown, without possibility of help! That's intended murder! And so I ask, What do you, his solicitor, know of him—his character, his doings during the thirty years he was away? And you answer—nothing!"
"Just so!" assented Mr. Portlethorpe. "And nobody does hereabouts. Except that he is Sir Gilbert Carstairs, nobody in these parts knows anything about him—how should they? We, I suppose, know more than anybody—and we know just a few bare facts."
"I think you'll have to let me know what these bare facts are," remarked Mr. Lindsey. "And Moneylaws, too. Moneylaws has a definite charge to bring against this man—and he'll bring it, if I've anything to do with it! He shall press it!—if he can find Carstairs. And I think you'd better tell us what you know, Portlethorpe. Things have got to come out."
"I've no objection to telling you and Mr. Moneylaws what we know," answered Mr. Portlethorpe. "After all, it is, in a way, common knowledge—to some people, at any rate. And to begin with, you are probably aware that the recent history of this Carstairs family is a queer one. You know that old Sir Alexander had two sons and one daughter—the daughter being very much younger than her brothers. When the two sons, Michael and Gilbert, were about from twenty-one to twenty-three, both quarrelled with their father, and cleared out of this neighbourhood altogether; it's always believed that Sir Alexander gave Michael a fair lot of money to go and do for himself, each hating the other's society, and that Michael went off to America. As to Gilbert, he got money at that time, too, and went south, and was understood to be first a medical student and then a doctor, in London and abroad. There is no doubt at all that both sons did get money—considerable amounts,—because from the time they went away, no allowance was ever paid to them, nor did Sir Alexander ever have any relations with them. What the cause of the quarrel was, nobody knows; but the quarrel itself, and the ensuing separation, were final—father and sons never resumed relations. And when the daughter, now Mrs. Ralston of Craig, near here, grew up and married, old Sir Alexander pursued a similar money policy towards her—he presented her with thirty thousand pounds the day she was married, and told her she'd never have another penny from him. I tell you, he was a queer man."
"Queer lot altogether!" muttered Mr. Lindsey. "And interesting!"
"Oh, it's interesting enough!" agreed Mr. Portlethorpe, with a chuckle. "Deeply so. Well, that's how things were until about a year before old Sir Alexander died—which, as you know, is fourteen months since. As I say, about six years before his death, formal notice came of the death of Michael Carstairs, who, of course, was next in succession to the title. It came from a solicitor in Havana, where Michael had died—there were all the formal proofs. He had died unmarried and intestate, and his estate amounted to about a thousand pounds. Sir Alexander put the affair in our hands; and of course, as he was next-of-kin to his eldest son, what there was came to him. And we then pointed out to him that now that Mr. Michael Carstairs was dead, Mr. Gilbert came next—he would get the title, in any case—and we earnestly pressed Sir Alexander to make a will. And he was always going to, and he never did—and he died intestate, as you know. And at that, of course, Sir Gilbert Carstairs came forward, and—"
"A moment," interrupted Mr. Lindsey. "Did anybody know where he was at the time of his father's death?"
"Nobody hereabouts, at any rate," replied Mr. Portlethorpe. "Neither his father, nor his sister, nor ourselves had heard of him for many a long year. But he called on us within twenty-four hours of his father's death."
"With proof, of course, that he was the man he represented himself to be?" asked Mr. Lindsey.
"Oh, of course—full proof!" answered Mr. Portlethorpe. "Papers, letters, all that sort of thing—all in order. He had been living in London for a year or two at that time; but, according to his own account, he had gone pretty well all over the world during the thirty years' absence. He'd been a ship's surgeon—he'd been attached to the medical staff of more than one foreign army, and had seen service—he'd been on one or two voyages of discovery—he'd lived in every continent—in fact, he'd had a very adventurous life, and lately he'd married a rich American heiress."
"Oh, Lady Carstairs is an American, is she?" remarked Mr. Lindsey.
"Just so—haven't you met her?" asked Mr. Portlethorpe.
"Never set eyes on her that I know of," replied Mr. Lindsey. "But go on."
"Well, of course, there was no doubt of Sir Gilbert's identity," continued Mr. Portlethorpe; "and as there was also no doubt that Sir Alexander had died intestate, we at once began to put matters right. Sir Gilbert, of course, came into the whole of the real estate, and he and Mrs. Ralston shared the personalty—which, by-the-by, was considerable: they both got nearly a hundred thousand each, in cash. And—there you are!"
"That all?" asked Mr. Lindsey.
Mr. Portlethorpe hesitated a moment—then he glanced at me.
"Moneylaws is safe at a secret," said Mr. Lindsey. "If it is a secret."
"Well, then," answered Mr. Portlethorpe, "it's not quite all. There is a circumstance which has—I can't exactly say bothered—but has somewhat disturbed me. Sir Gilbert Carstairs has now been in possession of his estates for a little over a year, and during that time he has sold nearly every yard of them except Hathercleugh!"
Mr. Lindsey whistled. It was the first symptom of astonishment that he had manifested, and I glanced quickly at him and saw a look of indescribable intelligence and almost undeniable cunning cross his face. But it went as swiftly as it came, and he merely nodded, as if in surprise.
"Aye!" he exclaimed. "Quick work, Portlethorpe."
"Oh, he gave good reasons!" answered Mr. Portlethorpe. "He said, from the first, that he meant to do it—he wanted, and his wife wanted too, to get rid of these small and detached Northern properties, and buy a really fine one in the South of England, keeping Hathercleugh as a sort of holiday seat. He'd no intention of selling that, at any time. But—there's the fact!—he's sold pretty nearly everything else."
"I never heard of these sales of land," remarked Mr. Lindsey.
"Oh, they've all been sold by private treaty," replied Mr. Portlethorpe. "The Carstairs property was in parcels, here and there—the last two baronets before this one had bought considerably in other parts. It was all valuable—there was no difficulty in selling to adjacent owners."
"Then, if he's been selling to that extent, Sir Gilbert must have large sums of money at command—unless he's bought that new estate you're talking of," said Mr. Lindsey.
"He has not bought anything—that I know of," answered Mr. Portlethorpe. "And he must have a considerable—a very large—sum of money at his bankers'. All of which," he continued, looking keenly at Mr. Lindsey, "makes me absolutely amazed to hear what you've just told me. It's very serious, this charge you're implying against him, Lindsey! Why should he want to take men's lives in this fashion! A man of his position, his great wealth—"
"Portlethorpe!" broke in Mr. Lindsey, "didn't you tell me just now that this man, according to his own account, has lived a most adventurous life, in all parts of the world? What more likely than that in the course of such a life he made acquaintance with queer characters, and—possibly—did some queer things himself? Isn't it a significant thing that, within a year of his coming into the title and estates, two highly mysterious individuals turn up here, and that all this foul play ensues? It's impossible, now, to doubt that Gilverthwaite and Phillips came into these parts because this man was already here! If you've read all the stuff that's been in the papers, and add to it just what we've told you about this last adventure with the yacht, you can't doubt it, either."
"It's very, very strange—all of it," agreed Mr. Portlethorpe. "Have you no theory, Lindsey?"
"I've a sort of one," answered Mr. Lindsey. "I think Gilverthwaite and Phillips probably were in possession of some secret about Sir Gilbert Carstairs, and that Crone may have somehow got an inkling of it. Now, as we know, Gilverthwaite died, suddenly—and it's possible that Carstairs killed both Phillips and Crone, as he certainly meant to kill this lad. And what does it all look like?"
Before Mr. Portlethorpe could reply to that last question, and while he was shaking his head over it, one of our junior clerks brought in Mrs. Ralston of Craig, at the mention of whose name Mr. Lindsey immediately bustled forward. She was a shrewd, clever-looking woman, well under middle age, who had been a widow for the last four or five years, and was celebrated in our parts for being a very managing and interfering sort of body who chiefly occupied herself with works of charity and philanthropy and was prominent on committees and boards. And she looked over the two solicitors as if they were candidates for examination, and she the examiner.
"I have been to the police, to find out what all this talk is about Sir Gilbert Carstairs," she began at once. "They tell me you know more than they do, Mr. Lindsey. Well, what have you to say? And what have you to say, Mr. Portlethorpe? You ought to know more than anybody. What does it all amount to!"
Mr. Portlethorpe, whose face had become very dismal at the sight of Mrs. Ralston, turned, as if seeking help, to Mr. Lindsey. He was obviously taken aback by Mrs. Ralston's questions, and a little afraid of her; but Mr. Lindsey was never afraid of anybody, and he at once turned on his visitor.
"Before we answer your questions, Mrs. Ralston," he said, "there's one I'll take leave to ask you. When Sir Gilbert came back at your father's death, did you recognize him?"
Mrs. Ralston tossed her head with obvious impatience.
"Now, what ridiculous nonsense, Mr. Lindsey!" she exclaimed. "How on earth do you suppose that I could recognize a man whom I hadn't seen since I was a child of seven—and certainly not for at least thirty years? Of course I didn't!—impossible!"
It was now Mr. Portlethorpe and I who looked at each other—with a mutual questioning. What was Mr. Lindsey hinting, suggesting? And Mr. Portlethorpe suddenly turned on him with a direct inquiry.
"What is it you are after, Lindsey?" he asked. "There's something in your mind."
"A lot," answered Mr. Lindsey. "And before I let it out, I think we'd better fully inform Mrs. Ralston of everything that's happened, and of how things stand, up to and including this moment. This is the position, Mrs. Ralston, and the facts"—and he went on to give his caller a brief but complete summary of all that he and Mr. Portlethorpe had just talked over. "You now see how matters are," he concluded, at the end of his epitome, during his delivery of which the lady had gradually grown more and more portentous of countenance. "Now,—what do you say?"
Mrs. Ralston spoke sharply and decisively.
"Precisely what I have felt inclined to say more than once of late!" she answered. "I'm beginning to suspect that the man who calls himself Sir Gilbert Carstairs is not Sir Gilbert Carstairs at all! He's an impostor!"
In spite of my subordinate position as a privileged but inferior member of the conference, I could not help letting out a hasty exclamation of astonishment at that. I was thoroughly and genuinely astounded—such a notion as that had never once occurred to me. An impostor!—not the real man? The idea was amazing—and Mr. Portlethorpe found it amazing, too, and he seconded my exclamation with another, and emphasized it with an incredulous laugh.
"My dear madam!" he said deprecatingly. "Really! That's impossible!"
But Mr. Lindsey, calmer than ever, nodded his head confidently.
"I'm absolutely of Mrs. Ralston's opinion," he declared. "What she suggests I believe to be true. An impostor!"
Mr. Portlethorpe flushed and began to look very uneasy.
"Really!" he repeated. "Really, Lindsey!—you forget that I examined into the whole thing! I saw all the papers—letters, documents—Oh, the suggestion is—you'll pardon me, Mrs. Ralston—ridiculous! No man could have been in possession of those documents unless he'd been the real man—the absolute Simon Pure! Why, my dear lady, he produced letters written by yourself, when you were a little girl—and—and all sorts of little private matters. It's impossible that there has been any imposture—a—a reflection on me!"
"Cleverer men than you have been taken in, Portlethorpe," remarked Mr.Lindsey. "And the matters you speak of might have been stolen. But letMrs. Ralston give us her reasons for suspecting this man—she has somestrong ones, I'll be bound."
Mr. Portlethorpe showed signs of irritation, but Mrs. Ralston promptly took up Mr. Lindsey's challenge.
"Sufficiently strong to have made me very uneasy of late, at any rate," she answered. She turned to Mr. Portlethorpe. "You remember," she went on, "that my first meeting with this man, when he came to claim the title and estates, was at your office in Newcastle, a few days after he first presented himself to you. He said then that he had not yet been down to Hathercleugh; but I have since found out that he had—or, rather, that he had been in the neighbourhood, incognito. That's a suspicious circumstance, Mr. Portlethorpe."
"Excuse me, ma'am—I don't see it," retorted Mr. Portlethorpe. "I don't see it at all."
"I do, then!" said Mrs. Ralston. "Suspicious, because I, his sister, and only living relation, was close by. Why didn't he come straight to me? He was here—he took a quiet look around before he let any one know who he was. That's one thing I have against him—whatever you say, it was very suspicious conduct; and he lied about it, in saying he had not been here, when he certainly had been here! But that's far from all. The real Gilbert Carstairs, Mr. Lindsey, as Mr. Portlethorpe knows, lived at Hathercleugh House until he was twenty-two years old. He was always at Hathercleugh, except when he was at Edinburgh University studying medicine. He knew the whole of the district thoroughly. But, as I have found out for myself, this man does not know the district! I have discovered, on visiting him—though I have not gone there much, as I don't like either him or his wife—that this is a strange country to him. He knows next to nothing—though he has done his best to learn—of its features, its history, its people. Is it likely that a man who had lived on the Border until he was two-and-twenty could forget all about it, simply because he was away from it for thirty years? Although I was only seven or eight when my brother Gilbert left home, I was then a very sharp child, and I remember that he knew every mile of the country round Hathercleugh. But—this man doesn't."
Mr. Portlethorpe muttered something about it being very possible for a man to forget a tremendous lot in thirty years, but Mrs. Ralston and Mr. Lindsey shook their heads at his dissent from their opinion. As for me, I was thinking of the undoubted fact that the supposed Sir Gilbert Carstairs had been obliged in my presence to use a map in order to find his exact whereabouts when he was, literally, within two miles of his own house.
"Another thing," continued Mrs. Ralston: "in my few visits to Hathercleugh since he came, I have found out that while he is very well posted up in certain details of our family history, he is unaccountably ignorant of others with which he ought to have been perfectly familiar. I found out, too, that he is exceedingly clever in avoiding subjects in which his ignorance might be detected. But, clever as he is, he has more than once given me grounds for suspicion. And I tell you plainly, Mr. Portlethorpe, that since he has been selling property to the extent you report, you ought, at this juncture, and as things are, to find out how money matters stand. He must have realized vast amounts in cash! Where is it!"
"At his bankers'—in Newcastle, my dear madam!" replied Mr. Portlethorpe. "Where else should it be? He has not yet made the purchase he contemplated, so of course the necessary funds are waiting until he does. I cannot but think that you and Mr. Lindsey are mistaken, and that there will be some proper and adequate explanation of all this, and—"
"Portlethorpe!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey, "that's no good. Things have gone too far. Whether this man's Sir Gilbert Carstairs or an impostor, he did his best to murder my clerk, and we suspect him of the murder of Crone, and he's going to be brought to justice—that's flat! And your duty at present is to fall in with us to this extent—you must adopt Mrs. Ralston's suggestion, and ascertain how money matters stand. As Mrs. Ralston rightly says, by the sale of these properties a vast amount of ready money must have been accumulated, and at this man's disposal, Portlethorpe!—we must know if it's true!"
"How can I tell you that?" demanded Mr. Portlethorpe, who was growing more and more nervous and peevish. "I've nothing to do with Sir Gilbert Carstairs' private banking account. I can't go and ask, point blank, of his bankers how much money he has in their hands!"
"Then I will!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey. "I know where he banks in Newcastle, and I know the manager. I shall go this very night to the manager's private house, and tell him exactly everything that's transpired—I shall tell him Mrs. Ralston's and my own suspicions, and I shall ask him where the money is. Do you understand that?"
"The proper course to adopt!" said Mrs. Ralston. "The one thing to do. It must be done!"
"Oh, very well—then in that case I suppose I'd better go with you," said Mr. Portlethorpe. "Of course, it's no use going to the bank—they'll be closed; but we can, as you say, go privately to the manager. And we shall be placed in a very unenviable position if Sir Gilbert Carstairs turns up with a perfectly good explanation of all this mystery."
Mr. Lindsey pointed a finger at me.
"He can't explain that!" he exclaimed. "He left that lad to drown! Is that attempted murder, or isn't it? I tell you, I'll have that man in the dock—never mind who he is! Hugh, pass me the railway guide."
It was presently settled that Mr. Portlethorpe and Mr. Lindsey should go off to Newcastle by the next train to see the bank manager. Mr. Lindsey insisted that I should go with them—he would have no hole-and-corner work, he said, and I should tell my own story to the man we were going to see, so that he would know some of the ground of our suspicion. Mrs. Ralston supported that; and when Mr. Portlethorpe remarked that we were going too fast, and were working up all the elements of a fine scandal, she tartly remarked that if more care had been taken at the beginning, all this would not have happened.
We found the bank manager at his private house, outside Newcastle, that evening. He knew both my companions personally, and he listened with great attention to all that Mr. Lindsey, as spokesman, had to tell; he also heard my story of the yacht affair. He was an astute, elderly man, evidently quick at sizing things up, and I knew by the way he turned to Mr. Portlethorpe and by the glance he gave him, after hearing everything, that his conclusions were those of Mr. Lindsey and Mrs. Ralston.
"I'm afraid there's something wrong, Portlethorpe," he remarked quietly."The truth is, I've had suspicions myself lately."
"Good God! you don't mean it!" exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe. "How, then?"
"Since Sir Gilbert began selling property," continued the bank manager, "very large sums have been paid in to his credit at our bank, where, previous to that, he already had a very considerable balance. But at the present moment we hold very little—that is, comparatively little—money of his."
"What?" said Mr. Portlethorpe. "What? You don't mean that?"
"During the past three or four months," said the bank manager, "Sir Gilbert has regularly drawn very large cheques in favour of a Mr. John Paley. They have been presented to us through the Scottish-American Bank at Edinburgh. And," he added, with a significant look at Mr. Lindsey, "I think you'd better go to Edinburgh—and find out who Mr. John Paley is."
Mr. Portlethorpe got up, looking very white and frightened.
"How much of all that money is there left in your hands?" he asked, hoarsely.
"Not more than a couple of thousand," answered the bank manager with promptitude.
"Then he's paid out—in the way you state—what?" demanded Mr.Portlethorpe.
"Quite two hundred thousand pounds! And," concluded our informant, with another knowing look, "now that I'm in possession of the facts you've just put before me, I should advise you to go and find out if Sir Gilbert Carstairs and John Paley are not one and the same person!"
The three of us went away from the bank manager's house struggling with the various moods peculiar to our individual characters—Mr. Portlethorpe, being naturally a nervous man, given to despondency, was greatly upset, and manifested his emotions in sundry ejaculations of a dark nature; I, being young, was full of amazement at the news just given us and of the excitement of hunting down the man we knew as Sir Gilbert Carstairs. But I am not sure that Mr. Lindsey struggled much with anything—he was cool and phlegmatic as usual, and immediately began to think of practical measures.
"Look here, Portlethorpe," he said, as soon as we were in the motor car which we had chartered from Newcastle station, "we've got to get going in this matter at once—straight away! We must be in Edinburgh as early as possible in the morning. Be guided by me—come straight back to Berwick, stop the night with me at my house, and we'll be on our way to Edinburgh by the very first train—we can get there early, by the time the banks are open. There's another reason why I want you to come—I've some documents that I wish you to see—documents that may have a very important bearing on this affair. There's one in my pocket-book now, and you'll be astonished when you hear how it came into my possession. But it's not one-half so astonishing as another that I've got at my house."
I remembered then that we had been so busily engaged since our return from the North that morning that we had had no time to go into the matter of the letter which Mr. Gavin Smeaton had entrusted to Mr. Lindsey—here, again, was going to be more work of the ferreting-out sort. But Mr. Portlethorpe, it was clear, had no taste for mysteries, and no great desire to forsake his own bed, even for Mr. Lindsey's hospitality, and it needed insistence before he consented to go back to Berwick with us. Go back, however, he did; and before midnight we were in our own town again, and passing the deserted streets towards Mr. Lindsey's home, I going with the others because Mr. Lindsey insisted that it was now too late for me to go home, and I should be nearer the station if I slept at his place. And just before we got to the house, which was a quiet villa standing in its own grounds, a little north of the top end of the town, a man who was sauntering ahead of us, suddenly turned and came up to Mr. Lindsey, and in the light of a street lamp I recognized in him the Hathercleugh butler.
Mr. Lindsey recognized the man, too—so also did Mr. Portlethorpe; and they both came to a dead halt, staring. And both rapped out the same inquiry, in identical words:
"Some news?"
I looked as eagerly at the butler as they did. He had been sour enough and pompous enough in his manner and attitude to me that night of my call on his master, and it surprised me now to see how polite and suave and—in a fashion—insinuating he was in his behaviour to the two solicitors. He was a big, fleshy, strongly-built fellow, with a rather flabby, deeply-lined face and a pallid complexion, rendered all the paler by his black overcoat and top hat; and as he stood there, rubbing his hands, glancing from Mr. Lindsey to Mr. Portlethorpe, and speaking in soft, oily, suggestive accents, I felt that I disliked him even more than when he had addressed me in such supercilious accents at the doors of Hathercleugh.
"Well—er—not precisely news, gentlemen," he replied. "The fact is, I wanted to see you privately, Mr. Lindsey, sir—but, of course, I've no objections to speaking before Mr. Portlethorpe, as he's Sir Gilbert's solicitor. Perhaps I can come in with you, Mr. Lindsey?—the truth is, I've been waiting about, sir—they said you'd gone to Newcastle, and might be coming back by this last train. And—it's—possibly—of importance."
"Come in," said Mr. Lindsey. He let us all into his house with his latch-key, and led us to his study, where he closed the door. "Now," he went on, turning to the butler. "What is it? You can speak freely—we are all three—Mr. Portlethorpe, Mr. Moneylaws, and myself—pretty well acquainted with all that is going on, by this time. And—I'm perhaps not far wrong when I suggest that you know something?"
The butler, who had taken the chair which Mr. Lindsey had pointed out, rubbed his hands, and looked at us with an undeniable expression of cunning and slyness.
"Well, sir!" he said in a low, suggesting tone of voice. "A man in my position naturally gets to know things—whether he wants to or not, sometimes. I have had ideas, gentlemen, for some time."
"That something was wrong?" asked Mr. Portlethorpe.
"Approaching to something of that nature, sir," replied the butler. "Of course, you will bear in mind that I am, as it were, a stranger—I have only been in Sir Gilbert's Carstairs' employ nine months. But—I have eyes. And ears. And the long and short of it is, gentlemen, I believe Sir Gilbert—and Lady Carstairs—have gone!"
"Absolutely gone?" exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe. "Good gracious,Hollins!—you don't mean that!"
"I shall be much surprised if it is not found to be the case, sir," answered Hollins, whose name I now heard for the first time. "And—incidentally, as it were—I may mention that I think it will be discovered that a good deal has gone with them!"
"What—property?" demanded Mr. Portlethorpe. "Impossible!—they couldn't carry property away—going as they seem to have done—or are said to have done!"
Hollins coughed behind one of his big, fat hands, and glanced knowingly at Mr. Lindsey, who was listening silently but with deep attention.
"I'm not so sure about that, sir," he said. "You're aware that there were certain small matters at Hathercleugh of what we may term the heirloom nature, though whether they were heirlooms or not I can't say—the miniature of himself set in diamonds, given by George the Third to the second baronet; the necklace, also diamonds, which belonged to a Queen of Spain; the small picture, priceless, given to the fifth baronet by a Czar of Russia; and similar things, Mr. Portlethorpe. And, gentlemen, the family jewels!—all of which had been reset. They've got all those!"
"You mean to say—of your own knowledge—they're not at Hathercleugh?" suddenly inquired Mr. Lindsey.
"I mean to say they positively are not, sir," replied the butler. "They were kept in a certain safe in a small room used by Lady Carstairs as her boudoir. Her ladyship left very hastily and secretly yesterday, as I understand the police have told you, and, in her haste, she forgot to lock up that safe—which she had no doubt unlocked before her departure. That safe, sir, is empty—of those things, at any rate."
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe, greatly agitated. "This is really terrible!"
"Could she carry those things—all of them—on her bicycle—by which I hear she left?" asked Mr. Lindsey.
"Easily, sir," replied Hollins. "She had a small luggage-carrier on her bicycle—it would hold all those things. They were not bulky, of course."
"You've no idea where she went on that bicycle?" inquired Mr. Lindsey.
Hollins smiled cunningly, and drew his chair a little nearer to us.
"I hadn't—when I went to Mr. Murray, at the police-station, this morning," he answered. "But—I've an idea, now. That's precisely why I came in to see you, Mr. Lindsey."
He put his hand inside his overcoat and produced a pocket-book, from which he presently drew out a scrap of paper.
"After I'd seen Mr. Murray this morning," he continued, "I went back to Hathercleugh, and took it upon myself to have a look round. I didn't find anything of a remarkably suspicious nature until this afternoon, pretty late, when I made the discovery about the safe in the boudoir—that all the articles I'd mentioned had disappeared. Then I began to examine a waste-paper basket in the boudoir—I'd personally seen Lady Carstairs tear up some letters which she received yesterday morning by the first post, and throw the scraps into that basket, which hadn't been emptied since. And I found this, gentlemen—and you can, perhaps, draw some conclusion from it—I've had no difficulty in drawing one myself."
He laid on the table a torn scrap of paper, over which all three of us at once bent. There was no more on it than the terminations of lines—but the wording was certainly suggestive:—
"…. at once, quietly …. best time would be before lunch …. at Kelso …. usual place in Glasgow."
Mr. Portlethorpe started at sight of the handwriting.
"That's Sir Gilbert's!" he exclaimed. "No doubt of that. What are we to understand by it, Lindsey?"
"What do you make of this?" asked Mr. Lindsey, turning to Hollins. "You say you've drawn a deduction?"
"I make this out, sir," answered the butler, quietly. "Yesterday morning there were only four letters for Lady Carstairs. Two were from London—in the handwriting of ladies. One was a tradesman's letter—from Newcastle. The fourth was in a registered envelope—and the address was typewritten—and the post-mark Edinburgh. I'm convinced, Mr. Lindsey, that the registered one contained—that! A letter, you understand, from Sir Gilbert—I found other scraps of it, but so small that it's impossible to piece them together, though I have them here. And I conclude that he gave Lady Carstairs orders to cycle to Kelso—an easy ride for her,—and to take the train to Glasgow, where he'd meet her. Glasgow, sir, is a highly convenient city, I believe, for people who wish to disappear. And—I should suggest that Glasgow should be communicated with."
"Have you ever known Sir Gilbert Carstairs visit Glasgow recently?" askedMr. Lindsey, who had listened attentively to all this.
"He was there three weeks ago," replied Hollins.
"And—Edinburgh?" suggested Mr. Lindsey.
"He went regularly to Edinburgh—at one time—twice a week," said the butler. And then, Mr. Lindsey not making any further remark, he glanced at him and at Mr. Portlethorpe. "Of course, gentlemen," he continued, "this is all between ourselves. I feel it my duty, you know."
Mr. Lindsey answered that we all understood the situation, and presently he let the man out, after a whispered sentence or two between them in the hall. Then he came back to us, and without a word as to what had just transpired, drew the Smeaton letter from his pocket.
So that we might have it to ourselves, we had returned from Newcastle to Berwick in a first-class compartment, and in its privacy Mr. Lindsey had told Mr. Portlethorpe the whole of the Smeaton story. Mr. Portlethorpe had listened—so it seemed to me—with a good deal of irritation and impatience; he was clearly one of those people who do not like interference with what they regard as an established order of things, and it evidently irked him to have any questions raised as to the Carstairs affairs—which, of course, he himself had done much to settle when Sir Gilbert succeeded to the title. In his opinion, the whole thing was cut, dried, and done with, and he was still impatient and restive when Mr. Lindsey laid before him the letter which Mr. Gavin Smeaton had lent us, and invited him to look carefully at the handwriting. He made no proper response to that invitation; what he did was to give a peevish glance at the letter, and then push it aside, with an equally peevish exclamation.
"What of it?" he said. "It conveys nothing to me!"
"Take your time, Portlethorpe," remonstrated Mr. Lindsey, who was unlocking a drawer in his desk. "It'll perhaps convey something to you when you compare that writing with a certain signature which I shall now show you. This," he continued, as he produced Gilverthwaite's will, and laid it before his visitor, "is the will of the man whose coming to Berwick ushered in all these mysteries. Now, then—do you see who was one of the witnesses to the will? Look, man!"
Mr. Portlethorpe looked—and was startled out of his peevishness.
"God bless me!" he exclaimed. "Michael Carstairs!"
"Just that," said Mr. Lindsey. "Now then, compare Michael Carstairs' handwriting with the handwriting of that letter. Come here, Hugh!—you, too, have a look. And—there's no need for any very close or careful looking, either!—no need for expert calligraphic evidence, or for the use of microscopes. I'll stake all I'm worth that that signature and that letter are the work of the same hand!"
Now that I saw the Smeaton letter and the signature of the first witness to Gilverthwaite's will, side by side, I had no hesitation in thinking as Mr. Lindsey did. It was an exceptionally curious, not to say eccentric, handwriting—some of the letters were oddly formed, other letters were indicated rather than formed at all. It seemed impossible that two different individuals could write in that style; it was rather the style developed for himself by a man who scorned all conventional matters, and was as self-distinct in his penmanship as he probably was in his life and thoughts. Anyway, there was an undeniable, an extraordinary similarity, and even Mr. Portlethorpe had to admit that it was—undoubtedly—there. He threw off his impatience and irritability, and became interested—and grave.
"That's very strange, and uncommonly important, Lindsey!" he said. "I—yes, I am certainly inclined to agree with you. Now, what do you make of it?"
"If you want to know my precise idea," replied Mr. Lindsey, "it's just this—Michael Carstairs and Martin Smeaton are one and the same man—or, I should say, were! That's about it, Portlethorpe."
"Then in that case—that young fellow at Dundee is Michael Carstairs' son?" exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe.
"And, in my opinion, that's not far off the truth," said Mr. Lindsey."You've hit it!"
"But—Michael Carstairs was never married!" declared Mr. Portlethorpe.
Mr. Lindsey picked up Gilverthwaite's will and the Smeaton letter, and carefully locked them away in his drawer.
"I'm not so sure about that," he remarked, drily. "Michael Carstairs was very evidently a queer man who did a lot of things in a peculiar fashion of his own, and—"
"The solicitor who sent us formal proof of his death, from Havana, previous to Sir Alexander's death, said distinctly that Michael had never been married," interrupted Mr. Portlethorpe. "And surely he would know!"
"And I say just as surely that from all I've heard of Michael Carstairs there'd be a lot of things that no solicitor would know, even if he sat at Michael's dying bed!" retorted Mr. Lindsey. "But we'll see. And talking of beds, it's time I was showing you to yours, and that we were all between the sheets, for it's one o'clock in the morning, and we'll have to be stirring again at six sharp. And I'll tell you what we'll do, Portlethorpe, to save time—we'll just take a mere cup of coffee and a mouthful of bread here, and we'll breakfast in Edinburgh—we'll be there by eight-thirty. So now come to your beds."
He marshalled us upstairs—he and Mr. Portlethorpe had already taken their night-caps while they talked,—and when he had bestowed the senior visitor in his room, he came to me in mine, carrying an alarm clock which he set down at my bed-head.
"Hugh, my man!" he said, "you'll have to stir yourself an hour before Mr. Portlethorpe and me. I've set that implement for five o'clock. Get yourself up when it rings, and make yourself ready and go round to Murray at the police-station—rouse him out of his bed. Tell him what we heard from that man Hollins tonight, and bid him communicate with the Glasgow police to look out for Sir Gilbert Carstairs. Tell him, too, that we're going on to Edinburgh, and why, and that, if need be, I'll ring him up from the Station Hotel during the morning with any news we have, and I'll ask for his at the same time. Insist on his getting in touch with Glasgow—it's there, without doubt, that Lady Carstairs went off, and where Sir Gilbert would meet her; let him start inquiries about the shipping offices and the like. And that's all—and get your bit of sleep."
I had Murray out of his bed before half-past five that morning, and I laid it on him heavily about the Glasgow affair, which, as we came to know later, was the biggest mistake we made, and one that involved us in no end of sore trouble; and at a quarter-past six Mr. Lindsey and Mr. Portlethorpe and I were drinking our coffee and blinking at each other over the rims of the cups. But Mr. Lindsey was sharp enough of his wits even at that hour, and before we set off from Berwick he wrote out a telegram to Mr. Gavin Smeaton, asking him to meet us in Edinburgh during the day, so that Mr. Portlethorpe might make his acquaintance. This telegram he left with his housekeeper—to be dispatched as soon as the post-office was open. And then we were off, and by half-past eight were at breakfast in the Waverley Station; and as the last stroke of ten was sounding from the Edinburgh clocks we were walking into the premises of the Scottish-American Bank.
The manager, who presently received us in his private rooms, looked at Mr. Lindsey and Mr. Portlethorpe with evident surprise—it may have been that there was mystery in their countenances. I know that I, on my part, felt as if a purblind man might have seen that I was clothed about with mystery from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot! And he appeared still more surprised when Mr. Lindsey, briefly, but fully, explained why we had called upon him.
"Of course, I've read the newspapers about your strange doings at Berwick," he observed, when Mr. Lindsey—aided by some remarks from Mr. Portlethorpe—had come to the end of his explanation. "And I gather that you now want to know what we, here, know of Sir Gilbert Carstairs and Mr. John Paley. I can reply to that in a sentence—nothing that is to their discredit! They are two thoroughly estimable and trustworthy gentlemen, so far as we are aware."
"Then thereisa Mr. John Paley?" demanded Mr. Lindsey, who was obviously surprised.
The manager, evidently, was also surprised—by the signs of Mr.Lindsey's surprise.
"Mr. John Paley is a stockbroker in this city," he replied. "Quite well known! The fact is, we—that is, I—introduced Sir Gilbert Carstairs to him. Perhaps," he continued, glancing from one gentleman to the other, "I had better tell you all the facts. They're very simple, and quite of an ordinary nature. Sir Gilbert Carstairs came in here, introducing himself, some months ago. He told me that he was intending to sell off a good deal of the Carstairs property, and that he wanted to reinvest his proceeds in the very best American securities. I gathered that he had spent a lot of time in America, that he preferred America to England, and, in short, that he had a decided intention of going back to the States, keeping Hathercleugh as a place to come to occasionally. He asked me if I could recommend him a broker here in Edinburgh who was thoroughly well acquainted with the very best class of American investments, and I at once recommended Mr. John Paley. And—that's all I know, gentlemen."
"Except," remarked Mr. Lindsey, "that you know that considerable transactions have taken place between Mr. Paley and Sir Gilbert Carstairs. We know that, from what we heard last night in Newcastle."
"Precisely!—then you know as much as I can tell you," replied the manager. "But I have no objection to saying that large sums of money, coming from Sir Gilbert Carstairs, have certainly been passed through Mr. Paley's banking account here, and I suppose Mr. Paley has made the investments which Sir Gilbert desired—in fact, I know he has. And—I should suggest you call on Mr. Paley himself."
We went away upon that, and it seemed to me that Mr. Lindsey was somewhat taken aback. And we were no sooner clear of the bank than Mr. Portlethorpe, a little triumphantly, a little maliciously, turned on him.
"There! what did I say?" he exclaimed. "Everything is in order, you see, Lindsey! I confess I'm surprised to hear about those American investments; but, after all, Sir Gilbert has a right to do what he likes with his own. I told you we were running our heads against the wall—personally, I don't see what use there is in seeing this Mr. Paley. We're only interfering with other people's business. As I say, Sir Gilbert can make what disposal he pleases of his own property."
"And what I say, Portlethorpe," retorted Mr. Lindsey, "is that I'm going to be convinced that it is his own property! I'm going to see Paley whether you do or not—and you'll be a fool if you don't come."
Mr. Portlethorpe protested—but he accompanied us. And we were very soon in Mr. John Paley's office—a quiet, self-possessed sort of man who showed no surprise at our appearance; indeed, he at once remarked that the bank manager had just telephoned that we were on the way, and why.
"Then I'll ask you a question at once," said Mr. Lindsey. "And I'm sure you'll be good enough to answer it. When did you last see Sir Gilbert Carstairs?"
Mr. Paley immediately turned to a diary which lay on his desk, and gave one glance at it. "Three days ago," he answered promptly. "Wednesday—eleven o'clock."
Mr. Lindsey reflected a moment after getting that precise answer, and he glanced at me as if trying to recollect something.
"That would be the very morning after the affair of the yacht?" he asked of me.
But before I could speak, Mr. Paley took the words out of my mouth.
"Quite right." he said quietly. "I knew nothing of it at the time, of course, but I have read a good deal in the newspapers since. It was the morning after Sir Gilbert left Berwick in his yacht."
"Did he mention anything about the yacht to you?" inquired Mr. Lindsey.
"Not a word! I took it that he had come in to see me in the ordinary way," replied the stockbroker. "He wasn't here ten minutes. I had no idea whatever that anything had happened."
"Before we go any further," said Mr. Lindsey, "may I ask you to tell us what he came for? You know that Mr. Portlethorpe is his solicitor?—I am asking the question on his behalf as well as my own."
"I don't know why I shouldn't tell you," answered Mr. Paley. "He came on perfectly legitimate business. It was to call for some scrip which I held—scrip of his own, of course."
"Which he took away with him?" suggested Mr. Lindsey.
"Naturally!" replied the stockbroker. "That was what he came for."
"Did he give you any hint as to where he was going?" asked Mr. Lindsey. "Did he, for instance, happen to mention that he was leaving home for a time?"
"Not at all," answered Mr. Paley. "He spoke of nothing but the business that had brought him. As I said just now, he wasn't here ten minutes."
It was evident to me that Mr. Lindsey was still more taken aback. What we had learned during the last half-hour seemed to surprise him. And Mr. Portlethorpe, who was sharp enough of observation, saw this, and made haste to step into the arena.
"Mr. Lindsey," he said, "has been much upset by the apparently extraordinary circumstances of Sir Gilbert Carstairs' disappearance—and so, I may say, has Sir Gilbert's sister, Mrs. Ralston. I have pointed out that Sir Gilbert himself may have—probably has—a quite proper explanation of his movements. Wait a minute, Lindsey!" he went on, as Mr. Lindsey showed signs of restiveness. "It's my turn, I think." He looked at Mr. Paley again. "Your transactions with Sir Gilbert have been quite in order, all through, I suppose—and quite ordinary?"
"Quite in order, and quite ordinary," answered the stockbroker readily. "He was sent to me by the manager of the Scottish-American Bank, who knows that I do a considerable business in first-class American securities and investments. Sir Gilbert told me that he was disposing of a great deal of his property in England and wished to re-invest the proceeds in American stock. He gave me to understand that he wished to spend most of his time over there in future, as neither he nor his wife cared about Hathercleugh, though they meant to keep it up as the family estate and headquarters. He placed considerable sums of money in my hands from time to time, and I invested them in accordance with his instructions, handing him the securities as each transaction was concluded. And—that's really all I know."
Mr. Lindsey got in his word before Mr. Portlethorpe could speak again.
"There are just two questions I should like to ask—to which nobody can take exception, I think," he said. "One is—I gather that you've invested all the money which Sir Gilbert placed in your hands?"
"Yes—about all," replied Mr. Paley. "I have a balance—a small balance."
"And the other is this," continued Mr. Lindsey: "I suppose all these American securities which he now has are of such a nature that they could be turned into cash at any time, on any market?"
"That is so—certainly," assented Mr. Paley. "Yes, certainly so."
"Then that's enough for me!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey, rising and beckoning me to follow. "Much obliged to you, sir."
Without further ceremony he stumped out into the street, with me at his heels, to be followed a few minutes later by Mr. Portlethorpe. And thereupon began a warm altercation between them which continued until all three of us were stowed away in a quiet corner of the smoking-room in the hotel at which it had been arranged Mr. Gavin Smeaton was to seek us on his arrival—and there it was renewed with equal vigour; at least, with equal vigour on Mr. Lindsey's part. As for me, I sat before the two disputants, my hands in my pockets, listening, as if I were judge and jury all in one, to what each had to urge.
They were, of course, at absolutely opposite poles of thought. One man was approaching the matter from one standpoint; the other from one diametrically opposed to it. Mr. Portlethorpe was all for minimizing things, Mr. Lindsey all for taking the maximum attitude. Mr. Portlethorpe said that even if we had not come to Edinburgh on a fool's errand—which appeared to be his secret and private notion—we had at any rate got the information which Mr. Lindsey wanted, and had far better go home now and attend to our proper business, which, he added, was not to pry and peep into other folks' affairs. He was convinced that Sir Gilbert Carstairs was Sir Gilbert Carstairs, and that Mrs. Ralston's and Mr. Lindsey's suspicions were all wrong. He failed to see any connection between Sir Gilbert and the Berwick mysteries and murders; it was ridiculous to suppose it. As for the yacht incident, he admitted it looked at least strange; but, he added, with a half-apologetic glance at me, he would like to hear Sir Gilbert's version of that affair before he himself made up his mind about it.
"If we can lay hands on him, you'll be hearing his version from the dock!" retorted Mr. Lindsey. "Your natural love of letting things go smoothly, Portlethorpe, is leading you into strange courses! Man alive!—take a look at the whole thing from a dispassionate attitude! Since the fellow got hold of the Hathercleugh property, he's sold everything, practically, but Hathercleugh itself; he's lost no time in converting the proceeds—a couple of hundred thousand pounds!—into foreign securities, which, says yon man Paley, are convertible into cash at any moment in any market! Something occurs—we don't know what, yet—to make him insecure in his position; without doubt, it's mixed up with Phillips and Gilverthwaite, and no doubt, afterwards, with Crone. This lad here accidentally knows something which might be fatal—Carstairs tries, having, as I believe, murdered Crone, to drown Moneylaws! And what then? It's every evident that, after leaving Moneylaws, he ran his yacht in somewhere on the Scottish coast, and turned her adrift; or, which is more likely, fell in with that fisher-fellow Robertson at Largo, and bribed him to tell a cock-and-bull tale about the whole thing—made his way to Edinburgh next morning, and possessed himself of the rest of his securities, after which, he clears out, to be joined somewhere by his wife, who, if what Hollins told us last night is true—and it no doubt is,—carried certain valuables off with her! What does it look like but that he's an impostor, who's just made all he can out of the property while he'd the chance, and is now away to enjoy his ill-gotten gains? That's what I'm saying, Portlethorpe—and I insist on my common-sense view of it!"
"And I say it's just as common-sense to insist, as I do, that it's all capable of proper and reasonable explanation!" retorted Mr. Portlethorpe. "You're a good hand at drawing deductions, Lindsey, but you're bad in your premises! You start off by asking me to take something for granted, and I'm not fond of mental gymnastics. If you'd be strictly logical—"
They went on arguing like that, one against the other, for a good hour, and it seemed to me that the talk they were having would have gone on for ever, indefinitely, if, on the stroke of noon, Mr. Gavin Smeaton had not walked in on us. At sight of him they stopped, and presently they were deep in the matter of the similarity of the handwritings, Mr. Lindsey having brought the letter and the will with him. Deep, at any rate, Mr. Lindsey and Mr. Portlethorpe were; as for Mr. Gavin Smeaton, he appeared to be utterly amazed at the suggestion which Mr. Lindsey threw out to him—that the father of whom he knew so little was, in reality, Michael Carstairs.
"Do you know what it is you're suggesting, Lindsey?" demanded Mr. Portlethorpe, suddenly. "You've got the idea into your head now that this young man's father, whom he's always heard of as one Martin Smeaton, was in strict truth the late Michael Carstairs, elder son of the late Sir Alexander—in fact, being the wilful and headstrong man that you are, you're already positive of it?"
"I am so!" declared Mr. Lindsey. "That's a fact, Portlethorpe."
"Then what follows?" asked Mr. Portlethorpe. "If Mr. Smeaton there is the true and lawful son of the late Michael Carstairs, his name is not Smeaton at all, but Carstairs, and he's the true holder of the baronetcy, and, as his grandfather died intestate, the legal owner of the property! D'you follow that?"
"I should be a fool if I didn't!" retorted Mr. Lindsey. "I've been thinking of it for thirty-six hours."
"Well—it'll have to be proved," muttered Mr. Portlethorpe. He had been staring hard at Mr. Gavin Smeaton ever since he came in, and suddenly he let out a frank exclamation. "There's no denying you've a strong Carstairs look on you!" said he. "Bless and save me!—this is the strangest affair!"
Smeaton put his hand into his pocket, and drew out a little package which he began to unwrap.
"I wonder if this has anything to do with it," he said. "I remembered, thinking things over last night, that I had something which, so the Watsons used to tell me, was round my neck when I first came to them. It's a bit of gold ornament, with a motto on it. I've had it carefully locked away for many a long year!"
He took out of his package a heart-shaped pendant, with a much-worn gold chain attached to it, and turned it over to show an engraved inscription on the reverse side.
"There's the motto," he said. "You see—Who Will, Shall. Whose is it?"
"God bless us!" exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe. "The Carstairs motto! Aye!—their motto for many a hundred years! Lindsey, this is an extraordinary thing!—I'm inclined to think you may have some right in your notions. We must—"
But before Mr. Portlethorpe could say what they must do, there was a diversion in our proceedings which took all interest in them clean away from me, and made me forget whatever mystery there was about Carstairs, Smeaton, or anybody else. A page lad came along with a telegram in his hand asking was there any gentleman there of the name of Moneylaws? I took the envelope from him in a whirl of wonder, and tore it open, feeling an unaccountable sense of coming trouble. And in another minute the room was spinning round me; but the wording of the telegram was clear enough:
"Come home first train Maisie Dunlop been unaccountably missing since last evening and no trace of her. Murray."
I flung the bit of paper on the table before the other three, and, feeling like my head was on fire, was out of the room and the hotel, and in the street and racing into the station, before one of them could find a word to put on his tongue.