CHAPTER III

Fromtime to time in the ever-recurring sequence of murders of which the details are given to the world by a vigilant and busy Press, one will be found which stands out and grips the public attention. Sometimes it is the gruesome detail of the crime which awakens the interest of the world at large. More often it is the mystery which envelopes its circumstance and stands between the general curiosity and the satisfaction thereof by a full explanation of the motive. But the greatest excitement always occurs when the victim of the crime happens to be an individual already, on other grounds, well known to the public and more or less a celebrity. Such a murder occurred a few days before Easter, in the year 1902. Sir John Rellingham, a well-known solicitor—one of the most prominentmen in his profession—stayed on late at his offices one afternoon, busily engaged in writing. One by one his junior partners and managing clerks had drifted away, and, after the office clock had indicated the hour of six, Sir John and his confidential secretary were the only ones who remained in the building. The solicitor rang his bell, and his secretary presented himself.

“There’s no need for you to stay any longer, Smith. Don’t wait for me. I shall be busy for some time.”

“I’ve just been working on those Trentbeck leases, and I may as well finish them. I’m really in no hurry to go, sir.”

“Oh, those can wait, Smith. I’d rather you went. Just lock up everything before you go.”

Sir John was found still seated at his writing-table, but dead“Sir John was found still seated at his writing-table, but dead”

“Sir John was found still seated at his writing-table, but dead”

“Very well, Sir John,” had been the answer; and the man, in obedience to the directions given him, had put books and papers away, locked up the safe, and gone.Of what took place afterwards no one had any knowledge. On the following day Sir John was found still seated at his writing-table, but dead: shot through the temple.

No weapon of any kind was found in the room, and the appearance of the wound left no doubt that the shot must have been fired from only a short distance. That it was murder there could be no doubt. Suicide was perfectly impossible.

Before the coroner’s jury had brought in their verdict of “Wilful murder by some person or persons unknown,” the whole of the public Press was seething with excitement. The firm of Rellingham, Baxter, Marston & Moorhouse stood at the head of the profession. It had behind it more than a century of untarnished and honourable repute; half the peerage employed the firm in those parts of their legal necessities which were of a reputable character, and the name of one or other of the partners inthe firm was to be found as a trustee in a very large proportion of the great family settlements which were in operation. The capital for which the firm somehow or other stood in the relation of trustee ran into many millions. But the public had become suspicious of solicitor trustees, and every one waited for the impending crash to which the mysterious death of Sir John appeared to be the usual prelude. Men whispered, “How much will they break for?” But the crash never came. An immediate and searching audit, required at once by the surviving partners, disclosed the facts that there was not a penny missing, not a single suspicious circumstance in the affairs of the firm. Its repute was as untarnished, its integrity as unchallengable as had been the case throughout the long history of the firm; and the public really began to believe in the truth of the verdict at the inquest. The murder, of course, engagedthe keenest attention of the police; but as the weeks flew by without producing any explanation of the mystery, the partners of Sir John commenced to take steps of their own. Sir John, they knew, was a widower, without children, and with few relatives, but many friends. Carefully and methodically his partners, who were his executors, examined and scrutinised every paper left by Sir John both at his house and at his office. Everything was perfectly open, straightforward, and free from any trace of suspicion upon which a clue could be founded. Everything was ordinary, humdrum, and usual, with one exception.

This one exception was a clause in Sir John’s will, and this clause ran as follows:—

“I give and bequeath, free of all charges and legacy duty, the sum of £20,000 to my partners, Arthur Baxter, Charles Marston,and Edward Moorhouse, upon trust, to be applied by them to and for the purposes which I have taken steps to sufficiently indicate to them, such trust to be executed according to their honour and integrity, of which I am well satisfied, and without the interference, check, or control of any person or persons whomsoever; and I direct that if at any time, in the absolute exercise of their unfettered discretion, they or the survivors or survivor of them shall at any time decide that the further existence of the trust which I have hereby constituted and created has become impossible, then and forthwith the said trust shall immediately cease and determine, and my said partners or the then survivors or survivor of them shall stand possessed in their or his own right and for their or his own use and benefit of the capital moneys of the said trust, and shall not be required by anybody to render accounts or explanations of theiror his dealings with the trust or of their or his action or actions in regard to it. And I further direct that if at any time this trust or the capital moneys of this trust shall be or shall become the subject matter of litigation through the interference or intervention of any party or parties other than my said partners, or the survivors or survivor of them, then and forthwith and from the commencement of such litigation the said trust shall cease and determine, and the capital sums of the said trust shall be distributed and applied in the form and manner above provided.”

In due course of time the will of Sir John Rellingham was proved, and, as was only to be expected, this curious clause was reprinted in the Press pretty widely. The mystery of Sir John’s murder had remained unsolved, and was passing into the oblivion of public forgetfulness, when curiosity was again aroused by the strange wording ofthe clause in Sir John’s will. All other clues had failed. Here was the chance of a clue. The sensational Press thundered for a full revelation of this secret trust, arguing speciously that the mystery of Sir John’s death was a matter of public concern, and private interests must bow to public necessities. The partners met the demand by a point-blank refusal to disclose any information whatever. As one of them—Arthur Baxter—said to an inquisitive reporter: “The public know of the clause in the will—the law has compelled us to disclose it; but if we could have avoided doing so, we should not have made even that much public. It would have been possible, by making other arrangements for Sir John, to have obviated even that disclosure; but you can take it from me that a secret trust in a will is not an uncommon occurrence. If Sir John had not been murdered, the clause would never have attractedany attention. But Sir John was a clever lawyer, and he knew perfectly well, when he drew that clause, that public curiosity as to its meaning need not be satisfied, and no doubt he preferred to run the risk of that curiosity rather than constitute the trust in his own lifetime. So you can tell your editor, with my compliments and the compliments of the firm and my partners individually and collectively, that we will see him and his paper and all of the rest of the Press a good deal further on its way to an undesirable place before we give one word of explanation of that clause.”

It was an unwise remark to have made. Mr. Baxter, a steady-going solicitor, in the security of his knowledge of the law, scoffed at the possibility of interference. He had no experience of the inquisitive prying of a sensational evening paper. The latter, irritated by the contempt of the solicitor, laid itself out to teach him a dueand proper respect for the power of the Press. Day after day it returned to the attack, demanding, in the interests of justice, a full disclosure. So reiterated became the demand, so irritating to the public curiosity was the blanknon possumusof the solicitors, that at last the inevitable happened and the public came to believe (a perfectly unwarranted hypothesis) that in the details of the trust which had been created lay the explanation of the murder, and the partners and executors were publicly hounded into the position of accomplices in the crime, on the assumption that by keeping the trust secret they were assisting the culprit to evade the claims of justice. It is not difficult for an energetic newspaper to create such an impression, and the obstinate silence of the surviving partners of Sir John fanned the flame of public curiosity. So rooted did this conviction become that at last it took hold of Scotland Yard. Oncea settled conviction obtains a footing in that quarter, it usually sticks, and the Home Office took a hand in the game and asked for an assurance from the firm that the secret trust had no connection with the murder.

The firm replied that they were unable to give that or any other assurance.

A lengthy correspondence followed, which culminated in a personal letter from the Home Secretary, egged on by Scotland Yard, asking the partners of the firm to disclose in confidence the terms and purposes of the secret trust, and conveying concurrently an intimation that the disclosure could be made personally to the Home Secretary without witnesses, and his personal assurance that, no matter what the trust might be, no action against any member of the firm should be based upon any such disclosure.

The letter was misunderstood. The promise of the indemnity was madebonafide. The Home Secretary was perfectly cognisant that many secret trusts are illegal or made for illegal objects, and his only desire was to let the firm know that he personally would respect that trust and their confidence, if they would show him that this particular trust had nothing to do with the murder.

Knowing the high reputation the firm deservedly enjoyed, the partners were perfectly furious at the bare suggestion that they might be parties to either illegal or dishonest actions, and the reply to the Home Secretary was brief and to the point.

“Sir,—On behalf of myself and the other surviving partners of this firm, I beg to state that we resent the tone and contents and the insinuations of your letter. We point-blank decline to supply you with any information whatsoever.—I am, sir, your obedient servant, (Arthur Baxter) forRellingham, Baxter, Marston & Moorhouse.”

The Home Secretary replied in another personal letter, regretting that his letter had been misunderstood, and stating that he felt assured the letter of Mr. Baxter had been written in momentary irritation, and that the firm, upon reconsideration, would see that the most satisfactory course to pursue would be a compliance with his suggestion. The answer to the second letter was still briefer than had been the former.

“Sir,—You can go to the devil or wherever else you feel inclined.—Yours faithfully,Arthur Baxter.”

And the Home Secretary was on the horns of a dilemma. Afraid to litigate and thus end the trust—for the terms of the will were before him—worried by ScotlandYard to compel a revelation, which the determined opposition he was meeting seemed only to intensify the apparent necessity of—he nevertheless clearly saw there was another possibility. Were the partners in the firm with diabolical cunning simply doing all they knew to compel him to litigate, and by so doing convey to them the actual property in the capital moneys of the trust, free from any legal or moral liability? And with the ingrained suspicion of the Government official he decided this must be the true explanation.

Finally, on anex partemotion, he obtained an injunction pending proceedings, restraining the trustees from taking any steps in regard to the dissolution and realisation of the trust. Having done this he served notice upon them of his intention to apply for a rule requiring them to show cause why the trust should not be disclosed and the capital moneys paid into court.

And then Mr. Baxter went and consulted Ashley Tempest.

“It isn’t often you come here on business, Baxter,” said the barrister, as he rose to greet his caller.

“No; our work isn’t often in your line. I think it’s nearly fifty years since we litigated a criminal case, and we don’t often litigate on the King’s Bench side either. To be perfectly frank with you, Tempest, I’ve come here as much for your advice as a man of the world as a barrister.”

“There are a good many men better qualified to give that kind of counsel than I am.”

“Possibly, but they haven’t your knowledge of criminal law. Do you know anything about trusts, Tempest?”

“A bit—I daresay as much as most of the men on our side of the hedge. But if it’s a trust, why don’t you go to Overhill?”

“I’m going on to him presently—whenI’ve heard what you’ve got to say. But these chancery men always seem to me to be machines without humanity. To be candid, my partners and I want to know exactly where we stand over this infernal secret trust which old Sir John strapped on our shoulders. I suppose you’ve heard about it?”

“I’ve seen what the newspapers have had to say, and I’ve heard the usual gossip that’s gone on. What’s the trouble? But are you wise in coming to me? Suppose it is—of course I don’t know—suppose it is mixed up with Sir John’s murder, and the defence brief were to come along to me, it might prove very inconvenient to you?”

“I don’t think so. My partners and I talked it over, on the supposition that in such a case you would get the brief, and I have come to you, at the express wish of the three of us. You see, we don’t knowyet what the real objects of this secret trust are.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Just what I say, Tempest. The trust, as it appears from the clause of the will, is a holy terror of a mystery; but when you come to read our instructions you’ll find that it’s twenty times as much a mystery. Here, read this!” and the solicitor passed across a letter.

“ToArthur Baxter,Charles Marston,Edward Moorhouse, my partners and friends.“Forgive me if I remind you that your partnerships in the firm were not purchased in cash, but were given to you by myself in testimony of my high appreciation of your several abilities, of your worth, your integrity, and discretion. I have always had and still retain my high opinion of you all. As you will be aware, from my will, my remaininghalf share in the proprietorship of the firm I have bequeathed equally amongst you, and I have in my will also bequeathed to you jointly the sum of £20,000 upon trust. May I rest assured you will repay the obligations I remind you of, by accepting the trouble this trust may entail? The object of the trust is to pay the annual income arising from the capital moneys of the trust to the partners in the firm for the time being, as an annual payment for their services in preserving that capital intact. Whatever changes may take place in the firm after my death at any time during the continuance of the trust, I desire that the necessary steps shall be taken for its proper preservation. A certain eventuality may at some time arise, for which I wish to provide, should it ever happen. But I cannot provide for it, save by a disclosure which would amount to a breach of honour, a breach of confidence, and a breach of trust.That eventuality may never arise. Writing calmly and deliberately I say, for your guidance, that it is probable that it never will arise; but if it ever does, then certain information is necessary to enable you to act justly and as I desire. That information is contained in the sealed packet which you will find herewith; but, if you have any gratitude to my memory, then I solemnly charge you to respect my wishes that that packet shall remain sealed and its contents unexamined until events compel this by the occurrence of the eventuality for which I am providing. I cannot indicate what that eventuality will be, or in what manner it will arise, and I leave the point entirely to your discretion to determine whether it has arrived or not. I say only, that if it does you will at once recognise it. It will be plainly apparent beyond doubt that it has arisen, and I warn you that any eventuality as to which you have doubt cannotbe the one I am providing for. If at the end of a hundred years, from the 18th August 1881, no such eventuality has arisen, it will by then be impossible for it ever to occur, and I then desire that this packet shall be destroyed unopened. The commencement of any litigation which may involve the disclosure of the information in the packet is to be held to be the termination of the trust, and I desire this my wish to be regarded as a vital part of the trust, and I leave it as a sacred charge upon you all that the packet shall be immediately destroyed. Offering you my gratitude, not only for your past devotion to the firm, but also for the personal friendship of yourselves, which it has been my privilege to enjoy.—I remain, your affectionate partner,John Rellingham.”

“ToArthur Baxter,Charles Marston,Edward Moorhouse, my partners and friends.

“Forgive me if I remind you that your partnerships in the firm were not purchased in cash, but were given to you by myself in testimony of my high appreciation of your several abilities, of your worth, your integrity, and discretion. I have always had and still retain my high opinion of you all. As you will be aware, from my will, my remaininghalf share in the proprietorship of the firm I have bequeathed equally amongst you, and I have in my will also bequeathed to you jointly the sum of £20,000 upon trust. May I rest assured you will repay the obligations I remind you of, by accepting the trouble this trust may entail? The object of the trust is to pay the annual income arising from the capital moneys of the trust to the partners in the firm for the time being, as an annual payment for their services in preserving that capital intact. Whatever changes may take place in the firm after my death at any time during the continuance of the trust, I desire that the necessary steps shall be taken for its proper preservation. A certain eventuality may at some time arise, for which I wish to provide, should it ever happen. But I cannot provide for it, save by a disclosure which would amount to a breach of honour, a breach of confidence, and a breach of trust.That eventuality may never arise. Writing calmly and deliberately I say, for your guidance, that it is probable that it never will arise; but if it ever does, then certain information is necessary to enable you to act justly and as I desire. That information is contained in the sealed packet which you will find herewith; but, if you have any gratitude to my memory, then I solemnly charge you to respect my wishes that that packet shall remain sealed and its contents unexamined until events compel this by the occurrence of the eventuality for which I am providing. I cannot indicate what that eventuality will be, or in what manner it will arise, and I leave the point entirely to your discretion to determine whether it has arrived or not. I say only, that if it does you will at once recognise it. It will be plainly apparent beyond doubt that it has arisen, and I warn you that any eventuality as to which you have doubt cannotbe the one I am providing for. If at the end of a hundred years, from the 18th August 1881, no such eventuality has arisen, it will by then be impossible for it ever to occur, and I then desire that this packet shall be destroyed unopened. The commencement of any litigation which may involve the disclosure of the information in the packet is to be held to be the termination of the trust, and I desire this my wish to be regarded as a vital part of the trust, and I leave it as a sacred charge upon you all that the packet shall be immediately destroyed. Offering you my gratitude, not only for your past devotion to the firm, but also for the personal friendship of yourselves, which it has been my privilege to enjoy.—I remain, your affectionate partner,John Rellingham.”

“You are right about the mystery, Baxter.”

“Yes. I wonder if any such trust has ever been created before!”

“I doubt it. Still, it’s all pretty plain sailing. You three are just to draw the income till some overpowering circumstance occurs which advertises itself as the occasion Sir John refers to.”

“I haven’t told you quite all, Tempest. The Home Secretary has commenced litigation, and he has also obtained anex parteinjunction, restraining our firm from destroying any documents or dealing with the trust, pending an order of the court.”

“Then by the terms of the will the trust is already at an end, and you rake in and divide the capital. But it’s rather awkward about the documents. By the terms of the trust they must at once be destroyed, and yet you say the Crown have got an injunction to prevent you. What have you done?”

“What should you have done, Tempest?”

The barrister laughed. “Are you here for a professional opinion?”

“Well, suppose you give me that to begin with?”

“Then I’m bound to tell you you must obey the order of the court, which overrides the terms of the trust, and I’m bound to advise you that disobedience would be flagrant contempt of court, for which the penalty is imprisonment until the contempt is purged. Still, all that’s ancient history to you and your firm. You didn’t come here, I’ll warrant, just for me to tell you that much.”

“No, Tempest, I didn’t.”

The two men looked at each other, and gradually a smile formed itself on each face.

“And I’m pretty certain,” said the barrister, “you did not come here for meto tell you what to do. What have you done?”

“Tempest—frankly, now—tell me what you think we ought to have done. I’ve told you our legal difficulty; but there’s the other one, and that’s why I came to you. Are these documents likely to be a clue to the murder? If so, ought we to disclose them? You are an adept at murders—or rather at elucidating them. What do you think?”

“What a situation!”

The barrister rose to his feet and lit a cigarette as he began to pace his room, backwards and forwards along the well-marked path across his carpet. The solicitor sat and watched him—watched his impassive face—watched the quick, nervous fingers as they clicked the rings upon them backwards and forwards—watched the cigarette smoked to the end and thrown away as another was lighted from it. Atlast the barrister came to a pause in front of his fireplace.

“Baxter, the murder has proved an insoluble mystery, depending upon an unknown motive. You know everything about Sir John’s affairs, except what those papers may disclose. You cannot find a basis for a motive in what you know. The odds are the clue is hidden in those papers.”

“I agree with you. I should say that is probable.”

“But no man contemplates his own murder without taking steps to avert it, if that be possible. Sir John took no steps at all. No man would sit down to be murdered, and content himself with providing evidence to catch his murderer afterwards. Sir John never created the trust for that purpose. You can rest assured this is not the eventuality to provide for which that trust was created. It exists for somewidely different purpose. And there’s another thing, Baxter. Sir John says a disclosure would be a breach of faith. That would involve a third person. It is that third person on whose behalf Sir John has gone to all that trouble. It wasn’t himself he was bothering about. So long as he was alive he could have dealt with the thing himself, or he might have been waiting for the knowledge that it never would arise. That was why he did not constitute the trust during his own lifetime, but preferred rather to run the risk of public curiosity about the clause in his will.”

“What should you have done, Tempest?”

“I should have destroyed the papers, I think; but there is one awful risk. Suppose they do contain the clue to the murder, and through the lack of that clue an innocent person gets hanged?”

“Well, as a matter of fact we burnt them yesterday.”

“Then you elected to run that risk?”

“Tempest, it isn’t fair to a lawyer to tell him only half the tale. Wrapped round the papers was another slip. As nearly as I remember, the words written on it were as follows:—

“‘This paper is to be burnt the moment it has been read. I desire that no memorandum of it shall ever be put into writing. If litigation is threatened, this packet is to be burned immediately. A duplicate set of the papers is deposited in the name of the firm at the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit. The existence of this duplicate set is not to be disclosed. I leave it to the honour and integrity of my partners that if under litigation the trust ceases to exist, it shall at the earliest safe opportunity be again reconstituted.’”

“That does away with the risk I spokeof. You were certainly right to destroy the papers.”

“In spite of the court?”

“Yes, I think so. I’m sure of it. The old boy intended you to stand the racket. I should fancy he anticipated it, though it’s more likely he expected litigation from the heir-at-law than the Crown.”

“That is the conclusion my partners and I came to. But, Tempest, ought we to disclose the other simply to catch the murderer?”

“No, I think not. Sir John is dead. You can’t bring him to life again. All you can do is to regard his wishes. I bet he’d prefer that to the stringing up of some poor devil.”

When the motion came on in court the trust was upheld. As constituted under the will it had been perfectly valid; but now under the terms of the will the litigation had put an end to it, and the courtruled that the capital moneys had now vested in the surviving partners for their own benefit.

“Come and dine with all of us to-night, Tempest,” said one of the partners, as they left the law courts after hearing judgment given. “We’re in a deuce of a quandary!”

The invitation was accepted, and after dinner the four men sat over the walnuts and the wine in the sumptuously furnished bachelor chambers of Arthur Baxter.

“You see, Tempest,” said the host, “the secret trust is already reconstituted. We did it this afternoon. We can’t afford to run the risk of one of us dying and his executors claiming any proprietorship in the money. So the position now is exactly as it was when the will was first proved. But now that the court has declared the money to belong to us personally, the state of affairs isn’t particularly pleasant, becausethat infernal evening rag is bound to adopt the standpoint that by preventing the elucidation of the murder we have advantaged our own pockets, and that we took the line we did for that reason.”

“Is that as far as you’ve got, Baxter?”

“Yes, but what do you mean?”

“My dear man, don’t you see what the logical consequence is? Don’t any of you see it?”

The three solicitors looked at each other in surprise, and then glanced back at Tempest, as his grave face filled with concern, and they looked the question to him which they waited for the barrister to answer.

“Moorhouse, I saw you at Epsom, so I suppose you bet? Well, I’ll lay you a pound to a penny that unless the real murderer of Sir John is discovered pretty quickly, one or other of you three, if not all of you, will be accused of the murder—very likely arrested for it, if they can find thesemblance of any circumstantial evidence. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll look pretty carefully to your alibis on the evening and night Sir John was murdered.”

“You cannot mean that seriously, Tempest?”

“I do mean it, and I’m perfectly serious. You three men are not in an enviable position.”

As Tempest spoke he looked across the table to where Marston was sitting. His face had gone as white as a sheet, and his fingers were trembling as mechanically he eased the collar at his throat.

“What’s the matter, Marston?” said one of his partners.

“It’s three months ago. I’ve no more idea than the man in the moon what I was doing that evening.”

“Keep an engagement book?” asked Tempest.

“No—not private things. Just stick thecards up on the mantelpiece till the shows are over and then pitch ’em away.”

“Nor a diary?”

“No. Never did such a thing.”

“Would your wife know?”

“Haven’t got a wife.”

“Do you think your servants would be likely to?”

“No. What can I do, Tempest?”

“Well, praying seems to be about all that’s left.”

“Why do you think we are any of us likely to be accused?”

“Simply because you must have motive for a murder. No one knows or can suggest the shadow of a motive in regard to Sir John. You three who knew him intimately and all his private affairs know of nothing that even hints at a motive. You have gone through all his papers since his death, and you can find nothing there to give you a clue. Nobody, as far as youknow, stood to profit by Sir John’s death except——”

“Except whom?”

“Except yourselves. Now, remember the police know less than you do, so they can guess at no motive, save the obvious one I have pointed out to you—that halfpenny rag has hounded Scotland Yard on till they got the Home Office to interfere about the trust. They will go on now—mark my words—on the basis that the line you three took was dictated by your desire to bring the trust to an end. They will point out how you all stood to benefit by Sir John’s death. They will assume—no matter how much you may deny it—that being his partners you three were aware beforehand both of the terms of the will and of the trust. Don’t forget what the terms of the will were—‘to be applied by them to and for the purposes which I have taken steps to sufficiently indicate to them’—anddon’t forget he divides his share of the partnership with you. Just think what the obvious meaning of that is—what nine men out of ten would assume to be the meaning——”

“What do you say that is, Tempest?”

“Simply that he had already told you. Nobody would, by the wildest guess, be likely to imagine the existence of such a letter as he left. And even the letter you can’t in honour disclose till it becomes a matter of life and death.”

“It doesn’t seem to be very far off being that even now.”

“There’s another thing you fellows have overlooked. That shot was obviously fired inside the room. There was nobody in the offices when Smith left, except Sir John. How many keys are there?”

“We’ve each got one. Smith has one and the cleaner has one. The clerks come whilst she is there. She does their roomsfirst and then does ours afterwards. They arrive before she has finished.”

“Had Sir John a key?”

“Yes. We found it on his bunch in his pocket after he was dead.”

“Then his key wasn’t used. Now, Smith locked the door when he left. It’s a spring latch—that came out at the inquest. So did Smith’s alibi that evening. So did the old woman’s. That only leaves the three keys you chaps have. There’s no difficulty about getting out afterwards—it’s the getting in that matters.”

“God! Tempest, you are building up a case against us.”

“Well, there’s only one loophole; and that’s the possibility that Sir John himself opened the door to his murderer. I really think that’s the true explanation, because he had previously told Smith he wished him to go. I’m pretty certain myself that Sir John was expecting somebody whomhe wished to see without the visit being known. But the police will try the other tack first, and they will try and fix the responsibility on one or all of you three. Don’t let me frighten you too soon. They couldn’t get a conviction on what we or they know at present; but once, by accident or by research, they can get any fact that seems to corroborate the theory, then the position is changed. You can rest assured they are looking for such a fact already. That’s what I meant in warning you about your alibis.”

“Well, mine’s good enough,” said Baxter. “I was at the club.”

“What time did you go there?”

“About eight, and I stayed playing cards till nearly midnight.”

“Baxter, don’t forget Smith left Sir John soon after six. His dead body wasn’t found till next morning. You’ve got to account for the time from six to eight andafter midnight. Then Marston has absolutely forgotten. How about you, Moorhouse?”

“Oh, I was at the theatre.”

“That’s only another partial one, then. Why on earth don’t you people try to find out who did murder the man and not wait till you are in sight of the rope yourselves before you start?”

“But what can we do?”

“You can offer a reward for one thing. You can engage Dennis Yardley, the detective, for another.”

“Tempest, can we make it worth your while for you to take a hand in it?”

“No. I’m not keen at playing detective professionally. It’s not my profession. But I don’t mind helping Yardley, as I’ve done in other cases, if that’s what you want.”

“Will you take a retainer from us?”

“What do you mean?”

“In case any of us are accused.”

“Oh, certainly. Fix it up with my clerk in the morning. Book it asin reRellingham. Now, don’t do anything to draw suspicion upon yourselves, but do your utmost to account for how you all spent that particular night. Of course, I may be quite wrong in what I’ve said. I hope I am, but I can’t help seeing the risk.”

The four men separated, each going his lonely way home. But justification of all Tempest had said was to follow quickly. Step by step, on the very lines the barrister had indicated, the case was argued the following day in a leader in the same paper that had previously taken up the matter, and the article wound up with a definite demand for the arrest and trial of the three surviving partners in the firm.

That a conviction could be obtained was a proposition which few cared to admit; but, on the other hand, the bulk of the publicwere quite willing to commit themselves to the ready admission that “there might be something in it after all.” And, day by day, as the suspicion grew, the position of the three solicitors became almost unbearable. They felt themselves slowly but only too certainly drifting into the position of social lepers. And there was nothing more that they could do. They thought of libel, and the thing went to Lake Rodgers, K. C., for an opinion. His opinion was that the article had been so carefully written that it contained no libel, and the opinion ended with the friendly hint that a failure to obtain a verdict would probably be more damaging under the circumstances than inaction.

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