Mr. Pawle, who was listening with the deepest interest and attention, glanced at Viner as if to entreat the same care on his part.
"I do remember something of this, now I come to think of it," he said."There were some legal proceedings in connection with this disappearance,I believe, some years ago."
"Yes, sir—they were in the newspapers," asserted the old landlady. "But of course, those of us about here knew of how things stood long before that. Lord Marketstoke went away, as I have said. It was known that he had money of his own, that had come to him from his mother, who had died years before all this. But it wasn't known where he went. Some said he'd gone to the Colonies; some said to America. And at one time there was a rumour that he'd taken another name and joined some foreign army, and been killed in its service. Anyway, nobody ever heard a word of him—Mr. Marcherson, who was steward at Ellingham Park for over forty years (he died last year, a very old man) assured me that from the day on which Lord Marketstoke left his father's house not one word of him, not a breath, ever reached any of those he'd left behind him. There was absolute silence—he couldn't have disappeared more completely if they'd laid him in the family vault in Marketstoke church."
"And evident intention to disappear!" observed Mr. Pawle. "You'll mark that, Viner—it's important. Well, ma'am," he added, turning again to Mrs. Summers. "And—what happened next?"
"Well sir, there was nothing much happened," continued the landlady. "Matters went on in pretty much the usual way. The old Earl got older, of course, and his temper got worse. Mr. Marcherson assured me that he was never known to mention his missing son—to anybody. And in the end, perhaps about fifteen years after Lord Marketstoke had gone away, he died. And then there was no end of trouble and bother. The Earl had left no will; at any rate, no will could be found, and no lawyer could be heard of who had ever made one. And of course, nobody knew where the new Earl was, nor even if he was alive or dead. There were advertisements sent out all over the world—Mr. Marcherson told me that they were translated into I don't know how many foreign languages and published in every quarter of the globe—asking for news of him and stating that his father was dead. That was done for some time."
"With no result?" asked Mr. Pawle.
"No result whatever, sir—I understand that the family solicitors never had one single reply," answered Mrs. Summers. "I understand, too, that for some time before the old Earl's death they'd been trying to trace Lord Marketstoke from his last known movements. But that had failed too. He had chambers in London, and he kept a manservant there; the manservant could only say that on the night on which his young master left Ellingham Park he returned to his chambers, went to bed—and had gone when he, the manservant, rose in the morning. No, sir; all the efforts and advertisements were no good whatever, and after some time—some considerable time—the younger brother, the Honourable Charles Cave-Gray—"
"Cave-Gray? Is that the family name?" interrupted Mr. Pawle.
"That's the family name, sir—Cave-Gray," replied Mrs. Summers. "One of the oldest families in these parts, sir—the earldom dates from Queen Anne. Well, the Honourable Charles Cave-Gray, and his solicitors, of course, came to the conclusion that Lord Marketstoke was dead, and so—I don't understand the legal niceties, gentlemen, but they went to the courts to get something done which presumed his death and let Mr. Charles come into the title and estates. And in the end that had been done, and Mr. Charles became the eighth Earl of Ellingham."
"I remember it now," muttered Mr. Pawle. "Yes—curious case. But it was proved to the court, I recollect, that everything possible had been done to find the missing heir—and without result."
"Just so, sir, and so Mr. Charles succeeded," asserted Mrs. Summers. "He was a very nice, pleasant man, not a bit like his father—a very good and considerate landlord, and much respected. But he's gone now—died three years ago; and his son, a young man of twenty-two or three, succeeded him—that's the present Earl, gentlemen. And of him we see very little; he scarcely ever stayed at Ellingham Park, except for a bit of shooting, since he came to the title. And now," she concluded, with a shrewd glance at the old lawyer, "I wonder if you see, sir, what it was that came into my mind when this Mr. John Ashton came here a few weeks ago, especially after I heard him say what he did, and after I saw how he was spending his time here?"
"I've no inkling, ma'am; I've no inkling!" said Mr. Pawle. "You wondered—"
"I wondered," murmured Mrs. Summers, bending closer to her listeners, "if the man who called himself John Ashton wasn't in reality the long-lost Lord Marketstoke."
Mr. Pawle, after a glance at Viner which seemed to be full of many meanings, bent forward in his chair and laid a hand on the old landlady's arm.
"Now, have you said as much as that to anybody before?" he asked, eking her significantly. "Have you mentioned it to your neighbours, for instance, or to any one in the town?"
"No, sir!" declared Mrs. Summers promptly. "Not to a soul! I'm given to keeping my ideas to myself, especially on matters of importance. There is no one here in Marketstoke that I would have mentioned such a thing to, now that the late steward, Mr. Marcherson, is dead. I shouldn't have mentioned it to you two gentlemen if it hadn't been for this dreadful news in the papers. No, I've kept my thoughts at home."
"Wise woman!" said Mr. Pawle. "But now let me ask you a few questions.Did you know this Lord Marketstoke before he disappeared?"
"I only saw him two or three times," replied the landlady. "It was seldom that he came to Ellingham Park, after his majority. Of course, I saw him a good deal when he was a mere boy. But after he was grown up, only, as I say, a very few times."
"But you remember him?" suggested Mr. Pawle.
"Oh, very well indeed!" said Mrs. Summers. "I saw him last a day or two before he went away for good."
"Well, now, did you think you recognized anything of him—making allowance for the difference in age—in this man who called himself John Ashton?" asked Mr. Pawle. "For that, of course, is important!"
"Mr. Ashton," answered Mrs. Summers, "was just such a man as Lord Marketstoke might have been expected to become. Height, build—all the Cave-Grays that I've known were big men—colour, were alike. Of course, Mr. Ashton had a beard, slightly grey, but he was a grey-haired man. All the family had crown hair; the present Lord Ellingham is crown-haired. And Mr. Ashton had grey eyes—every Cave-Gray that I remember was grey-eyed. I should say that Mr. Ashton was just what I should have expected Lord Marketstoke to be at sixty."
"I suppose Ashton never said or did anything here to reveal his secret, if he had one?" asked Mr. Pawle, after a moment's thoughtful pause.
"Oh, nothing!" replied Mrs. Summers. "He occupied himself, as I tell you, while he was here, and finally he went away in the car in which he had come, saying that he had greatly enjoyed his stay, and that we should see him again sometime. No—he never said anything about himself, that is. But he asked me several questions; I used to talk to him sometimes, of an evening, about the present Lord Ellingham."
"What sort of questions?" inquired Mr. Pawle.
"Oh—as to what sort of young man he was, and if he was a good landlord and so on," replied Mrs. Summers. "And I purposely told him about the disappearance of thirty-five years ago, just to see what he would say about it."
"Ah! And what did he say?" asked Mr. Pawle.
"Nothing—except that it was extraordinary how people could disappear in this world," said Mrs. Summers. "Whether he was interested or not, he didn't show it."
"Probably felt that he knew more about it than you did," chuckled the old solicitor. "Well, ma'am, we're much obliged to you. Now take my advice and keep to your very excellent plan of saying nothing. Tomorrow morning we will just have a look into certain things, and see if we can discover anything really pertinent, and you shall know what conclusion we come to. Viner!" Pawle went on, when the old landlady had left them alone, "what do you think of this extraordinary story? Upon my word, I think it quite possible that the old lady's theory might be right, and that Ashton may really have been the missing Lord Marketstoke!"
"You think it probable that a man who was heir to an English earldom and to considerable estates could disappear like that, for so many years, and then reappear?" asked Viner.
"I won't discuss the probability," answered Mr. Pawle, "but that it's possible I should steadily affirm. I've known several very extraordinary cases of disappearance. In this particular instance—granting things to be as Mrs. Summers suggests—see how easy the whole thing is. This young man disappears. He goes to a far-off colony under an assumed name. Nobody knows him. It is ten thousand to one against his being recognized by visitors from home. All the advertising in the world will fail to reveal his identity. The only person who knows who he is is himself. And if he refuses to speak—there you are!"
"What surprises me," remarked Viner, "is that a man who evidently lived a new life for thirty-five years and prospered most successfully in it, should want to return to the old one."
"Ah, but you never know!" said the old lawyer. "Family feeling, old associations, loss of the old place—eh? As men get older, their thoughts turn fondly to the scenes and memories of their youth, Viner. If Ashton was really the Lord Marketstoke who disappeared, he may have come down here with no other thought than that of just revisiting his old home for sentimental reasons. He may not have had the slightest intention, for instance, of setting up a claim to the title and estates."
"I don't understand much about the legal aspect of this," said Viner, "but I've been wondering about it while you and the landlady talked. Supposing Ashton to be the long-lost Lord Marketstoke—could he have established a claim such as you speak of?"
"To be sure!" answered Mr. Pawle. "Had he been able to prove that he was the real Simon pure, he would have stepped into title and estates at once. Didn't the old lady say that the seventh Earl died intestate? Very well—the holders since his time, that is to say, Charles, who, his brother's death being presumed, became eighth Earl, and his son, the present holder, would have had to account for everything since the day of the seventh Earl's death. When the seventh Earl died, his elder son, Lord Marketstoke,ipso facto, stepped into his shoes, and if he were, or is, still alive, he's in them still. All he had to do, at any moment, after his father's death, no matter who had come into title and estates, was to step forward and say: 'Here I am!—now I want my rights!'"
"A queer business altogether!" commented Viner. "But whoever Ashton was, he's dead. And the thing that concerns me is this: if he really was Earl of Ellingham, do you think that fact's got anything to do with his murder?"
"That's just what we want to find out," answered Mr. Pawle eagerly. "It's quite conceivable that he may have been murdered by somebody who had a particular interest in keeping him out of his rights. Such things have been known. I want to go into all that. But now here's another matter. If Ashton really was the missing Lord Marketstoke, who is this girl whom he put forward as his ward, to whom he's left his considerable fortune, and about whom nobody knows anything? I've already told you there isn't a single paper or document about her that I can discover. Was he really her guardian?"
"Has this anything to do with it?" asked Viner. "Does it come into things?"
Mr. Pawle did not answer for a moment; he appeared to have struck a new vein of thought and to be exploring it deeply.
"In certain events, it would come into it pretty strongly!" he muttered at last. "I'll tell you why, later on. Now I'm for bed—and first thing after breakfast, in the morning, Viner, we'll go to work."
Viner had little idea of what the old solicitor meant as regards going to work; it seemed to him that for all practical purposes they were already in a maze out of which there seemed no easy way. And he was not at all sure of what they were doing when, breakfast being over next morning, Mr. Pawle conducted him across the square to the old four-square churchyard, and for half an hour walked him up one path and down another and in and around the ancient yew-trees and gravestones.
"Do you know what I've been looking for, Viner?" asked Mr. Pawle at last as he turned towards the church porch. "I was looking for something, you know."
"Not the faintest notion!" answered Viner dismally. "I wondered!"
"I was looking," replied Mr. Pawle with a faint chuckle, "to see if I could find any tombstones or monuments in this churchyard bearing the name Ashton. There isn't one! I take it from that significant fact that Ashton didn't come down here to visit the graves of his kindred. But now come into the church—Mrs. Summers told me this morning that there's a chapel here in which the Cave-Gray family have been interred for two or three centuries. Let's have a look at it."
Viner, who had a dilettante love of ancient architecture, was immediately lost in admiration of the fine old structure into which he and his companion presently stepped. He stood staring at the high rood, the fine old rood screen, the beauty of the clustered columns—had he been alone, and on any other occasion, he would have spent the morning in wandering around nave and aisles and transepts. But Mr. Pawle, severely practical, at once made for the northeast chapel; and Viner, after another glance round, was forced to follow him.
"The Ellingham Chapel!" whispered the old solicitor as they passed a fine old stone screen which Viner mentally registered as fifteenth-century. "No end of Cave-Grays laid here. What a profusion of monuments!"
Viner began to examine those monuments as well as the gloom of the November morning and the dark-painted glass of the windows would permit. And before very long he turned to his companion, who was laboriously reading the inscription on a great box-tomb which stood against the north wall.
"I say!" he whispered. "Here's a curious fact which, in view of what we heard last night, may be of use to us."
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Pawle.
Viner took him by the elbow and led him over to the south wall, on which was arranged a number of ancient tablets, grouped around a great altar-tomb whereon were set up the painted effigies of a gentleman, his wife, and several sons and daughters, all in ruffs, kneeling one after the other, each growing less in size and stature, in the attitude of prayer. He pointed to the inscription on this, and from it to several of the smaller monuments.
"Look here!" he said. "There are Cave-Grays commemorated here from 1570 until 1820. No end of 'em—men and women. And now, see—there's a certain Christian name—a woman's name—which occurs over and over again. There it is—and there—and here—and here—and here again; it's evidently been a favourite family name among the Cave-Gray women for three hundred years at least. You see what it is? Avice!"
Mr. Pawle peered at the various places to which his companion's finger pointed.
"Yes," he answered, "I see it—several times, as you say. Avice! Yes?"
"Miss Wickham's Christian name is Avice," said Viner.
Mr. Pawle started.
"God bless me!" he exclaimed. "So it is! I'd forgotten that. Dear me! Now, that's very odd—too odd, perhaps, to be a coincidence. Very interesting, indeed! Favourite family name without a doubt."
Viner silently went round the chapel, inspecting every monument its four walls sheltered.
"It occurs just nineteen times," he announced at last. "Now, is it a coincidence that Miss Wickham's name should be Avice? Or is it that there's some connection between her and all these dead and gone Avices?"
"Very strange!" admitted Mr. Pawle. "Viner—we'll go next and have a look at the parish registers. But look here! Not a word to parson or clerk about our business! We merely wish to make search for a certain legal purpose, eh?"
Three hours later Viner, heartily weary of turning over old registers full of crabbed writing, was glad when Mr. Pawle closed the one on which he was engaged, intimated that he had seen all he wanted, paid the fees for his search, and whispered to his companion that they would go to lunch.
"Well?" asked Viner as they walked across the square to the EllingtonArms. "Have we done anything?"
"Probably!" answered Mr. Pawle. "For you never know how these little matters might help. We've established two facts, anyway. One—that there have never been any folk of the name of Ashton in this town since the registers came into being in 1567; the other, that the name Avice was a very favourite one indeed amongst the women of the Cave-Gray family. And there's just another little fact which I discovered, and said nothing about while the vicar and clerk were about—it may be nothing, and it may be something."
"What is it?" asked Viner.
"Well," answered Mr. Pawle pausing a few yards away from the porch of the hotel, and speaking in a confidential voice, "it's this: In turning up the records of the Cave-Gray family, as far as they are shown in their parish registers, I found that Stephen John Cave-Gray, sixth Earl of Ellingham, married one Georgina Wickham. Now, is that another coincidence? There you get the two names in combination—Avice Wickham. That particular Countess of Ellingham would, of course, be the grandmother of the Lord Marketstoke who disappeared. Did he think of her maiden name, Wickham, when he wanted a new one for himself? Possibly! And when he married, and had a daughter, did he think of the Christian name so popular with his own womenfolk of previous generations, and call his daughter Avice? And are Marketstoke and Wickham and Ashton all one and the same man?"
"Upon my word, it's a strange muddle!" exclaimed Viner.
"Nothing as yet to what it will be," remarked Mr. Pawle sententiously."Come on—I'm famishing. Let's lunch—and then we'll go back to town."
Another surprise awaited them when they walked into Mr. Pawle's office in Bedford Row at four o'clock that afternoon. A card lay on the old lawyer's blotting-pad, and after glancing at it, he passed it to Viner.
"See that?" he said. "Now, who on earth is Mr. Armitstead Ashton Armitstead, of Rouendale House, Rawtenstall? Who left this?" he went on, as a clerk entered the room with some letters.
"A gentleman who called at three o'clock, sir," replied the clerk. "He said he's travelled specially from Lancashire to see you about the Ashton affair. He's going to call again, sir. In fact," concluded the clerk, glancing into the anteroom, "I think he's here now."
"Bring him in," commanded Mr. Pawle. He made a grimace at Viner as the clerk disappeared. "You see how things develop," he murmured. "What are we going to hear next?"
The man who presently walked in, a tall, grey-bearded, evidently prosperous person, dressed in the height of fashion, glanced keenly from one to the other of the two men who awaited him.
"Mr. Pawle?" he inquired as he dropped into the chair which the old lawyer silently indicated at the side of his desk. "One of your partners, no doubt!" he added, looking again at Viner.
"No sir," replied Mr. Pawle. "This is Mr. Viner, who gave evidence in the case you want to see me about. You can speak freely before him. What is it you have to say, Mr. Armitstead?"
"Not, perhaps, very much, but it may be of use," answered the visitor. "The fact is that, like most folk, I read the accounts of this Ashton murder in the newspapers, and I gave particular attention to what was said by the man Hyde at the inquest the other day. It was what he said in regard to the man whom he alleges he saw leaving Lonsdale Passage that made me come specially to town to see you. I don't know," he went on, glancing at the card which still lay on Mr. Pawle's blotting-pad, "if you know my name at all? I'm a pretty well-known Lancashire manufacturer, and I was a member of Parliament for some years—for the Richdale Valley division. I didn't put up again at the last General Election."
Mr. Pawle bowed.
"Just so, Mr. Armitstead," he answered. "And there's something you know about this case?"
"I know this," replied Mr. Armitstead. "I met John Ashton in Paris some weeks ago. We were at the Hotel Bristol together. In fact, we met and introduced ourselves to each other in an odd way. We arrived at the Hotel Bristol at the same time—he from Italy, I from London, and we registered at the same moment. Now, I have a habit of always signing my name in full, Armitstead Ashton Armitstead. I signed first; he followed. He looked at me and smiled. 'You've got one of my names, anyway, sir,' he remarked. 'And I see you hail from where I hailed from, many a long year ago.' 'Then you're a Lancashire man?' I said. 'I left Lancashire more years ago than I like to think of,' he answered, with a laugh. And then we got talking, and he told me that he had emigrated to Australia when he was young, and that he was going back to England for the first time. We had more talk during the two or three days that we were at the Bristol together, and we came to the conclusion that we were distantly related—a long way back. But he told me that, as far as he was aware, he had no close relations living, and when I suggested to him that he ought to go down to Lancashire and look up old scenes and old friends, he replied that he'd no intention of doing so—he must, he said, have been completely forgotten in his native place by this time."
"Did he tell you what his native place was, Mr. Armitstead?" asked Mr. Pawle, who had given Viner two or three expressive glances during the visitor's story.
"Yes," replied Mr. Armitstead. "He did—Blackburn. He left it as a very young man."
"Well," said Mr. Pawle, "there's a considerable amount of interest in what you tell us, for Mr. Viner and myself have been making certain inquiries during the last twenty-four hours, and we formed, or nearly formed, a theory which your information upsets. Ashtons of Blackburn? We must go into that. For we particularly want to know who Mr. John Ashton was—there's a great deal depending on it. Did he tell you more?"
"About himself, no," replied the visitor, "except that he'd been exceedingly fortunate in Australia, and had made a good deal of money and was going to settle down here in London. He took my address and said he'd write and ask me to dine with him as soon as he got a house to his liking, and he did write, only last week, inviting me to call next time I was in town. Then I saw the accounts of his murder in the papers—a very sad thing!"
"A very mysterious thing!" remarked Mr. Pawle. "I wish we could get some light on it!"
The visitor looked from one man to the other and lowered his voice a little.
"It's possible I can give you a little," he said. "That, indeed, is the real reason why I set off to see you this morning. You will remember that Hyde, the man who is charged with the murder, said before the Coroner that as he turned into Lonsdale Passage, he saw coming out of it a tall man in black clothes who was swathed to the very eyes in a big white muffler?"
"Yes!" said Mr. Pawle. "Well?"
"I saw such a man with Ashton in Paris," answered Mr. Armitstead. "Hyde's description exactly tallies with what I myself should have said."
Mr. Pawle looked at his visitor with still more interest and attention.
"Now, that really is of importance!" he exclaimed. "If Hyde saw such a man—as I believe he did—and you saw such a man, then that man must exist, and the facts that you saw him with Ashton, and that Hyde saw him in close proximity to the place where Ashton was murdered, are of the highest consequence. But—you can tell us more, Mr. Armitstead?"
"Unfortunately, very little," replied the visitor. "What I saw was on the night before I left Paris—after it I never saw Ashton again to speak to. It was late at night. Do you know the Rue Royale? There is at the end of it a well-known restaurant, close to the Place de la Concorde—I was sitting outside this about a quarter to eleven when I saw Ashton and the man I am speaking of pass along the pavement in the direction of the Madeleine. What made me particularly notice the man was the fact that although it was an unusually warm night, he was closely muffled in a big white silk handkerchief. It was swathed about his throat, his chin, his mouth; it reached, in fact, right up to his eyes. An odd thing, on such a warm night—Ashton, who was in evening dress, had his light overcoat thrown well back. He was talking very volubly as they passed me—the other man was listening with evident attention."
"Would you know the man if you saw him again?" asked Viner.
"I should most certainly know him if I saw him dressed and muffled in the same way," asserted Mr. Armitstead. "And I believe I could recognize him from his eyes—which, indeed, were all that I could really see of him. He was so muffled, I tell you, that it was impossible to see if he was a clean-shaven man or a bearded man. But I did see his eyes, for he turned them for an instant full on the light of the restaurant. They were unusually dark, full and brilliant—his glance would best be described as flashing. And I should say, from my impression at the time, and from what I remember of his dress, that he was a foreigner—probably an Italian."
"You didn't see this man at your hotel?" asked Mr. Pawle.
"No—I never saw him except on this one occasion," replied Mr. Armitstead. "And I did not see Ashton after that. I left Paris very early the next morning, for Rouen, where I had some business. You think this matter of the man in the muffler important?"
"Now that you've told us what you have, Mr. Armitstead, I think it's of the utmost importance and consequence—to Hyde," answered Mr. Pawle. "You must see his solicitor—he's Mr. Viner's solicitor too—and offer to give evidence when Hyde's brought up again; it will be of the greatest help. There's no doubt, to me, at any rate, that the man Hyde saw leaving the scene of the murder is the man you saw with Ashton in Paris. But now, who is he? Ashton, as we happen to know, left his ship at Naples, and travelled to England through Italy and France. Is this man some fellow that he picked up on the way? His general appearance, now—how did that strike you?"
"He was certainly a man of great distinction of manner," declared Mr. Armitstead. "He had the air and bearing of—well, of a personage. I should say he was somebody—you know what I mean—a man of superior position, and so on."
"Viner," exclaimed Mr. Pawle, "that man must be found! There must be people in London who saw him that night. People can't disappear like that. We'll set to work on that track—find him we must! Now, all the evidence goes to show that he and Ashton were in company that night—probably they'd been dining together, and he was accompanying Ashton to his house. How is it that no one at all has come forward to say that Ashton was seen with this man? It's really extraordinary!"
Mr. Armitstead shook his head.
"There's one thing you're forgetting, aren't you?" he said. "Ashton and this man mayn't have been in each other's company many minutes when the murder took place. Ashton may have been trapped. I don't know much about criminal affairs, but in reading the accounts of the proceedings before the magistrate and the coroner, an idea struck me which, so far as I could gather from the newspapers, doesn't seem to have struck any one else."
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Pawle. "All ideas are welcome."
"Well, this," replied Mr. Armitstead: "In one of the London newspapers there was a plan, a rough sketchmap of the passage in which the murder took place. I gathered from it that on each side of that passage there are yards or gardens, at the backs of houses—the houses on one side belong to some terrace; on the other to the square—Markendale Square—in which Ashton lived. Now, may it not be that the murder itself was actually committed in one of those houses, and that the body was carried out through a yard or garden to where it was found?"
"Ashton was a big and heavy man," observed Viner. "No one man could have carried him."
"Just so!" agreed Mr. Armitstead. "But don't you think there's a probability that more than one man was engaged in this affair! The man in the muffler, hurrying away, may have only been one of several."
"Aye!" said Mr. Pawle, with a deep sigh. "There's something in all that. It may be as you say—a conspiracy. If we only knew the real object of the crime! But it appears to be becoming increasingly difficult to find it…. What is it?" he asked, as his clerk came into the room with a card. "I'm engaged."
The clerk came on, however, laid the card before his employer, and whispered a few words to him.
"A moment, then—I'll ring," said Mr. Pawle. He turned to his two companions as the clerk retired and closed the door, and smiled as he held up the card. "Here's another man who wants to tell me something about the Ashton case!" he exclaimed.
"It's been quite a stroke of luck having that paragraph in the newspapers, asking for information from anybody who could give it!"
"What's this?" asked Viner.
"Mr. Jan Van Hoeren, Diamond Merchant," read Mr. Pawle from the card, "583 Hatton Garden—"
"Ah!" Mr. Armitstead exclaimed. "Diamonds!"
"I shouldn't wonder if you're right," remarked Mr. Pawle. "Diamonds, I believe, are to Hatton Garden what cabbages and carrots are to Covent." He touched his bell, and the clerk appeared. "Bring Mr. Van Hoeren this way," he said.
There entered, hat in hand, bowing all round, a little fat, beady-eyed man, whose beard was blue-black and glossy, whose lips were red, whose nose was his most decided feature. His hat was new and shining, his black overcoat of superfine cloth was ornamented with a collar of undoubted sable; he carried a gold-mounted umbrella. But there was one thing on him that put all the rest of his finery in the shade. In the folds of his artistically-arranged black satin stock lay a pearl—such a pearl as few folk ever have the privilege of seeing. It was as big as a moderately sized hazel nut, and the three men who looked at it knew that it was something wonderful.
"Take a chair, Mr. Van Hoeren," said Mr. Pawle genially. "You want to tell me something about this Ashton case? Very much obliged to you, I'm sure. These gentlemen are both interested—considerably—in that case, and if you can give me any information that will throw any light on it—"
Mr. Van Hoeren deposited his plump figure in a convenient chair and looked round the circle of faces.
"One thing there is I don't see in them newspapers, Mr. Pawle," he said in strongly nasal accents. "Maybe nobody don't know nothings about it, what? So I come to tell you what I know, see? Something!"
"Very good of you, I'm sure," replied Mr. Pawle. "What may it be?"
Mr. Van Hoeren made a significant grimace; it seemed to imply that there was a great deal to be told.
"Some of us, my way, we know Mr. Ashton," he said. "In Hatton Garden, you understand. Dealers in diamonds, see? Me, and Haas, and Aarons, and one or two more. Business!"
"You've done business with Mr. Ashton?" asked the old lawyer. "Just so!"
"No—done nothing," replied Mr. Van Hoeren. "Not a shilling's worth. But we know him. He came down there. And we don't see nothing in them papers that we expected to see, and today two or three of us, we lunch together, and Haas, he says: 'Them lawyer men,' he says, 'they want information. You go and give it to 'em. So!"
"Well—what is it?" demanded Mr. Pawle.
Mr. Van Hoeren leaned forward and looked from one face to another.
"Ashton," he said, "was carrying a big diamond about—in his pocketbook!"
Mr. Armitstead let a slight exclamation escape his lips. Viner glanced atMr. Pawle. And Mr. Pawle fastened his eyes on his latest caller.
"Mr. Ashton was carrying a big diamond about in his pocketbook?" he said."Ah—have you seen it?"
"Several times I see it," replied Mr. Van Hoeren. "My trade, don't it?Others of us—we see it too."
"He wanted to sell it?" suggested Mr. Pawle.
"There ain't so many people could afford to buy it," said Mr. Van Hoeren.
"Why!" exclaimed Mr. Pawle. "Was it so valuable, then?"
The diamond merchant shrugged his shoulders and waved the gold-mounted umbrella which he was carefully nursing in his tightly-gloved hands.
"Oh, well!" he answered. "Fifty or sixty thousand pounds it was worth—yes!"
The three men who heard this announcement were conscious that at this point the Ashton case entered upon an entirely new phase. Armitstead's mind was swept clean away from the episode in Paris, Viner's from the revelations at Marketstoke, Mr. Pawle suddenly realized that here, at last, was something material and tangible which opened out all sorts of possibilities. And he voiced the thoughts of his two companions as he turned in amazement on the fat little man who sat complacently nursing his umbrella.
"What!" he exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that Ashton was walking aboutLondon with a diamond worth fifty thousand pounds in his pocket?Incredible!"
"Don't see nothing so very incredible about it," retorted Mr. Van Hoeren. "I could show you men what carries diamonds worth twice that much in their pockets about the Garden."
"That's business," said Mr. Pawle. "I've heard of such things—but you all know each other over there, I'm told. Ashton wasn't a diamond merchant. God bless me—he was probably murdered for that stone!"
"That's just what I come to you about, eh?" suggested Mr. Van Hoeren. "You see 'tain't nothing if he show that diamond to me, and such as me; we don't think nothing of that—all in our way of business. But if he gets showing it to other people, in public places—what?"
"Just so!" asserted Mr. Pawle. "Sheer tempting of Providence! I'm amazed! But—how did you get to know Mr. Ashton and to hear of this diamond? Did he come to you?"
"Called on me at my office," answered Mr. Van Hoeren laconically. "Pulled out the diamond and asked me what I thought it was worth. Well, I introduce him to some of the other boys in the Garden, see? He show them the diamond too. We reckon it's worth what I say—fifty to sixty thousand. So!"
"Did he want to sell it?" demanded Mr. Pawle.
"Oh, well, yes—he wouldn't have minded," replied the diamond merchant."Wasn't particular about it, you know—rich man."
"Did he tell you anything about it—how he got it, and so on?" asked Mr.Pawle. "Was there any history attached to it?"
"Oh, nothing much," answered Mr. Van Hoeren. "He told me he'd had it some years—got it in Australia, where he come from to London. Got it cheap, he did—lots of things like that in our business."
"And carried it in his pocket!" exclaimed Mr. Pawle. He stared hard at Mr. Van Hoeren, as if his mind was revolving some unpleasant idea. "I suppose all the people you introduced him to are—all right?" he asked.
"Oh, they're all right!" affirmed Mr. Van Hoeren, with a laugh. "Give my word for any of 'em, eh? But Ashton—if he pulls that diamond out to show to anybody—out of the trade, you understand—well, then, there's lots of fellows in this town would settle him to get hold of it—what?"
"I think you're right," said Mr. Pawle. He glanced at Viner. "This puts a new complexion on affairs," he remarked. "We shall have to let the police know of this. I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Van Hoeren. You won't mind giving evidence about this if it's necessary?"
"Don't mind nothing," said Mr. Van Hoeren. "Me and the other boys, we think you ought to know about that diamond, see?"
He went away, and Mr. Pawle turned to Viner and Armitstead.
"I shouldn't wonder if we're getting at something like a real clue," he said. "It seems evident that Ashton was not very particular about showing his diamond to people! If he'd show it—readily—to a lot of Hatton Garden diamond merchants, who, after all, were strangers to him, how do we know that he wouldn't show it to other men? The fact is, wealthy men like that are often very careless about their possessions. Possibly a diamond worth fifty or sixty thousand pounds wasn't of so much importance in Ashton's eyes as it would have been in—well, in mine. And how do we know that he didn't show the diamond to the man with the muffler, in Paris, and that the fellow followed him here and murdered him for it?"
"Possible!" said Armitstead.
"Doesn't it strike you as strange, though," suggested Viner, "that the first news of this diamond comes from Van Hoeren? One would have thought that Ashton would have mentioned it—and shown it—to Miss Wickham and Mrs. Killenhall. Yet apparently—he never did."
"Yes, that does seem odd," asserted Mr. Pawle. "But there seems to be no end of oddity in this case. And there's one thing that must be done at once: we must have a full and thorough search and examination of all Ashton's effects. His house must be thoroughly searched for papers and so on. Viner, I suppose you're going home? Do me the favour to call at Miss Wickham's, and tell her that I propose to come there at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, to go through Ashton's desk and his various belongings with her—surely there must be something discoverable that will throw more light on the matter. And in the meantime, Viner, don't say anything to her about our journey to Marketstoke—leave that for a while."
Viner went away from Crawle, Pawle, and Rattenbury's in company with Armitstead. Outside, the Lancashire business man gave him a shrewd glance.
"I very much doubt if that diamond has anything whatever to do with Ashton's murder," he said. "From what I saw of him, he seemed to me to be a very practical man, full of business aptitude and common sense, and I don't believe that he'd make a practice of walking about London with a diamond of that value in his pocket. It's all very well that he should have it in his pocket when he went down to Hatton Garden—he had a purpose. But that he should always carry it—no, I don't credit that, Mr. Viner."
"I can scarcely credit such a foolish thing myself," said Viner."But—where is the diamond?"
"Perhaps you'll find it tomorrow," suggested Armitstead. "The man would be sure to have some place in his house where he kept his valuables. I shall be curious to hear."
"Are you staying in town?" inquired Viner.
"I shall be at the Hotel Cecil for a fortnight at least," answered Armitstead. "And if I can be of any use to you or Mr. Pawle, you've only to ring me up there. You've no doubt yourself, I think, that the unfortunate fellow Hyde is innocent?"
"None!" said Viner. "No doubt whatever! But—the police have a strong case against him. And unless we can find the actual murderer, I'm afraid Hyde's in a very dangerous position."
"Well," said Armitstead, "in these cases, you never know what a sudden and unexpected turn of events may do. That man with the muffler is the chap you want to get hold of—I'm sure of that!"
Viner went home and dined with his aunt and their two guests, Hyde's sisters, whom he endeavoured to cheer up by saying that things were developing as favourably as could be expected, and that he hoped to have good news for them ere long. They were simple souls, pathetically grateful for any scrap of sympathy and comfort, and he strove to appear more confident about the chances of clearing this unlucky brother than he really felt. It was his intention to go round to Number Seven during the evening, to deliver Mr. Pawle's message to Miss Wickham, but before he rose from his own table, a message arrived by Miss Wickham's parlour-maid—would Mr. Viner be kind enough to come to the house at once?
At this, Viner excused himself to his guests and hurried round to Number Seven, to find Miss Wickham and Mrs. Killenhall, now in mourning garments, in company with a little man whom Viner at once recognized as a well-known tradesman of Westbourne Grove—a florist and fruiterer named Barleyfield, who was patronized by all the well-to-do folk of the neighbourhood. He smiled and bowed as Viner entered the room, and turned to Miss Wickham as if suggesting that she should explain his presence.
"Oh, Mr. Viner!" said Miss Wickham, "I'm so sorry to send for you so hurriedly, but Mr. Barleyfield came to tell us that he could give some information about Mr. Ashton, and as Mr. Pawle isn't available, and I don't like to send for a police-inspector, I thought that you, perhaps—"
"To be sure!" said Viner. "What is it, Mr. Barleyfield?"
Mr. Barleyfield, who had obviously attired himself in his Sunday raiment for the purposes of his call, and had further shown respect for the occasion by wearing a black cravat, smiled as he looked from the two ladies to Viner.
"Well, Mr. Viner," he answered, "I'll tell you what it is—it may help a bit in clearing up things, for I understand there's a great deal of mystery about Mr. Ashton's death. Now, I'm told, sir, that nobody—especially these good ladies—knows nothing about what the deceased gentleman used to do with himself of an evening—as a rule. Just so. Well, you know, Mr. Viner, a tradesman like myself generally knows a good deal about the people of his neighbourhood. I knew Mr. Ashton very well indeed—he was a good customer of mine, and sometimes he'd stop and have a bit of chat with me. And I can tell you where he very often spent an hour or two of an evening."
"Yes—where?" asked Viner.
"At the Grey Mare Inn, sir," answered Barleyfield promptly. "I have often seen him there myself."
"The Grey Mare Inn!" exclaimed Viner, while Mrs. Killenhall and Miss Wickham looked at each other wonderingly. "Where is that? It sounds like the name of some village tavern."
"Ah, but you don't know this part of London as I do, sir!" said Barleyfield, with a knowing smile. "If you did, you'd know the Grey Mare well enough—it's an institution. It's a real old-fashioned place, between Westbourne Grove and Notting Hill—one of the very last of the old taverns, with a tea-garden behind it, and a bar-parlour of a very comfortable sort, where various old fogies of the neighbourhood gather of an evening and smoke churchwarden pipes and tell tales of the olden days—I rather gathered from what I saw that it was the old atmosphere that attracted Mr. Ashton—made him think of bygone England, you know, Mr. Viner."
"And you say he went there regularly?" asked Viner.
"I've seen him there a great deal, sir, for I usually turn in there for half an hour or so, myself, of an evening, when business is over and I've had my supper," answered Barleyfield. "I should say that he went there four or five nights a week."
"And no doubt conversed with the people he met there?" suggested Viner.
"He was a friendly, sociable man, sir," said Barleyfield. "Yes, he was fond of a talk. But there was one man there that he seemed to associate with—an elderly, superior gentleman whose name I don't know, though I'm familiar enough with his appearance. Him and Mr. Ashton I've often seen sitting in a particular corner, smoking their cigars, and talking together. And—if it's of any importance—I saw them talking like that, at the Grey Mare, the very evening that—that Mr. Ashton died, Mr. Viner."
"What time was that?" asked Viner.
"About the usual time, sir—nine-thirty or so," replied Barleyfield. "I generally look in about that time—nine-thirty to ten."
"Did you leave them talking there?" inquired Viner.
"They were there when I left, sir, at a quarter past ten," answeredBarleyfield. "Talking in their usual corner."
"And you say you don't know who this man is?"
"I don't! I know him by sight—but he's a comparatively recent comer to the Grey Mare. I've noticed him for a year or so—not longer."
Viner glanced at the two ladies.
"I suppose you never heard Mr. Ashton mention the Grey Mare?" he asked.
"We never heard Mr. Ashton say anything about his movements," answered Miss Wickham. "We used to wonder, sometimes, if he'd joined a club or if he had friends that we knew nothing about."
"Well," said Viner, turning to the florist, "do you think you could take me to the Grey Mare, Mr. Barleyfield?"
"Nothing easier, sir—open to one and all!"
"Then, if you've the time to spare, we'll go now," said Viner. He lingered behind a moment to tell Miss Wickham of Mr. Pawle's appointment for the morning, and then went away with Barleyfield in the Notting Hill direction. "I suppose you've been at the Grey Mare since Mr. Ashton's death?" he asked as they walked along.
"Once or twice, sir," replied Barleyfield.
"And you've no doubt heard the murder discussed?" suggested Viner.
"I've heard it discussed hard enough, sir, there and elsewhere," replied the florist. "But at the Gray Mare itself, I don't think anybody knew that this man who'd been murdered was the same as the grey-bearded gentleman who used to drop in there sometimes. They didn't when I was last in, anyway. Perhaps this gentleman I've mentioned to you might know—Mr. Ashton might have told his name to him. But you know how it is in these places, Mr. Viner—people drop in, even regularly, and fellow-customers may have a bit of talk with them without having the least idea who they are. Between you and me, sir, I came to the conclusion that Mr. Ashton was a man who liked to see a bit of what we'll call informal, old-fashioned tavern life, and he hit on this place by accident, in one of his walks round, and took to coming where he could be at his ease—amongst strangers."
"No doubt," agreed Viner.
He followed his guide through various squares and streets until they came to the object of their pilgrimage—a four-square, old-fashioned house set back a little from the road, with a swinging sign in front, and a garden at the side. Barleyfield led him through this garden to a side-door, whence they passed into a roomy, low-ceilinged parlour which reminded Viner of old coaching prints—he would scarcely have believed it possible that such a pre-Victorian room could be found in London. There were several men in it, and he nudged his companion's elbow.
"Let us sit down in a quiet corner and have something to drink," he said."I just want to take a look at this place—and its frequenters."
Barleyfield led him to a nook near the chimney-corner and beckoned to an aproned boy who hung about with a tray under his arm. But before Viner could give an order, his companion touched his arm and motioned towards the door.
"Here's the gentleman Mr. Ashton used to talk to!" he whispered. "The tall man—just coming in."
Remembering that Barleyfield had said that the man who now entered had been in Ashton's company in that very room on the evening of the murder, Viner looked at him with keen interest and speculation. He was a tall, well-built, clean-shaven man, of professional appearance and of a large, heavy, solemn face the evidently usual pallor of which was deepened by his black overcoat and cravat. An eminently respectable, slow-going, unimaginative man, in Viner's opinion, and of a type which one may see by the dozen in the precincts of the Temple; a man who would be content to do a day's work in a placid fashion, and who cherished no ambition to set the Thames on fire; certainly, so Viner thought from appearances, not the man to commit a peculiarly daring murder. Nevertheless, knowing what he did, he watched him closely.
The newcomer, on entering, glanced at once at a quiet corner of the room, and seeing it unoccupied, turned to the bar, where the landlord, who was as old-fashioned as his surroundings, was glancing over the evening paper. He asked for whisky and soda, and when he took up the glass, drank slowly and thoughtfully. Suddenly he turned to the landlord.
"Have you seen that gentleman lately that I've sometimes talked to in the corner there?" he asked.
The landlord glanced across the room and shook his head.
"Can't say that I have, sir," he answered. "The tallish gentleman with a grey beard? No, he hasn't been in this last night or two."
The other man sat down his glass and drew something from his pocket.
"I promised to bring him a specimen of some cigars I bought lately," he said, laying an envelope on the counter. "I can't stop tonight. If he should come in, will you give him that—he'll know what it is."
"Good heavens!" muttered Viner, as he turned in surprise to Barleyfield."These men evidently don't know that the man they're talking about is—"
"Murdered!" whispered Barleyfield, with a grim smile. "Nothing wonderful in that, Mr. Viner. They haven't connected Mr. Ashton with the man they're mentioning—that's all."
"And yet Ashton's portrait has been in the papers!" exclaimed Viner. "It amazes me!"
"Aye, just so, sir," said Barleyfield. "But—a hundred yards in London takes you into another world, Mr. Viner. For all practical purposes, Lonsdale Passage, though it's only a mile away, is as much separated from this spot as New York is from London. Well—that's the man I told you of, sir."
The man in question drank off the remaining contents of his glass, nodded to the landlord, and walked out. And Viner was suddenly minded to do something towards getting information.
"Look here!" he said. "I'm going to ask that landlord a question or two.Come with me."
He went up to the bar, Barleyfield following in close attendance, and gave the landlord a significant glance.
"Can I have a word with you, in private?" he asked.
The landlord looked his questioner over and promptly opened a flap in the counter.
"Step inside, sir," he said, indicating a door in the rear. "Private room there, sir."
Viner and Barleyfield walked into a little snugly furnished sitting-room; the landlord followed and closed the door.
"Do you happen to know the name of the gentleman who was speaking to you just now?" asked Viner, going straight to his point. "I've a very particular reason for wishing to know it."
"No more idea than I have of yours, sir," replied the landlord with a shrewd glance.
Viner pulled out a card and laid it on the table.
"That is my name," he said. "You and the gentleman who has just gone out were speaking just now of another gentleman whom he used to meet here—who used to sit with him in that far corner. Just so—you don't know the name of that gentleman, either?"
"No more than I know the others', sir," replied the landlord, shaking his head. "Lord bless you, folks may come in here for a year or two, and unless they happen to be neighbours of mine, I don't know who they are. Now, there's your friend there," he went on, indicating Barleyfield with a smile, "I know his face as that of a customer, but I don't know who he is! That gentleman who's just gone out, he's been in the habit of dropping in here for a twelvemonth, maybe, but I never remember hearing his name. As for the gentleman he referred to, why, I know him as one that's come in here pretty regular for the last few weeks, but I don't know his name, either."
"Have you heard of the murder in Lonsdale Passage?" asked Viner.
"Markendale Square way? Yes," answered the landlord, with awakening interest. "Why, is it anything to do—"
Viner saw an illustrated paper lying on a side-table and caught it up. There was a portrait of Ashton in it, and he held it up before the landlord.
"Don't you recognize that?" he asked.
The landlord started and stared.
"Bless my life and soul!" he exclaimed. "Why, surely that's very like the gentleman I just referred to—I should say it was the very man!"
"It is the very man!" said Viner with emphasis, "the man for whom your customer who's just gone out left the envelope. Now, this man who was murdered in Lonsdale Passage was here in your parlour for some time on the evening of the night on which he was murdered, and he was then in conversation with the man who has just gone out. Naturally, therefore, I should like to know that man's name."
"You're not a detective?" suggested the landlord.
"Not at all!" replied Viner. "I was a neighbour of Mr. Ashton's, and I am interested—deeply interested—in an attempt to clear up the mystery of his death. Things keep coming out. I didn't know until this evening that Ashton spent some time here, at your house, the night he was killed. But when I got to know, I came along to make one or two inquiries."
"Bless me!" said the landlord, who was still staring at the portrait. "Yes, that's the gentleman, sure enough! I've often wondered who he was—pleasant, sociable sort, he was, poor fellow. Now I come to think of it I remember him being in here that night—last time, of course, he was ever in. He was talking to that gentleman who's just gone; in fact, they left together."
"They left together, did they!" exclaimed Viner with a sharp glance atBarleyfield. "Ah! What time was that, now?"
"As near as I can recollect, about ten-fifteen to ten-thirty," answered the landlord. "They'd been talking together for a good hour in that corner where they usually sat. But dear me," he went on, looking from one to the other of his two visitors, "I'm quite sure that gentleman who's just left doesn't know of this murder! Why, you heard him ask for the other gentleman, and leave him some cigars that he'd promised!"
"Just so—which makes it all the stranger," said Viner. "Well, I'm much obliged to you, landlord—and for the time being, just keep the matter of this talk strictly to yourself. You understand?"
"As you wish, sir," assented the landlord. "I shan't say anything. You wouldn't like me to find out this gentleman's name? Somebody'll know him. My own idea is that he lives in this part—he began coming in here of an evening about a year since."
"No—do nothing at present," said Viner. "The inquiries are only beginning."
He impressed the same obligation of silence on Barleyfield as they went away, and the florist readily understood.
"No hard work for me to hold my tongue, Mr. Viner," he said. "We tradespeople are pretty well trained to that, sir! There's things and secrets I could tell! But upon my word, I don't ever remember quite such a case as this. And I expect it'll be like most cases of the sort!"
"What do you mean?" asked Viner.
"Oh, there'll be a sudden flash of light on it, sir, all of a sudden," replied Barleyfield. "And then—it'll be as clear as noonday."
"I don't know where it's coming from!" muttered Viner. "I don't even see a rift in the clouds yet."
He had been at work for an hour or two with Miss Wickham and Mr. Pawle next morning, searching for whatever might be discovered among Ashton's effects, before he saw any reason to alter this opinion. The bunch of keys discovered in the murdered man's pocket had been duly delivered to Miss Wickham by the police, and she handed them over to the old solicitor with full license to open whatever they secured. But both Mr. Pawle and Viner saw at once that Ashton had been one of those men who have no habit of locking up things. In all that roomy house he had but one room which he kept to himself—a small, twelve-foot-square apartment on the ground floor, in which, they said, he used to spend an hour or two of a morning. It contained little in the way of ornament or comfort—a solid writing-desk with a hard chair, an easy-chair by the fireplace, a sofa against the wall, a map of London and a picture or two, a shelf of old books, a collection of walking-sticks, and umbrellas: these made up all there was to see.
And upon examination the desk yielded next to nothing. One drawer contained a cash-box, a checkbook, a pass-book. Some sixty or seventy pounds in notes, gold and silver lay in the cash-box; the stubs of the checks revealed nothing but the payment of tradesmen's bills; the pass-book showed that an enormous balance lay at the bank. In another drawer rested a collection of tradesmen's books—Mr. Ashton, said Mrs. Killenhall, used to pay his tradesmen every week; these books had been handed to him on the very evening of his death for settlement next morning.
"Evidently a most methodical man!" remarked Mr. Pawle. "Which makes it all the more remarkable that so few papers are discoverable. You'd have thought that in his longish life he'd have accumulated a good many documents that he wanted to keep."
But documents there were next to none. Several of the drawers of the desk were empty, save for stationery. One contained a bunch of letters, tied up with blue ribbon—these, on examination, proved to be letters written by Miss Wickham, at school in England, to her guardian in Australia. Miss Wickham, present while Mr. Pawle and Viner searched, showed some emotion at the sight of them.
"I used to write to him once a month," she said. "I had no idea that he had kept the letters, though!"
The two men went silently on with their search. But there was no further result. Ashton did not appear to have kept any letters or papers relative to his life or doings prior to his coming to England. Private documents of any sort he seemed to have none. And whatever business had taken him to Marketstoke, they could find no written reference to it; nor could they discover anything about the diamond of which Mr. Van Hoeren had spoken. They went upstairs to his bedroom and examined the drawers, cabinets and dressing-case—they found nothing.
"This is distinctly disappointing," remarked Mr. Pawle when he and Viner returned to the little room. "I never knew a man who left such small evidence behind him. It's quite evident to me that there's nothing whatever in this house that's going to be of any use to us. I wonder if he rented a box at any of the safe-deposit places? He must have had documents of some sort."
"In that case, we should surely have found a key, and perhaps a receipt for the rent of the box," suggested Viner. "I should have thought he'd have had a safe in his own house," he added, "but we don't hear of one."
Mr. Pawle looked round the room, as if suspicious that Ashton might have hidden papers in the stuffing of the sofa or the easy-chair.
"I wonder if there's anything in that," he said suddenly. "It looks like a receptacle of some sort."
Viner turned and saw the old lawyer pointing to a curious Japanese cabinet which stood in the middle of the marble mantelpiece—the only really notable ornament in the room. Mr. Pawle laid hold of it and uttered a surprised exclamation. "That's a tremendous weight for so small a thing!" he said. "Feel it!"
Viner took hold of the cabinet—an affair of some eighteen inches in height and twelve in depth—and came to the conclusion that it was heavily weighted with lead. He lifted it down to the desk, giving it a slight shake.
"I took it for a cigar cabinet," he remarked. "How does it open? Have you a key that will fit it?"
But upon examination there was no keyhole, and nothing to show how the door was opened.
"I see what this is," said Viner, after looking closely over the cabinet, back, front and sides. "It opens by a trick—a secret. Probably you press something somewhere and the door flies open. But—where?"
"Try," counselled Mr. Pawle. "There's something inside—I heard it when you shook the thing."
It took Viner ten minutes to find out the secret. He would not have found it at all but for accident. But pressing here and pulling there, he suddenly touched what appeared to be no more than a cleverly inserted rivet in the ebony surface; there was a sharp click, and the panelled front flew open.
"There is something!" exclaimed Mr. Pawle. "Papers!"
He drew out a bundle of papers, folded in a strong sheet of cartridge-paper and sealed back and front. The enveloping cover was old and faded; the ribbon which had been tied round the bundle was discoloured by age; the wax of the seals was cracked all over the surface.
"No inscription, no writing," said Mr. Pawle. "Now, I wonder what's in here?"
"Shall I fetch Miss Wickham?" suggested Viner. Mr. Pawle hesitated.
"No!" he said at last. "I think not. Let us first find out what this packet contains. I'll take the responsibility."
He cut the ribbons beneath the seals, and presently revealed a number of letters, old and yellow, in a woman's handwriting. And after a hasty glance at one or two of the uppermost, he turned to Viner with an exclamation that signified much.
"Viner!" he said, "here is indeed a find! These are letters written by the Countess of Ellingham to her son, Lord Marketstoke, when he was a schoolboy at Eton!"