adjourned
Ever since Triffitt had made his lucky scoop in connection with the Herapath Mystery he had lived in a state of temporary glory, with strong hopes of making it a permanent one. Up to the morning of the event, which gave him a whole column of theArgus(big type, extra leaded), Triffitt, as a junior reporter, had never accomplished anything notable. As he was fond of remarking, he never got a chance. Police-court cases—county-court cases—fires—coroners’ inquests—street accidents—they were all exciting enough, no doubt, to the people actively concerned in them, but you never got more than twenty or thirty lines out of their details. However, the chance did come that morning, and Triffitt made the most of it, and the news editor (a highly exacting and particular person) blessed him moderately, and told him, moreover, that he could call the Herapath case his own. Thenceforth Triffitt ate, drank, smoked, and slept with the case; it was the only thing he ever thought of. But at half-past one on the afternoon of the third day after what one may call the actual start of the affair, Triffitt sat in a dark corner of a tea-shop in Kensington High Street, munching ham sandwiches, sipping coffee, and thinking lugubriously, if not despairingly. He had spent two and a half hours in the adjacent Coroner’s Court, listening to all that was said in evidence about the death of Jacob Herapath, and he had heard absolutely nothing that was not quite well known to him when the Coroner took his seat, inspected his jurymen, and opened the inquiry. Two and a half hours, at the end of which the court adjourned for lunch—and the affair was just as mysterious as ever, and not a single witness had said a new thing, not a single fresh fact had been brought forward out of which a fellow could make good, rousing copy!
“Rotten!” mumbled Triffitt into his cup. “Extra rotten! Somebody’s keeping something back—that’s about it!”
Just then another young gentleman came into the alcove in which Triffitt sat disconsolate—a pink-cheeked young gentleman, who affected a tweed suit of loud checks and a sporting coat, and wore a bit of feather in the band of his rakish billycock. Triffitt recognized him as a fellow-scribe, one of the youthful bloods of an opposition journal, whom he sometimes met on the cricket-field; he also remembered that he had caught a glimpse of him in the Coroner’s Court, and he hastened to make room for him.
“Hullo!” said Triffitt.
“What-ho!” responded the pink young gentleman. He beckoned knowingly to a waitress, and looked at her narrowly when she came. “Got such a thing as a muffin?” he asked.
“Muffins, sir—yes, sir,” replied the waitress, “Fresh muffins.”
“Pick me out a nice, plump, newly killed muffin” commanded Triffitt’s companion. “Leave it in its natural state—that is to say, cold—split it in half put between the halves a thick, generous slice of that cold ham I see on your counter, and produce it with a pot of fresh—and very hot—China tea. That’s all.”
“Plenty too, I should think!” muttered Triffitt. “Fond of indigestion, Carver?”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been in Yorkshire, have you, Triffitt?” asked Mr. Carver, settling himself comfortably. “You haven’t had that pleasure?—well, if you’d ever gone to a football match on a Saturday afternoon in a Yorkshire factory district, you’d have seen men selling muffin-and-ham sandwiches—fact! And I give you my word that if you want something to fill you up during the day, something to tide over the weary wait between breakfast and dinner, a fat muffin with a thick slice of ham is the best thing I know.”
“I don’t want anything to fill me up,” grunted Triffitt. “I want something cheering—at present. I’ve been listening with all my ears for something new in that blessed Herapath case all the morning, and, as you know, there’s been nothing!”
“Think so?” said Carver. “Um—I should have said there was a good deal, now.”
“Nothing that I didn’t know, anyway,” remarked Triffitt. “I got all that first thing; I was on the spot first.”
“Oh, it was you, was it?” said Carver, with professional indifference. “Lucky man! So you’ve only been hearing——”
“A repetition of what I’d heard before,” answered Triffitt. “I knew all that evidence before I went into court. Caretaker—police—folks from Portman Square—doctor—all the lot! And I guess there’ll be nothing this afternoon—the thing’ll be adjourned.”
“Oh, that’s of course,” assented Carver, attacking his muffin sandwich. “There’ll be more than one adjournment of this particular inquest, Triffitt. But aren’t you struck by one or two points?”
“I’m struck by this,” replied Triffitt. “If what the police-surgeon says—and you noticed how positive he was about it—if what he says is true, that old Herapath was shot, and died, at, or just before (certainly not after, he positively asserted), twelve o’clock midnight, it was not he who went to Portman Square!”
“That, of course, is obvious,” said Carver. “And it’s just as obvious that whoever went to Portman Square returned from Portman Square to that office. Eh?”
“That hasn’t quite struck me,” replied Triffitt. “How is it just as obvious?”
“Because whoever went to Portman Square went in old Herapath’s fur-trimmed coat and his slouch hat, and the fur trimmed coat and slouch hat were found in the office,” answered Carver. “It’s absolutely plain, that. I put it like this. The murderer, having settled his man, put on his victim’s coat and hat, took his keys, went to Portman Square, did something there, went back to the office, left the coat and hat, and hooked it. That, my son, is a dead certainty. There’s been little—if anything—made of all that before the Coroner, and it’s my impression, Triffitt, that somebody—somebody official, mind you—is keeping something back. Now,” continued Carver, dropping his voice to a confidential whisper, “I’m only doing a plain report of this affair for our organ of light and leading, but I’ve read it up pretty well, and there are two things I want to know, and I’ll tell you what, Triffitt, if you like to go in with me at finding them out—two can always work better than one—I’m game!”
“What are the two things?” asked Triffitt, cautiously. “Perhaps I’ve got ’em in mind also.”
“The first’s this,” replied Carver. “Somebody—some taxi-cab driver or somebody of that sort—must have brought the man who personated old Jacob Herapath back to, or to the neighbourhood of, the office that morning. How is it that somebody hasn’t been discovered? You made a point of asking for him in theArgus. Do you know what I think? I think he has been discovered, and he’s being kept out of the way. That’s point one.”
“Good!” muttered Triffitt. “And point two?”
“Point two is—where is the man who came out of the House of Commons with Jacob Herapath that night, the man that the coachman Mountain described? In my opinion,” asserted Carver, “I believe that man’s been found, too, and he’s being kept back.”
“Good again!” said Triffitt. “It’s likely. Well, I’ve a point. You heard the evidence about old Herapath’s keys? Yes—well, where’s the key of that safe that he rented at the Safe Deposit place. That young secretary, Selwood, swore that it was on the little bunch the day of the murder, that he saw it at three o’clock in the afternoon. What did Jacob Herapath do with it between then and the time of the murder?”
“Yes—that’s a great point,” asserted Carver. “We may hear something of that this afternoon—perhaps of all these points.”
But when they went back to the densely crowded court it was only to find that they—and an expectant public—were going to hear nothing more for that time. As soon as the court re-assembled, there was some putting together of heads on the part of the legal gentlemen and the Coroner; there were whisperings and consultations and noddings and veiled hints, palpable enough to everybody with half an eye; then the Coroner announced that no further evidence would be taken that day, and adjourned the inquest for a fortnight. Such of the public as had contrived to squeeze into the court went out murmuring, and Triffitt and Carver went out too and exchanged meaning glances.
“Just what I expected!” said Carver. “I reckon the police are at the bottom of all that. A fortnight today we’ll be hearing something good—something sensational.”
“I don’t want to wait until a fortnight today,” growled Triffitt. “I want some good, hot stuff—now!”
“Then you’ll have to find it for yourself, very soon,” remarked Carver. “Take my tip—you’ll get nothing from the police.”
Triffitt was well aware of that. He had talked to two or three police officials and detectives that morning, and had found them singularly elusive and uncommunicative. One of them was the police-inspector who had been called to the Herapath Estate Office on the discovery of the murder; another was the detective who had accompanied him. Since the murder Triffitt had kept in touch with these two, and had found them affable and ready to talk; now, however, they had suddenly curled up into a dry taciturnity, and there was nothing to be got out of them.
“Tell you what it is,” he said suddenly. “We’ll have to go for the police!”
“How go for the police?” asked Carver doubtfully.
“Throw out some careful hints that the police know more than they’ll tell at present,” answered Triffitt, importantly. “That’s what I shall do, anyhow—I’ve gotcarte blancheon our rag, and I’ll make the public ear itch and twitch by breakfast-time tomorrow morning! And after that, my boy, you and I’ll put our heads together, as you suggest, and see if we can’t do a bit of detective work of our own. See you tomorrow at the usual in Fleet Street.”
Then Triffitt went along to theArgusoffice, and spent the rest of the afternoon in writing up a breezy and brilliant column about the scene at the inquest, intended to preface the ordinary detailed report. He wound it up with an artfully concocted paragraph inwhich he threw out many thinly veiled hints and innuendoes to the effect that the police were in possession of strange and sensational information and that ere long such a dramatic turn would be given to this Herapath Mystery that the whole town would seethe with excitement. He preened his feathers gaily over this accomplishment, and woke earlier than usual next morning on purpose to go out before breakfast and buy theArgus. But when he opened that enterprising journal he found that his column had been woefully cut down, and that the paragraph over which he had so exercised his brains was omitted altogether. Triffitt had small appetite for breakfast that morning, and he went early to the office and made haste to put himself in the way of the news editor, who grinned at sight of him.
“Look here, Master Triffitt,” said the news editor, “there’s such a thing as being too smart—and too previous. I was a bit doubtful about your prognostications last night, and I rang up the C.I.D. about ’em. Don’t do it again, my son!—you mean well, but the police know their job better than you do. If they want to keep quiet for a while in this matter, they’ve good reasons for it. So—no more hints. See?”
“So they do know something?” muttered Triffitt sourly. “Then I was right, after all!”
“You’ll be wrong, after all, if you stick your nose where it isn’t wanted,” said the news editor. “Just chuck the inspired prophet game for a while, will you? Keep to mere facts; you’ll be alarming the wrong people, if you don’t. Off you go now! and do old Herapath’s funeral—it’s at noon, at Kensal Green. There’ll be some of his fellow M.P.’s there, and so on. Get their names—make a nice, respectable thing of it on conventional lines. And no fireworks! This thing’s to lie low at present.”
Triffitt went off to Kensal Green, scowling and cogitating. Of course the police knew something! But—what? What they knew would doubtless come out in time, but Triffitt had a strong desire to be beforehand with them. In spite of the douche of cold water which the news editor had just administered, Triffitt knew hisArgus. If he could fathom the Herapath Mystery in such a fashion as to make a real great, smashing, all-absorbing feature of a sensational discovery, theArguswould throw police precaution and official entreaties to the first wind that swept down Fleet Street. No!—he, Triffitt, was not to be balked. He would do his duty—he would go and see Jacob Herapath buried, but he would also continue his attempt to find out how it was that that burial came to be. And as he turned into the cemetery and stared at its weird collection of Christian and pagan monuments he breathed a fervent prayer to the Goddesses of Chance and Fortune to give him what he called “another look-in.”
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the scottish verdict
If Triffitt had only known it, the Goddesses of Chance and Fortune were already close at hand, hovering lovingly and benignly above the crown of his own Trilby hat. Triffitt, of course, did not see them, nor dream that they were near; he was too busily occupied in taking stock of the black-garmented men who paid the last tribute of respect (a conventional phrase which he felt obliged to use) to Jacob Herapath. These men were many in number; some of them were known to Triffitt, some were not. He knew Mr. Fox-Crawford, an Under-Secretary of State, who represented the Government; he knew Mr. Dayweather and Mr. Encilmore, and Mr. Camford and Mr. Wallburn; they were all well-known members of Parliament. Also, he knew Mr. Barthorpe Herapath, walking at the head of the procession of mourners. Very soon he had quite a lengthy list of names; some others, if necessary, he could get from Selwood, whom he recognized as thecortègepassed him by. So for the time being he closed his note-book and drew back beneath the shade of a cypress-tree, respectfully watching. In the tail-end of the procession he knew nobody; it was made up, he guessed, of Jacob Herapath’snumerous clerks from the estate offices, and——
But suddenly Triffitt saw a face in that procession. The owner of that face was not looking at Triffitt; he was staring quietly ahead, with the blank, grave demeanour which people affect when they go to funerals. And it was as well that he was not looking at Triffitt, for Triffitt, seeing that face, literally started and even jumped a little, feeling as if the earth beneath him suddenly quaked.
“Gad!” exclaimed Triffitt under his breath. “It is! It can’t be! Gad, but I’m certain it is! Can’t be mistaken—not likely I should ever forget him!”
Then he took off the Trilby hat, which he had resumed after the coffin had passed, and he rubbed his head as men do when they are exceedingly bewildered or puzzled. After which he unobtrusively followed the procession, hovered about its fringes around the grave until the last rites were over, and eventually edged himself up to Selwood as the gathering was dispersing. He quietly touched Selwood’s sleeve.
“Mr. Selwood!” he whispered. “Just a word. I know a lot of these gentlemen—the M.P.’s and so on—but there are some I don’t know. Will you oblige me, now?—I want to get a full list. Who are the two elderly gentlemen with Mr. Barthorpe Herapath—relatives, eh?”
“No—old personal friends,” answered Selwood, good-naturedly turning aside with the little reporter. “One is Mr. Tertius—Mr. J. C. Tertius—a very old friend of the late Mr. Herapath’s; the other is Mr. Benjamin Halfpenny, the solicitor, also an old friend.”
“Oh, I know of his firm,” said Triffitt, busily scribbling. “Halfpenny and Farthing, of course—odd combination, isn’t it? And that burly gentleman behind them, now—who’s he?”
“That’s Professor Cox-Raythwaite, the famous scientist,” answered Selwood. “He’s also an old friend. The gentleman he’s speaking to is Sir Cornelius Debenham, chairman of the World Alliance Association, with which Mr. Herapath was connected, you know.”
“I know—I know,” answered Triffitt, still busy. “Those two behind him, now—middle-aged parties?”
“One’s Mr. Frankton, the manager, and the other’s Mr. Charlwood, the cashier, at the estate office,” replied Selwood.
“They’ll go down in staff and employees,” said Triffitt. “Um—I’ve got a good list. By the by, who’s the gentleman across there—just going up to the grave—the gentleman who looks like an actor? Is he an actor?”
“That? Oh!” answered Selwood. “No—that’s Mr. Frank Burchill, who used to be Mr. Herapath’s secretary—my predecessor.”
“Oh!” responded Triffitt. He had caught sight of Carver a few yards off, and he hurried his notebook into his pocket, and bustled off. “Much obliged to you, Mr. Selwood,” he said with a grin. “Even we with all our experience, don’t know everybody, you know—many thanks.” He hastened over to Carver who was also busy pencilling, and drew him away into the shelter of a particularly large and ugly monument. “I say!” he whispered. “Here’s something! Shove that book away now—I’ve got all the names—and attend to me a minute. Don’t look too obtrusively—but do you see that chap—looks like an actor—who is just coming away from the graveside—tall, well-dressed chap?”
Carver looked across. His face lighted up.
“I know that man,” he said. “I’ve seen him at the club—he’s been in once or twice, though he’s not a member. He does theatre stuff for theMagnet. His name’s Burchill.”
Triffitt dropped his friend’s arm.
“Oh!” he said. “So you know him—by sight, anyhow? And his name’s Burchill, eh? Very good. Let’s get.”
He walked Carver out of the cemetery, down the Harrow Road, and turned into the saloon bar of the first tavern that presented itself.
“I’m going to have some ale and some bread and cheese,” he observed, “and if you’ll follow suit, Carver, we’ll sit in that corner, and I’ll tell you something that’ll make your hair curl. Two nice plates of bread and cheese, and two large tankards of your best bitter ale, if you please,” he continued, approaching the bar and ringing a half-crown on it. “Yes, Carver, my son—that will curl your hair for you. And,” he went on, when they had carried their simple provender over to a quiet corner, “about that chap now known as Burchill—Burchill. Mr.—Frank—Burchill; late secretary to the respected gentleman whose mortal remains have just been laid to rest. Ah!”
“What’s the mystery?” asked Carver, setting down his tankard. “Seems to be one, anyway. What about Burchill?”
“Speak his name softly,” answered Triffitt. “Well, my son, I suddenly saw—him—this morning, and I just as suddenly remembered that I’d seen him before!”
“You had, eh?” said Carver. “Where?”
Triffitt sank his voice to a still lower whisper.
“Where?” he said. “Where? In the dock!”
Carver arrested the progress of a lump of bread and cheese and turned in astonishment.
“In the dock?” he exclaimed. “That chap? Good heavens! When—where?”
“It’s a longish story,” answered Triffitt. “But you’ve got to hear it if we’re going into this thing—as we are. Know, then, that I have an aunt—Eliza. My aunt—maternal aunt—Eliza is married to a highly respectable Scotsman named Kierley, who runs a flour-mill in the ancient town of Jedburgh, which is in the county of Roxburgh, just over the Border. And it’s just about nine years (I can tell the exact date to a day if I look at an old diary) that Mr. and Mrs. Kierley were good enough to invite me to spend a few weeks in Bonnie Scotland. And the first night of my arrival Kierley told me that I was in luck, for within a day or two there was going to be a grand trial before the Lords Justiciar—Anglicé, judges. A trial of a man for murder!”
“Great Scott!” said Carver. “Murder, eh? And”—he nodded his head in the direction of the adjacent cemetery. “Him?”
“Let me explain a few legal matters,” said Triffitt, disregarding the question. “Then you’ll get the proper hang of things. In Scotland, law’s different in procedure to ours. The High Court of Justiciary is fixed permanently at Edinburgh, but its judges go on circuit so many times a year to some of the principal towns, where they hold something like our own assizes. Usually, only one judge sits, but in cases of special importance there are two, and two came to Jedburgh, this being a case of very special importance, and one that was arousing a mighty amount of interest. It was locally known as the Kelpies’ Glen Case, and by that name it got into all the papers—we could find it, of course, in our own files.”
“I’ll turn it up,” observed Carver.
“By all means,” agreed Triffitt; “but I’ll give you an outline of it just now. Briefly, it was this. About eleven years ago, there was near the town of Jedburgh a man named Ferguson, who kept an old-established school for boys. He was an oldish chap, married to a woman a good deal younger than himself, and she had a bit of a reputation for being overfond of the wine of the country. According to what the Kierleys told me, old Ferguson used to use the tawse on her sometimes, and they led a sort of cat-and-dog life. Well, about the time I’m talking about, Ferguson got a new undermaster; he only kept one. This chap was an Englishman—name of Bentham—Francis Bentham, to give him his full patronymic, but I don’t know where he came from—I don’t think anybody did.”
“F. B., eh?” muttered Carver. “Same initials as——”
“Precisely,” said Triffitt, “and—to anticipate—same man. But to proceed in due order. Old Ferguson died rather suddenly—but in quite an above-board and natural fashion, about six months after this Bentham came to him. The widow kept on the school, and retained Bentham’s services. And within half a year of the demise of her first husband, she took Bentham for her second.”
“Quick work!” remarked Carver.
“And productive of much wagging of tongues, you may bet!” said Triffitt. “Many things were said—not all of them charitable. Well, this marriage didn’t mend the lady’s manners. She still continued, now and then, to take her drops in too generous measure. Rumour had it that the successor to Ferguson followed his predecessor’s example and corrected his wife in the good, old-fashioned way. It was said that the old cat-and-dog life was started again by these two. However, before they’d been married a year, the lady ended that episode by quitting life for good. She was found one night lying at the foot of the cliff in the Kelpies’ Glen—with a broken neck.”
“Ah!” said Carver. “I begin to see.”
“Now, that Kelpies’ Glen,” continued Triffitt, “was a sort of ravine which lay between the town of Jedburgh and the school. It was traversed by a rough path which lay along the top of one side of it, amongst trees and crags. At one point, this path was on the very edge of a precipitous cliff; from that edge there was a sheer drop of some seventy or eighty feet to a bed of rocks down below, on the edge of a brawling stream. It was on these rocks that Mrs. Bentham’s body was found. She was dead enough when she was discovered, and the theory was that she had come along the path above in a drunken condition, had fallen over the low railings which fenced it in, and so had come to her death.”
“Precisely,” assented Carver, nodding his head with wise appreciation. “Her alcoholic tendencies were certainly useful factors in the case.”
“Just so—you take my meaning,” agreed Triffitt. “Well, at first nobody saw any reason to doubt this theory, for the lady had been seen staggering along that path more than once. But she had a brother, a canny Scot who was not over well pleased when he found that his sister—who had come into everything that old Ferguson left, which was a comfortable bit—had made a will not very long before her death in which she left absolutely everything to her new husband, Francis Bentham. The brother began to inquire and to investigate—and to cut the story short, within a fortnight of his wife’s death, Bentham was arrested and charged with her murder.”
“On what evidence?” asked Carver.
“Precious little!” answered Triffitt. “Indeed next to none. Still, there was some. It was proved that he was absent from the house for half an hour or so about the time that she would be coming along that path; it was also proved that certain footprints in the clay of the path were his. He contended that he had been to look for her; he proved that he had often been to look for her in that way; moreover, as to the footprints, he, like everybody in the house, constantly used that path in going to the town.”
“Aye, to be sure,” said Carver. “He’d a good case, I’m thinking.”
“He had—and so I thought at the time,” continued Triffitt. “And so a good many folks thought—and they, and I, also thought something else, I can tell you. I know what the verdict of the crowded court would have been!”
“What?” asked Carver.
“Guilty!” exclaimed Triffitt. “And so far as I’m concerned, I haven’t a doubt that the fellow pushed her over the cliff. But opinion’s neither here nor there. The only thing that mattered, my son, was the jury’s verdict!”
“And the jury’s verdict was—what?” demanded Carver.
Triffitt winked into his empty tankard and set it down with a bang.
“The jury’s verdict, my boy,” he answered, “was one that you can only get across the Border. It was ‘Not Proven’!”
Table of Contents
young brains
Carver, who had been listening intently to the memory of a bygone event, pushed away the remains of his frugal lunch, and shook his head as he drew out a cigarette-case.
“By gad, Triff, old man!” he said. “If I’d been that chap I’d rather have been hanged, I think. Not proven, eh?—whew! That meant——”
“Pretty much what the folk in court and the mob outside thought,” asserted Triffitt. “That scene outside, after the trial, is one of my liveliest recollections. There was a big crowd there—chiefly women. When they heard the verdict there was such yelling and hooting as you never heard in your life! You see, they were all certain about the fellow’s guilt, and they wanted him to swing. If they could have got at him, they’d have lynched him. And do you know, he actually had the cheek to leave the court by the front entrance, and show himself to that crowd! Then there was a lively scene—stones and brickbats and the mud of the street began flying. Then the police waded in—and they gave Mr. Francis Bentham pretty clearly to understand that there must be no going home for him, or the folks would pull his roof over his head. And they forced him back into the court, and got him away out of the town on the quiet—and I reckon he’s never shown his face in that quarter of the globe since.”
“That will?” asked Carver. “Did it stand good—did he get the woman’s money?”
“He did. My aunt told me afterwards that he employed some local solicitor chap—writers, as they call ’em there—to wind everything up, convert everything into cash, for him. Oh, yes!” concluded Triffitt. “He got the estate, right enough. Not an awful lot, you know—a thousand or two—perhaps three—but enough to go adventuring with elsewhere.”
“You’re sure this is the man?” asked Carver.
“As certain as that I’m myself!” answered Triffitt. “Couldn’t mistake him—even if it is nine years ago. It’s true I was only a nipper then—sixteen or so—but I’d all my wits about me, and I was so taken with him in the dock, and with his theatrical bearing there—he’s a fine hand at posing—that I couldn’t forget or mistake him. Oh, he’s the man! I’ve often wondered what had become of him.”
“And now you find out that he’s up till recently been secretary to Jacob Herapath, M.P., and is just now doing dramatic criticism for theMagnet,” observed Carver. “Well, Triffitt, what do you make of it?”
Triffitt, who had filled and lighted an old briarwood pipe, puffed solemnly and thoughtfully for a while.
“Well,” he said, “nobody can deny that there’s a deep mystery about Jacob Herapath’s death. And knowing what I do about this Bentham or Burchill, and that he’s recently been secretary to Jacob Herapath, I’d just like to know a lot more. And—I mean to!”
“Got any plan of campaign?” asked Carver.
“I have!” affirmed Triffitt with sublime confidence. “And it’s this—I’m going to dog this thing out until I can go to our boss and tell him that I can force the hands of the police! For the police are keeping something dark, my son, and I mean to find out what it is. I got a quencher this morning from our news editor, but it’ll be the last. When I go back to the office to write out this stuff, I’m going to have that extremely rare thing with any of our lot—an interview with the old man.”
“Gad!—I thought your old man was unapproachable!” exclaimed Carver.
“To all intents and purposes, he is,” assented Triffitt. “But I’ll see him—and today. And after that—but you’ll see. Now, as to you, old man. You’re coming in with me at this, of course—not on behalf of your paper, but on your own. Work up with me, and if we’re successful, I’ll promise you a post on theArgusthat’ll be worth three times what you’re getting now. I know what I’m talking about—unapproachable as our guv’nor is, I’ve sized him up, and if I make good in this affair, he’ll do anything I want. Stick to Triffitt, my son, and Triffitt’ll see you all serene!”
“Right-oh!” said Carver. “I’m on. Well, and what am I to do, first?”
“Two things,” responded Triffitt. “One of ’em’s easy, and can be done at once. Get me—diplomatically—this man Burchill’s, or Bentham’s, present address. You know someMagnetchaps—get it out of them. Tell ’em you want to ask Burchill’s advice about some dramatic stuff—say you’ve written a play and you’re so impressed by his criticisms that you’d like to take his counsel.”
“I can do that,” replied Carver. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a real good farce in my desk. And the next?”
“The next is—try to find out if there’s any taxi-cab driver around the Portman Square district who took a fare resembling old Herapath from anywhere about there to Kensington on the night of the murder,” said Triffitt. “There must be some chap who drove that man, and if we’ve got any brains about us we can find him. If we find him, and can get him to talk—well, we shall know something.”
“It’ll mean money,” observed Carver.
“Never mind,” said Triffitt, confident as ever. “If it comes off all right with our boss, you needn’t bother about money, my son! Now let’s be going Fleet Street way, and I’ll meet you tonight at the usual—say six o’clock.”
Arrived at theArgusoffice and duly seated at his own particular table, Triffitt, instead of proceeding to write out his report of the funeral ceremony of the late Jacob Herapath, M.P., wrote a note to his proprietor, which note he carefully sealed and marked “Private.” He carried this off to the great man’sconfidential secretary, who stared at it and him.
“I suppose this really is of a private nature?” he asked suspiciously. “You know as well as I do that Mr. Markledew’ll make me suffer if it isn’t.”
“Soul and honour, it’s of the most private!” affirmed Triffitt, laying a hand on his heart. “And of the highest importance, too, and I’ll be eternally grateful if you’ll put it before him as soon as you can.”
The confidential secretary took another look at Triffitt, and allowed himself to be reluctantly convinced of his earnestness.
“All right!” he said. “I’ll shove it under his nose when he comes in at four o’clock.”
Triffitt went back to his work, excited, yet elated. It was no easy job to get speech of Markledew. Markledew, as everybody in Fleet Street knew, was a man in ten thousand. He was not only sole proprietor of his paper, but its editor and manager, and he ruled his office and his employees with a rod of iron—chiefly by silence. It was usually said of him that he never spoke to anybody unless he was absolutely obliged to do so—certain it was that all his orders to the various heads were given out pretty much after the fashion of a drill sergeant’s commands to a squad of well-trained, five-month recruits, and that monosyllables were much more in his mouth than even brief admonitions and explanations. If anybody ever did manage to approach Markledew, it was always with fear and trembling. A big, heavy, lumbering man, with a face that might have beencarved out of granite, eyes that bored through an opposing brain, and a constant expression of absolute, yet watchful immobility, he was a trying person to tackle, and most men, when they did tackle him, felt as if they might be talking to the Sphinx and wondered if the tightly-locked lips were ever going to open. But all men who ever had anything to do with Markledew were well aware that, difficult as he was of access, you had only got to approach him with something good to be rewarded for your pains in full measure.
At ten minutes past four Triffitt, who had just finished his work, lifted his head to see a messenger-boy fling open the door of the reporter’s room and cast his eyes round. A shiver shot through Triffitt’s spine and went out of his toes with a final sting.
“Mr. Markledew wants Mr. Triffitt!”
Two or three other junior reporters who were scribbling in the room glanced at Triffitt as he leapt to obey the summons. They hastened to make kindly comments on this unheard-of episode in the day’s dull routine.
“Pale as a fair young bride!” sighed one. “Buck up, Triff!—he won’t eat you.”
“I hear your knees knocking together, Triff,” said another. “Brace yourself!”
“Markledew,” observed a third, “has decided to lay down the sceptre and to instal Triff in the chair of rule. Ave, Triffitt, Imperator!—be merciful to the rest of us.”
Triffitt consigned them to the nether regions andhurried to the presence. The presence was busied with its secretary and kept Triffitt standing for two minutes, during which space he recovered his breath. Then the presence waved away secretary and papers with one hand, turned its awful eyes upon him, and rapped out one word:
“Now!”
Triffitt breathed a fervent prayer to all his gods, summoned his resolution and his powers, and spoke. He endeavoured to use as few words as possible, to be lucid, to make his points, to show what he was after—and, driving fear away from him, he kept his own eyes steadily fixed on those penetrating organs which confronted him. And once, twice, he saw or thought he saw a light gleam of appreciation in those organs; once, he believed, the big head nodded as if in agreement. Anyhow, at the end of a quarter of an hour (unheard-of length for an interview with Markledew!) Triffitt had neither been turned out nor summarily silenced; instead, he had come to what he felt to be a good ending of his pleas and his arguments, and the great man was showing signs of speech.
“Now, attend!” said Markledew, impressively. “You’ll go on with this. You’ll follow it up on the lines you suggest. But you’ll print nothing except under my personal supervision. Make certain of your facts. Facts!—understand! Wait.”
He pulled a couple of slips of paper towards him, scribbled a line or two on each, handed them to Triffitt, and nodded at the door.
“That’ll do,” he said. “When you want me, let me know. And mind—you’ve got a fine chance, young man.”
Triffitt could have fallen on the carpet and kissed Markledew’s large boots. But knowing Markledew, he expressed his gratitude in two words and a bow, and sped out of the room. Once outside, he hastened to send the all-powerful notes. They were short and sharp, like Markledew’s manner, but to Triffitt of an inexpressible sweetness, and he walked on air as he went off to other regions to present them.
The news editor, who was by nature irascible and whom much daily worry had rendered more so, glared angrily as Triffitt marched up to his table. He pointed to a slip of proof which lay, damp and sticky, close by.
“You’ve given too much space to that Herapath funeral,” he growled. “Take it away and cut it down to three-quarters.”
Triffitt made no verbal answer. He flung Markledew’s half-sheet of notepaper before the news editor, and the news editor, seeing the great man’s sprawling caligraphy, read, wonderingly:—
“Mr. Triffitt is released from ordinary duties to pursue others under my personal supervision. J. M.”
“Mr. Triffitt is released from ordinary duties to pursue others under my personal supervision. J. M.”
The news editor stared at Triffitt as if that young gentleman had suddenly become an archangel.
“What’s this mean?” he demanded.
“Obvious—and sufficient,” retorted Triffitt. And he turned, hands in pockets, and strolled out, leaving the proof lying unheeded. That was the first time he had scored off his news editor, and the experience was honey-like and intoxicating. His head was higher than ever as he sought the cashier and handed Markledew’s other note to him. The cashier read it over mechanically.
“Mr. Triffitt is to draw what money he needs for a special purpose. He will account to me for it. J. M.”
“Mr. Triffitt is to draw what money he needs for a special purpose. He will account to me for it. J. M.”
The cashier calmly laid the order aside and looked at its deliverer.
“Want any now?” he asked apathetically. “How much?”
“Not at present,” replied Triffitt. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
Then he went away, got his overcoat, made a derisive and sphinx-like grin at his fellow-reporters, and left the office to find Carver.
Table of Contents
nameless fear
If Triffitt had stayed in Kensal Green Cemetery a little longer, he would have observed that Mr. Frank Burchill’s presence at the funeral obsequies of the late Jacob Herapath was of an eminently modest, unassuming, and retiring character. He might, as an ex-secretary of the dead man, have claimed to walk abreast of Mr. Selwood, and ahead of the manager and cashier from the estate office; instead, he had taken a place in the rear ranks of the procession, and in it he remained until the close of the ceremony. Like the rest of those present, he defiled past the grave at which the chief mourners were standing, but he claimed no recognition from and gave no apparent heed to any of them; certainly none to Barthorpe Herapath. Also, like all the rest, he went away at once from the cemetery, and after him, quietly and unobtrusively, went a certain sharp-eyed person who had also been present, not as a mourner, but in the character of a casual stroller about the tombs and monuments, attracted for the moment by the imposingcortègewhich had followed the dead man to his grave.
Another sharp-eyed person made it his business tofollow Barthorpe Herapath when he, too, went away. Barthorpe had come to the ceremony unattended. Selwood, Mr. Tertius, Professor Cox-Raythwaite, and Mr. Halfpenny had come together. These four also went away together. Barthorpe, still alone, re-entered his carriage when they had driven off. The observant person of the sharp eyes, hanging around the gates, heard him give his order:
“Portman Square!”
The four men who had preceded him were standing in the study when Barthorpe drove up to the house—standing around Peggie, who was obviously ill at ease and distressed. And when Barthorpe’s voice was heard in the hall, Mr. Halfpenny spoke in decisive tones.
“We must understand matters at once,” he said. “There is no use in beating about the bush. He has refused to meet or receive me so far—now I shall insist upon his saying plainly whatever he has to say. You, too, my dear, painful as it may be, must also insist.”
“On—what?” asked Peggie.
“On his saying what he intends—if he intends—I don’t know what he intends!” answered Mr. Halfpenny, testily. “It’s most annoying, and we can’t——”
Barthorpe came striding in, paused as he glanced around, and affected surprise.
“Oh!” he said. “I came to see you, Peggie—I did not know that there was any meeting in progress.”
“Barthorpe!” said Peggie, looking earnestly at him. “You know that all these gentlemen were Uncle Jacob’s friends—dear friends—and they are mine. Don’t go away—Mr. Halfpenny wants to speak to you.”
Barthorpe had already half turned to the door. He turned back—then turned again.
“Mr. Halfpenny can only want to speak to me on business,” he said, coldly. “If Mr. Halfpenny wants to speak to me on business, he knows where to find me.”
He had already laid a hand on the door when Mr. Halfpenny spoke sharply and sternly.
“Mr. Barthorpe Herapath!” he said. “I know very well where to find you, and I have tried to find you and to get speech with you for two days—in vain. I insist, sir, that you speak to us—or at any rate to your cousin—you are bound to speak, sir, out of common decency!”
“About what?” asked Barthorpe. “I came to speak to my cousin—in private.”
“There is a certain something, sir,” retorted Mr. Halfpenny, with warmth, “about which we must speak in public—such a public, at any rate, as is represented here and now. You know what it is—your uncle’s will!”
“What about my uncle’s will—or alleged will?” asked Barthorpe with a sneer.
Mr. Halfpenny appeared to be about to make a very angry retort, but he suddenly checked himself and looked at Peggie.
“You hear, my dear?” he said. “He says—alleged will!”
Peggie turned to Barthorpe with an appealing glance.
“Barthorpe!” she exclaimed. “Is that fair—is it generous? Is it just—to our uncle’s memory? You know that is his will—what doubt can there be about it?”
Barthorpe made no answer. He still stood with one hand on the door, looking at Mr. Halfpenny. And suddenly he spoke.
“What do you wish to ask me?” he said.
“I wish to ask you a plain question,” replied Mr. Halfpenny. “Do you accept this will, and are you going to act on your cousin’s behalf? I want your plain answer.”
Barthorpe hesitated a moment before replying. Then he made as if to open the door.
“I decline to discuss the matter of the alleged will,” he answered. “I decline—especially,” he continued, lifting a finger and pointing at Mr. Tertius, “especially in the presence of that man!”
“Barthorpe!” exclaimed Peggie, flushing at the malevolence of the tone and gesture. “How dare you! In my house——”
Barthorpe suddenly laughed. Once again he turned to the door—and this time he opened it.
“Just so—just so!” he said. “Your house, my dear cousin—according to the alleged will.”
“Which will be proved, sir,” snapped out Mr. Halfpenny. “As you refuse, or seem to do so, I shall act for your cousin—at once.”
Barthorpe opened the door wide, and as he crossed the threshold, turned and gave Mr. Halfpenny a swift glance.
“Act!” he said. “Act!—if you can!”
Then he walked out and shut the door behind him, and Mr. Halfpenny turned to the others.
“The will must be proved at once,” he said decisively. “Alleged—you all heard him say alleged! That looks as if—um! My dear Tertius, you have no doubt whatever about the proper and valid execution of this important document—now in my safe. None?”
“How can I have any doubt about what I actually saw?” replied Mr. Tertius. “I can’t have any doubt, Halfpenny! I saw Jacob sign it; I signed it myself; I saw young Burchill sign it; we all three saw each other sign. What more can one want?”
“I must see this Mr. Burchill,” remarked Mr. Halfpenny. “I must see him at once. Unfortunately, he left no address at the place we called at. He will have to be discovered.”
Peggie coloured slightly as she turned to Mr. Halfpenny.
“Is it really necessary to see Mr. Burchill personally?” she asked with a palpable nervousness which struck Selwood strangely. “Must he be found?”
“Absolutely necessary, my dear,” replied Mr. Halfpenny. “He must be found, and at once.”
Mr. Tertius uttered an exclamation of annoyance.
“Dear, dear!” he said. “I noticed the young man at the cemetery just now—I ought really to have pointed him out to you—most forgetful of me!”
“I have Mr. Burchill’s address,” said Peggie, with an effort. “He left his card here on the day of my uncle’s death—the address is on it. And I put it in this drawer.”
Selwood watched Peggie curiously, and with a strange, vague sense of uneasiness as she went over to a drawer in Jacob Herapath’s desk and produced the card. He had noticed a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke of Burchill, and her face, up till then very pale, had coloured at the first mention of his name. And now he was asking himself why any reference to this man seemed to disturb her, why——
But Mr. Halfpenny cut in on his meditations. The old lawyer held up the card to the light and slowly read out the address.
“Ah! Calengrove Mansions, Maida Vale,” he said. “Um—quarter of an hour’s drive. Tertius—you and I will go and see this young fellow at once.”
Mr. Tertius turned to Professor Cox-Raythwaite.
“What do you think of this, Cox-Raythwaite?” he asked, almost piteously. “I mean—what do you think’s best to be done?”
The Professor, who had stood apart with Selwood during the episode which had just concluded, pulling his great beard and looking very big and black and formidable, jerked his thumb in the direction of the old lawyer.
“Do what Halfpenny says,” he growled. “See this other witness. And—but here, I’ll have a word with you in the hall.”
He said good-bye in a gruffly affectionate way to Peggie, patted her shoulder and her head as if she were a child, and followed the two other men out. Peggie, left alone with Selwood, turned to him. There was something half-appealing in her face, and Selwood suddenly drove his hands deep into his pockets, clenched them there, and put a tight hold on himself.
“It’s all different!” exclaimed Peggie, dropping into a chair and clasping her hands on her knees. “All so different! And I feel so utterly helpless.”
“Scarcely that,” said Selwood, with an effort to speak calmly. “You’ve got Mr. Tertius, and Mr. Halfpenny, and the Professor, and—and if there’s anything—anything I can do, don’t you know, why, I——”
Peggie impulsively stretched out a hand—and Selwood, not trusting himself, affected not to see it. To take Peggie’s hand at that moment would have been to let loose a flood of words which he was resolved not to utter just then, if ever. He moved across to the desk and pretended to sort and arrange some loose papers.
“We’ll—all—all—do everything we can,” he said, trying to keep any tremor out of his voice. “Everything you know, of course.”
“I know—and I’m grateful,” said Peggie. “But I’m frightened.”
Selwood turned quickly and looked sharply at her.
“Frightened?” he exclaimed. “Of what?”
“Of something that I can’t account for or realize,” she replied. “I’ve a feeling that everything’s all wrong—and strange. And—I’m frightened of Mr. Burchill.”
“What!” snapped Selwood. He dropped the papers and turned to face her squarely. “Frightened of—Burchill? Why?”
“I—don’t—know,” she answered, shaking her head. “It’s more an idea—something vague. I was always afraid of him when he was here—I’ve been afraid of him ever since. I was very much afraid when he came here the other day.”
“You saw him?” asked Selwood.
“I didn’t see him. He merely sent up that card. But,” she added, “I was afraid even then.”
Selwood leaned back against the desk, regarding her attentively.
“I don’t think you’re the sort to be afraid without reason,” he said. “Of course, if you have reason, I’ve no right to ask what it is. All the same, if this chap is likely to annoy you, you’ve only to speak and—and——”
“Yes?” she said, smiling a little. “You’d——”
“I’ll punch his head and break his neck for him!” growled Selwood. “And—and I wish you’d say if you have reasons why I should. Has—has he annoyed you?”
“No,” answered Peggie. She regarded Selwood steadily for a minute; then she spoke with sudden impulse. “When he was here,” she said, “I mean before he left my uncle, he asked me to marry him.”
Selwood, in spite of himself, could not keep a hot flush from mounting to his cheek.
“And—you?” he said.
“I said no, of course, and he took my answer and went quietly away,” replied Peggie. “And that—that’s why I’m frightened of him.”
“Good heavens! Why?” demanded Selwood. “I don’t understand. Frightened of him because he took his answer, went away quietly, and hasn’t annoyed you since? That—I say, that licks me!”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But, you see, you don’t know him. It’s just because of that—that quiet—that—oh, I don’t quite know how to explain!—that—well, silence—that I’m afraid—yes, literally afraid. There’s something about him that makes me fear. I used to wish that my uncle had never employed him—that he had never come here. And—I’d rather be penniless than that my uncle had ever got him—him!—to witness that will!”
Selwood found no words wherewith to answer this. He did not understand it. Nevertheless he presently found words of another sort.
“All right!” he muttered doggedly. “I’ll watch him—or, I’ll watch that he—that—well, that no harm comes to—you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes,” murmured Peggie, and once more held out an impulsive hand. But Selwood again pretended to see nothing, and he began another energetic assault upon the papers which Jacob Herapath would never handle again.
Table of Contents
the law
Once within a taxi-cab and on their way to Maida Vale, Mr. Halfpenny turned to his companion with a shake of the head which implied a much mixed state of feeling.
“Tertius!” he exclaimed. “There’s something wrong! Quite apart from what we know, and from what we were able to communicate to the police, there’s something wrong. I feel it—it’s in the air, the—the whole atmosphere. That fellow Barthorpe is up to some game. What? Did you notice his manner, his attitude—everything? Of course!—who could help it? He—has some scheme in his head. Again I say—what?”
Mr. Tertius stirred uneasily in his seat and shook his head.
“You haven’t heard anything from New Scotland Yard?” he asked.
“Nothing—so far. But they are at work, of course. They’ll work in their own way. And,” continued Mr. Halfpenny, with a grim chuckle, “you can be certain of this much, Tertius—having heard what we were able to tell them, having seen what we were able to put before them, with respect to the doings of that eventful night, they won’t let Master Barthorpe out of their ken—not they! It is best to let them pursue their own investigations in their own manner—they’ll let us know what’s been done, sure enough, at the right time.”
“Yes,” assented Mr. Tertius. “Yes—so I gather—I am not very conversant with these things. I confess there’s one thing that puzzles me greatly though, Halfpenny. That’s the matter of the man who came out of the House of Commons with Jacob that night. You remember that the coachman, Mountain, told us—and said at the inquest also—that he overheard what Jacob said to that man—‘The thing must be done at once, and you must have everything ready for me at noon tomorrow,’ or words to that effect. Now that man must be somewhere at hand—he must have read the newspapers, know all about the inquest—why doesn’t he come forward?”
Mr. Halfpenny chuckled again and patted his friend’s arm.
“Ah!” he said. “But you don’t know that he hasn’t come forward! The probability is, Tertius, that he has come forward, and that the people at New Scotland Yard are already in possession of whatever story he had to tell. Oh, yes, I quite expect that—I also expect to hear, eventually, another piece of news in relation to that man.”
“What’s that?” asked Mr. Tertius.
“Do you remember that, at the inquest, Mountain, the coachman, said that there was another bit of evidence he had to give which he’d forgotten to tell Mr. Barthorpe when he questioned him? Mountain”—continued Mr. Halfpenny—“went on to say that while Jacob Herapath and the man stood talking in Palace Yard, before Jacob got into his brougham, Jacob took some object from his waistcoat pocket and handed it, with what looked like a letter, to the man? Eh?”
“I remember very well,” replied Mr. Tertius.
“Very good,” said Mr. Halfpenny. “Now I believe that object to have been the key of Jacob’s safe at the Safe Deposit, which, you remember, could not be found, but which young Selwood affirmed had been in Jacob’s possession only that afternoon. The letter I believe to have been a formal authority to the Safe Deposit people to allow the bearer to open that safe. I’ve thought all that out,” concluded Mr. Halfpenny, with a smile of triumph, “thought it out carefully, and it’s my impression that that’s what we shall find when the police move. I believe that man has revealed himself to the police, has told them—whatever it is he has to tell, and that his story probably throws a vast flood of light on the mystery. So I say—let us not at present concern ourselves with the actual murder of our poor friend: the police will ferret that out! What we’re concerned with is—the will! That will, Tertius, must be proved, and at once.”
“I am as little conversant with legal matters as with police procedure,” observed Mr. Tertius. “What is the exact course, now, in a case of this sort?”
“The exact procedure, my dear sir,” replied Mr. Halfpenny, dropping into his best legal manner, and putting the tips of his warmly-gloved fingers together in front of his well-filled overcoat, “the exact procedure is as follows. Barthorpe Herapath is without doubt the heir-at-law of his deceased uncle, Jacob Herapath. If Jacob had died intestate Barthorpe would have taken what we may call everything, for his uncle’s property is practically all in the shape of real estate, in comparison to which the personalty is a mere nothing. But there is a will, leaving everything to Margaret Wynne. If Barthorpe Herapath intends to contest the legality of that will——”
“Good heavens, is that possible?” exclaimed Mr. Tertius. “He can’t!”
“He can—if he wishes,” replied Mr. Halfpenny, “though at present I don’t know on what possible grounds. But, if he does, he can at once enter a caveat in the Probate Registry. The effect of that—supposing he does it—will be that when I take the will to be proved, progress will be stopped. Very well—I shall then, following the ordinary practice, issue and serve upon Barthorpe Herapath a document technically known as a ‘warning.’ On service of this warning, Barthorpe, if he insists upon his opposition, must enter an appearance. There will then be an opportunity for debate and attempt at agreement between him and ourselves. If that fails, or does not take place, I shall then issue a writ to establish the will. And that being done, why, then, my dear sir, the proceedings—ah, the proceedings would follow—substantially—the—er—usual course of litigation in this country.”
“And that,” asked Mr. Tertius, deeply interested and wholly innocent, “that would be——?”
“Well, there are two parties in this case—supposed case,” continued Mr. Halfpenny, “Barthorpe Herapath, Margaret Wynne. After the issue of the writ I have just spoken of, each party would put in his or her pleas, and the matter would ultimately go to trial in the Probate Division of the High Court, most likely before a judge and a special jury.”
“And how long would all this take?” asked Mr. Tertius.
“Ah!—um!” replied Mr. Halfpenny, tapping the tips of his gloves together. “That, my dear sir, is a somewhat difficult question to answer. I believe that all readers of the newspapers are aware that our Law Courts are somewhat congested—the cause lists are very full. The time which must elapse before a case can actually come to trial varies, my dear Tertius, varies enormously. But if—as in the matter we are supposing would probably be the case—if all the parties concerned were particularly anxious to have the case disposed of without delay, the trial might be arrived at within three or four months—that is, my dear sir, if the Long Vacation did not intervene. But—speaking generally—a better, more usual, more probable estimate would be, say six, seven, eight, or nine months.”
“So long?” exclaimed Mr. Tertius. “I thought that justice was neither denied, sold, nor delayed!”
“Justice is never denied, my good friend, nor is it sold,” replied Mr. Halfpenny, oracularly. “As to delay, ah, well, you know, if people will be litigants—and I assure you that nothing is so pleasing to a very large number of extraordinary persons who simply love litigation—a little delay cannot be avoided. However, we will hope that we shall have no litigation. Our present job is to get that will proved, and so far I see no difficulty. There is the will—we have the witnesses. At least, there are you, and we’re hoping to see t’other in a few minutes. By the by, Tertius, what sort of fellow is this Burchill?”
Mr. Tertius considered his answer to this question.
“Well, I hardly know,” he said at last. “Of course, I have rarely seen much of Jacob’s secretaries. This man—he’s not quite a youngster, Halfpenny—struck me as being the sort of person who might be dangerous.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Halfpenny. “Dangerous! God bless me! Now, in what way, Tertius?”
“I don’t quite know,” replied Mr. Tertius. “He, somehow, from what I saw of him, suggested, I really don’t know how, a certain atmosphere of, say—I’m trying to find the right words—cunning, subtlety, depth. Yes—yes, I should say he was what we commonly call—or what is commonly called in vulgar parlance—deep. Deep!”
“You mean—designing?” suggested Mr. Halfpenny.
“Exactly—designing,” assented Mr. Tertius. “It—it was the sort of idea he conveyed, you know.”
“Don’t like the sound of him,” said Mr. Halfpenny, “However, he’s the second witness and we must put up with the fact. And here we are at these Calengrove Mansions, and let’s hope we haven’t a hundred infernal steps to climb, and that we find the fellow in.”
The fellow was in. And the fellow, who had now discarded his mourning suit for the purple and fine linen which suggested Bond Street, was just about to go out, and was in a great hurry, and said so. He listened with obvious impatience while Mr. Tertius presented his companion.
“I wished to see you about the will of the deceased Jacob Herapath, Mr. Burchill,” said Mr. Halfpenny “The will which, of course, you witnessed.”
Burchill, who was gathering some books and papers together, and had already apologized for not being able to ask his callers to sit down, answered in an off-hand, bustling fashion.
“Of course, of course!” he replied. “Mr. Jacob Herapath’s will, eh? Oh, of course, yes. Anything I can do, Mr. Halfpenny, of course—perhaps you’ll drop me a line and make an appointment at your office some day—then I’ll call, d’you see?”
“You remember the occasion, and the will, and your signature?” said Mr. Halfpenny, contriving to give Mr. Tertius a nudge as he put this direct question.
“Oh, I remember everything that ever happened in connection with my secretaryship to Mr. Jacob Herapath!” replied Burchill, still bustling. “I shall be ready for anything whenever I’m wanted, Mr. Halfpenny—pleased to be of service to the family, I’m sure. Now, you must really pardon me, gentlemen, if I hurry you and myself out—I’ve a most important engagement and I’m late already. As I said—drop me a line for an appointment, Mr. Halfpenny, and I’ll come to you. Now, good-bye, good-bye!”
He had got them out of his flat, shaken hands with them, and hurried off before either elderly gentleman could get a word in, and as he flew towards the stairs Mr. Halfpenny looked at Mr. Tertius and shook his head.
“That beggar didn’t want to talk,” he said. “I don’t like it.”
“But he said that he remembered!” exclaimed Mr. Tertius. “Wasn’t that satisfactory?”
“Anything but satisfactory, the whole thing,” replied the old lawyer. “Didn’t you notice that the man avoided any direct reply? He said ‘of course’ about a hundred times, and was as ambiguous, and non-committal, and vague, as he could be. My dear Tertius, the fellow was fencing!”
Mr. Tertius looked deeply distressed.
“You don’t think——” he began.
“I might think a lot when I begin to think,” said Mr. Halfpenny as they slowly descended the stairs from the desert solitude of the top floor of Calengrove Mansions. “But there’s one thought that strikes me just now—do you remember what Burchill’s old landlady at Upper Seymour Street told us?”
“That Barthorpe Herapath had been to inquire for Burchill?—yes,” replied Mr. Tertius. “You’re wondering——”
“I’m wondering if, since then, Barthorpe has found him,” said Mr. Halfpenny. “If he has—if there have been passages between them—if——”
He paused half-way down the stairs, stood for a moment or two in deep thought and then laid his hand on his friend’s arm.
“Tertius!” he said gravely. “That will must be presented for probate at once! I must lose no time. Come along—let me get back to my office and get to work. And do you go back to Portman Square and give the little woman your company.”
Mr. Tertius went back to Portman Square there and then, and did what he could to make the gloomy house less gloomy. Instead of retreating to his own solitude he remained with Peggie, and tried to cheer her up by discussing various plans and matters of the future. And he was taking a quiet cup of tea with her at five o’clock when Kitteridge came in with a telegram for him. He opened it with trembling fingers and read: