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BASIL THOMSON

THE METAL FLASK

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First published by Methuen, London, 1929

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2024
Version Date: 2024-05-09

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"The Metal Flask," Methuen, London, 1929

"The Metal Flask," Methuen, London, 1929

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

THERE were two Canadian canoes, and if Sheila Carey had been firm as well as wise she would have taken young Michael Elliot as her pilot and left Dorothy Wilson to Peter Graham. But Peter himself intervened—not as a match-maker, but because he preferred, so he said, Sheila's society to Dorothy's.

'You see,' he whispered, 'she's blue. She'll talk to me about the modern poets, or about obscure Greek authors who ought to be left decently in their graves, and then she'll discover that I'm uncultured and our picnic will fall flat. I can talk to you all right, Sheila, but bluestockings strike me dumb.'

'Thanks! Now I know exactly how you class my intelligence.'

'Bosh! You know when to keep off the classics, and besides, the luncheon basket's in your canoe and I don't like being far from the egg sandwiches. I can paddle like a Red Indian with egg sandwiches to inspire me, whereas Michael paddles best on a diet of Greek philosophers. He's very young.'

'Surely they can't be talking Greek philosophy all this time,' remarked Sheila, when they had rested on their paddles for five minutes and the second canoe was still out of sight round the bend. 'Do you think they have upset?'

'If that is an incitement to me to jump overboard in my clothes and win a medal, I tell you frankly that I'd rather let them drown,' said Peter callously. 'No, there they are! Michael paddling like a young lady, as usual.'

The approaching canoe was pleasant to look upon. In the bow reclined a young girl—slender, long-limbed, and thoroughbred in every line—and in the stern a young man not in the least like the picture that Peter Graham had drawn of him. He was strong and well set up, with an air of character and decision about his face that is rare with the young man who poses as a 'highbrow'. Sheila Carey had noticed something about the pair which had escaped Peter Graham—a new relation between them, a detachment from the affairs of the moment which made the young man reply to Peter's sallies with mild surprise.

'If it comes to that, Graham, I'll race you if you like—race you and beat you.'

'Not before lunch, my dear fellow.'

'Well, then, after lunch.'

'When you two have done bickering,' said Sheila, 'and will paddle steadily for three minutes, we'll land in that wood and have lunch. What do you say, Dorothy?'

Like all picnic luncheons, the meal was delightful in theory, but extremely uncomfortable in practice. Brambles made assaults upon the girls' stockings, the canoe cushions were inadequate; there were ants. Yet every one was happy because, when one is obeying the call of the wild, it is a point of honour to forget the comforts of civilization. Even the obtuser faculties of Peter Graham observed at last that Michael Elliot was ministering to Dorothy Wilson with the devotion of a reverent worshipper at a shrine, and when Sheila was packing up the broken meats and the younger pair had sauntered off among the trees by themselves, he whistled. 'If we don't see to it, Sheila, there'll be marriage done and you and I will be charged with match-making.'

'If you feel like that you can go and separate them, yourself. Take Mr. Elliot on in a canoe race.'

'It's none of my business. You proposed the picnic: you'll have to stand the racket and I shall plead "Not guilty." They don't seem to want us. Why shouldn't we leave them and go for a paddle?'

Sheila halted between her sense of duty and her inclinations, and the inclinations prevailed. The young people were out of sight; Peter Graham stood before her and one of her duties was to bring him to a sense of the serious purpose of life; for that afternoon she would play the part of elder sister to him. Besides, gay and irresponsible brothers are not without their amusing side.

The opportunity for the part of elder sister came when the canoe was in mid-stream and Peter laid down his paddle to talk. There was excuse for him in that it was springtime, with pairing in the air: the very birds were setting the example. 'You know, Sheila, things can't go on as they are.'

'What's the matter with them?'

'Well, I don't see enough of you. If you knew in the least what influence you have upon my life you'd take pity on me.'

'I feel a great pity for you, Peter. I suppose that it's not your fault that you're incurably lazy and flippant.'

'Lazy?' exclaimed Peter, opening his eyes in astonishment. 'Flippant I may be at times—but lazy! I wonder what you'd say if you had to get your living in a City office from ten to six for five days in the week.'

'How often do you go there?' murmured Sheila.

'Quite a lot. Always, in fact, except when I have something more pressing to do.'

'Such as golf three times a week, a new car to try, a matinée to see, to say nothing of an occasional cricket match? And race-meetings?'

'You don't understand. It all helps the business. I have to keep in touch with what's going on; it's an important part of my job. But you know, Sheila, if you and I could run in double harness together I'd be quite a different person.'

'So you've told me more than once. Though you don't realize it and think that I've only to sit down and dash off a sketch in twenty minutes to make twenty pounds, I have to work hard for my living. If I had a husband—I say it in no carping spirit—a husband like you, Peter, to look after, I should go under. Why can't we be happy as we are? We see quite a lot of one another. I enjoy every minute of the time spent with you. Why risk spoiling it?'

'You'd better put it into plain English,' said Peter, resuming his paddle: 'I'm not good enough for you. You want a strenuous highbrow person to look up to—to order you about. The curse is that I'm in love with you and that under no conceivable circumstance could you get to care for me.' He dug his paddle viciously into the water and the canoe sprang forward.

'I care for you so much, Peter, that I don't want to spoil things for either of us. It is the fact, though you may not believe it, that I proposed myself to my sister this week solely because you told me that you were going to stay with the Wilsons.'

'Did you? What an angel you are! So, if I reform and give up all the things you object to, and play the office-boy for six months or so, there will be some hope for me? I'll start this very autumn.'

'This very autumn?'

'Well, you see, I've a lot of engagements this summer. Things will be slacker in the autumn. But I may hope? Tell me that I may hope.'

'I shall tell you nothing except that we ought to find those young people and take them home.'

'I like "those young people," coming from you!'

'Well, I shall be thirty next birthday and Dorothy is only just out of the schoolroom.'

'And I shall be forty a few birthdays hence and you treat me like a small boy who needs spanking. What a world!'

It was not so easy to find the young people, who had wandered out of call from the landing-place; but when Peter proposed himself as the search-party, he was overruled and set to mind the boats while Sheila gathered in her straying lambs. Presently Peter saw them coming down the hill together, talking earnestly. There was an air of suppressed excitement about the three. It was not until Michael Elliot, with blunt directness, drew him aside that he learned what had happened.

'Congratulate me, Graham. Dorothy has promised to marry me. I'm the luckiest man in England to-day.'

'You are,' said Peter cordially. 'I do hope that you'll have no difficulty with the Powers.'

'With Sir Daniel, you mean? I shall have it out with him tonight. There's my aunt, of course, but she knows Dorothy; she'll be delighted.'

At the landing-stage Dorothy Wilson came into her own. She took charge of the operations of hoisting and stowing the canoes like a ship's captain, girding gently at Peter Graham when he displayed the muscle of a coal-heaver and at Michael when he seemed to be afraid of staining his immaculate flannels, herself entirely careless about her pretty frock. Even Sheila was made to take her share and obeyed her orders, looking, as Peter Graham thought, like a Greek goddess, if Greek goddesses ever wore white linen frocks. In every pose she was beautiful, and her grey eyes seemed to look out indulgently at the weaknesses of lesser mortals with a kind of pitying amusement.

'I'm going to walk home with you,' said Peter. 'Tor Park is no place for me when it's in this emotional state.'

'Come along then. My sister shall give you tea.'

Elm Cottage lay midway between the two big properties, Tor Park and Broad Clyst, with its garden running down to the river. Like Sheila, Mrs. Evans was incapable of feuds with her neighbours, or of the gossip and backbiting from which feuds spring. She was friendly with them all, and that means much in southern England, whither Service people retire with nothing to do but pass judgment upon their neighbours in the interval between bridge-parties. The visits of her only sister were an even greater joy to the little niece to whom 'Auntie Sheila' was a fairy godmother with a pencil that could draw anything, especially little boys and girls in the throes of stupendous adventures that might happen, but seldom did—at least in that particular part of southern England. The books containing her drawings made a brave show on the schoolroom shelves, for the name of Sheila Carey was a household word wherever Christmas presents are given to children.

Peggy herself met them at the door and galloped off to impart the news to her mother.

'Mummy, here's Auntie Sheila and she wants her tea, and, Mummy there's a strange genelman wiv her.'

The strange gentleman walked straight into the affections of Miss Peggy Evans by a natural genius that he had in reproducing the noises of the farmyard. It was only when he came to the dialect of the turkey gobbler that Peggy grew serious, for she had once been chased by a gobbler nearly as tall as herself, and the conversation of gobblers evoked painful memories. Peter Graham was duly presented to a lady who was the Sheila of fifteen years hence. Her hair was faintly tinged with grey, but she had still the same beautiful face, the same girlish figure as her younger sister.

'Was the picnic a success?' she asked.

'An unexpected success,' said Sheila. 'We've been making county history. Prepare yourself for a surprise. Michael Elliot has proposed to Dorothy Wilson and she's accepted him.'

'My dear Sheila! Are you serious?'

'Of course I am. They seemed to want to go in the same canoe and I didn't want to spoil the picnic. The next thing we knew was that they were engaged. You talk as if it was a disaster.'

'It's more than a disaster. It's a tragedy!'

CHAPTER II.

'IT wouldn't have mattered at all,' continued Mrs. Evans, 'if Miss Marjoribanks were a normal person, but she is not. She scarcely belongs to the real life of these days, when birth and breeding and all those Victorian superstitions are the last things people ever think about. With her they have become an obsession.'

'But, Margaret, Mr. Elliot is going to tell his aunt this evening, and he didn't think she would object. She's very fond of him, isn't she?'

'Yes, fonder than she is of anyone else in the world.'

'And Dorothy Wilson is a charming, well-bred girl.'

'I admit all that, but Miss Marjoribanks knows all about her father's antecedents, and that's enough for her. She'll go to any length to stop the marriage.'

'I rather like Sir Daniel,' interposed Peter Graham. 'Occasionally he comes a cropper over his "h's," but he always picks himself up again, and then the next aspirate is so terrific that it nearly blows you away. And he's a first-rate man to do business with.'

'I see that neither of you know the family history of Broad Clyst, or you'd be as uneasy as I am. Miss Marjoribanks turned Michael's mother out of the house for much the same reason, and she was devoted to her.'

'You mean her younger sister? I thought that she had behaved badly,' said Sheila.

'Not at all. All she did was to marry the man of her choice.'

'But surely the Elliots are all that anyone could want in the matter of family?'

'Oh, it wasn't about Captain Elliot that they quarrelled; it was about Cecil Clark, her first husband, a foreign correspondent to some newspaper. He was very nice, I believe, but when Miss Marjoribanks discovered that his father was a tradesman the trouble began. Michael's mother wouldn't give way; she had an obstinate side like her sister, who turned her out and refused to see her or write to her. Even when the sister lost her husband soon after the marriage, and she was left practically destitute in India, Miss Marjoribanks would do nothing for her—not even when she purged her crime by marrying a man of good family would she answer her letters.'

'Quite a pleasant old lady!' murmured Peter. 'Why did she repent and gather Michael to her bosom?'

'Because, I think, she always loved her sister, and when she died there came a revulsion. It took the form of sending for the little boy and his father and making the little boy her heir and his father her estate manager. I don't think the arrangement would have lasted if the boy had been an ordinary child, but he was unusually attractive.'

'We're on delicate ground, Peter. My sister's devotion to Michael Elliot and his to her are becoming a public scandal.'

Mrs. Evans smiled indulgently. 'To go on with my story from the point of that flippant interruption—he entirely won over the old lady, who gets more difficult and crotchety every day. She has tried hard to quarrel with Sir Daniel Wilson, though there is really nothing against him except his origin. This engagement will be the last straw.'

Peter found it difficult to tear himself away from this congenial society, but at last Miss Peggy Evans brought him down to stern facts with a bump. She appeared in the doorway, saying, 'Mummy, it's Lucy's afternoon out. Am I to put myself to bed to-night?'

'Good heavens!' exclaimed Peter, looking at his watch. 'I've upset all your household arrangements and I shall be late for dinner myself.'

'You must come and upset our household arrangements again,' said his hostess. 'We like it.'

At Broad Clyst, too, the dressing-gong had sounded. Naburn, one-time sergeant in Captain Elliot's regiment in India, and now chauffeur-valet at Broad Clyst, had laid out Michael's clothes and brought his hot water. Knowing Miss Marjoribanks's fetish of punctuality, he tapped at Captain Elliot's door.

'Mr. Michael hasn't come in, sir. Shall I give Judd the tip to put the hall clock fifteen minutes back and delay the gong?'

'Not fifteen minutes, Naburn—it's too much. Make it five.'

The second gong had scarcely sounded when the chauffeur from Tor Park brought a message that Mr. Michael Elliot would not be back to dinner. Having hurriedly rearranged the dinner-table, Judd, who had heard the tap of his mistress's stick crossing the hall, entered the drawing-room and announced dinner. Miss Marjoribanks had enthroned herself on a stiff arm-chair, wheeled forward for her by Captain Elliot. It was part of the ritual of the house. The only other person present was the guest, her cousin, Arthur Manderson, whose glistening bald head reflected the lamplight.

'Dinner is served, ma'am!' murmured Judd.

'Where is Michael?' asked the old lady in her man's voice.

'There's a message just come through, ma'am. Mr. Michael will not be back to dinner.'

'Not back? He must have dinner. Where is he?'

'I think that he's dining at Tor Park, ma'am.'

The old lady rapped her ebony stick upon the floor and, after a moment, rose, saying, 'Then, we'll go to dinner.' She ignored the proffered arm of Captain Elliot and stumped away towards the dining-room.

'What's wrong?' whispered Arthur Manderson.

'She doesn't like the people at Tor Park,' said his companion. 'We'll keep off the subject.'

The dinner was volcanic. The men felt the solid earth quaking beneath them. It was in vain that Captain Elliot talked suavely to Manderson about the political questions of the day and appealed from time to time to Miss Marjoribanks for a ruling. She appeared to have no illusions about the statesmen who sway our destinies; she had met some of them as boys, and, according to her, very nasty boys they were. Then, in a pause in the conversation, Arthur Manderson floundered into the bog by saying, 'Who are your nearest neighbours now, Cousin Frances?'

'Don't speak to them. I try not to think of them. You know what the place was when the Wilbrahams had it. I tried my best to prevent Reggie Wilbraham selling it, but his lawyer insisted. And then a horrible man, who made a fortune out of corned beef or something during the war, bought it and planted himself right down at my gates—a dreadful creature without an "h" in his alphabet—a regular pork-butcher of a man.'

'They knighted him, didn't they, for something he did in the war?'

'Something he did! For something he gave, you mean—gave to one of these political funds that the papers are always talking about, or to one of the ministers for himself—how are we to know? They made him a K.B.E. What would Lord Beaconsfield have said about K.B.E.'s?' She turned savagely upon the unoffending Elliot. 'Those are the kind of people that Michael prefers to dine with.'

'I suppose that they over-persuaded him.'

Arthur Manderson had given up the task of pouring oil, and was doing justice to his cousin's cook and his cousin's wine-cellar. He listened with amusement to Elliot's struggles to lead the conversation into less stormy seas. But whatever the poor man said seemed to lead back to the social upheavals of the war in which respectable families had been overwhelmed and buried under the scum that boiled up to the surface. During a lull in the invective Manderson contrived to say, 'When I asked about your neighbours, Cousin Frances, I meant the people living in that jolly little cottage by the river. They must be friends of yours because this afternoon I met a little lady of about four, a grave little person, who asked me after your health. When I was here five years ago the cottage was empty.'

'You mean Mrs. Evans,' said the old lady, a little mollified. 'Yes, she's a nice woman and her little girl is a delightful child, but, you see, they come of good Cornish stock. They used to have Trelawney Park until her husband died. I'm quite glad to have them as neighbours.'

The bridge-table, set out as usual in the drawing-room, brought matters to a crisis.

'We'll play dummy to-night,' said Elliot, pleasantly.

'We'll do nothing of the kind. If Michael chooses to go and waste his evening with a grocer, I'm not going to waste mine by playing dummy.'

'You exaggerate, Cousin Frances. I don't think that Sir Daniel Wilson is a bad sort of fellow, from all I hear.'

'Don't you, Arthur? No, I suppose, you don't, but you won't mind my saying that you were always the fool of the family.'

'I don't mind a bit. I'd rather be labelled "fool" than "knave."'

Miss Marjoribanks rang the bell. 'Take this table away and put a light in the writing-room.' Then, turning to her guests, she said, 'I'm going to leave you to amuse yourselves while I answer my letters. Good night.'

They heard her stick tapping through the hall, and Manderson, who could not face the prospect of spending an evening tête-à-tête with Captain Elliot, yawned ostentatiously and said that he thought he would turn in.

Captain Elliot was left alone. He was not a man who went to bed at untimely hours; while waiting for his son's return, he read the papers. Soon after ten o'clock he heard the front-door bell ring. Michael opened the door and looked in. The eager expression on his face faded when he saw his father alone.

'Where's Aunt Frances?' he asked.

'You'll find her in the morning-room, if she hasn't gone to bed,' replied the father, scarce troubling to move his newspaper from before his face.

The boy shut the door and presently sounds were faintly borne to Captain Elliot from the other room. He could not catch the words, but Michael's tone was indignant, his aunt's hard and dry.

Michael could not have chosen a less auspicious moment for announcing his engagement. Intoxicated with his triumph and sure of his aunt's affection and sympathy, he blundered into the danger.

'I'm so sorry, Aunt Frances. They insisted upon my staying to dinner and I couldn't refuse.' And then impulsively, 'I want you to be the first to congratulate me. I'm the happiest man alive to-day. She has promised to marry me.'

'She? Who?'

'Dorothy Wilson. I forgot you didn't know. I've been in love with her ever since I first saw her, but I hadn't the courage to ask her. It was only when—well, I did speak this afternoon, and she said "Yes." And Sir Daniel has been a brick, so now there is only your approval to make it all perfect.' He leaned forward to kiss her, but for the first time in his life she repulsed him. 'Why, what's the matter, Aunt Frances? What have I done? Are you angry with me for coming home late?'

Miss Marjoribanks seemed to be choking. For some moments she could not find her tongue, then the words came in a burning and blistering flood. All the pent-up, unjust prejudices were not confined to the father—Michael might have borne that—but she launched a tirade against the daughter too, and that he could not bear. There were angry protests from him, so loud that they must have reached the ears of the servants, but he was beyond caring. Miss Marjoribanks's last words were audible even to Captain Elliot in the drawing-room. Beside herself with rage, thumping the floor with her ebony stick, she shouted, 'Marry her, then. Only to-morrow, understand, you leave this house and never come to it again. I had intended it for you, made you my heir, but, thank heaven, a page or two of paper held in the fire by the tongs will soon alter all that. Gratitude I never expected from you, but I did look for some decency of feeling.'

CHAPTER III.

AT seven o'clock next morning Michael, who had spent a sleepless night, heard a tap upon his door. His visitor was Captain Elliot, unshaved and in his dressing-gown and slippers. It was the first time in Michael's memory that his father had come to his room. There had never been any confidences between them, because a son does not confide in a father who has been consistently severe and unsympathetic throughout his boyhood.

'I am sorry that you were not at dinner last night, Michael. Your aunt seemed to feel your absence rather keenly.'

'Yes, Dad, it was unfortunate, but I couldn't help myself.' And then, since there could be no question of reticence now that he was under orders to quit, Michael told his father everything, and, for once, asked him for advice.

'You couldn't have done a stupider thing or chosen a worse moment than last night,' said the father. 'First, you annoy your aunt by being absent from dinner and by dining with people that she disapproves of; then you blurt out your engagement, and when she tells you plainly that she will not agree to it, you defy her. When the mischief's done you come to me for advice. I'll see what I can do, of course, but you must help me by authorizing me to say that you will give up the girl.'

'Give up Dorothy!' exclaimed Michael in astonishment. 'Are you joking, Dad?'

'Well, unless you do that I don't think that your aunt is in the least likely to change her mind and it would be useless for me to intervene.'

'Then I'd better begin packing up.'

'No, don't do that yet. Get dressed, and as soon as she's had time for breakfast, go and see her and apologize for what you said last night. See how she takes it. You know, of course, that if she carries out her threat, that ass, Arthur Manderson, will step into your shoes. I happen to know that.'

'What do I care about that? She may disinherit me a hundred times over if only she will be again what she has always been to me. I will go and see her; but as for giving up Dorothy—that's out of the question.'

Michael's apologies were not made. He had not rehearsed his little speech because words always came easily to him when he was alone with his aunt, but when he went to her door he was met by her maid, Dawkins, an old servant who was genuinely attached to him, with the news that his aunt was far too unwell to see anyone. 'I don't know what's upset her, Mr. Michael. I've never known her like this before. She lies there mumbling to herself, and when I try to put her pillows right for her she snaps my head off. She told me herself that she won't see anyone, and I dare not tell her that you are here.'

As he went sadly along the passage she came hurrying out of the room. 'I'm to tell Judd to telephone to Lawyer Endicott, Mr. Michael.' She hurried downstairs.

There was nothing left for Michael to do but to wait. He knew that his father would be in the dining-room eager to question him and he was in no mood to be questioned. He returned to his bedroom, leaving the door open in case his aunt should relent and call for him. Two hours later he heard the butler bringing the lawyer upstairs, heard the door of his aunt's room shut, and Judd and Dawkins go down the stairs together.

Mr. Endicott found his client propped up with pillows in bed, with her grey hair falling in disorder from beneath her cap. She wasted no words in greeting.

'Have you brought it—my will, I mean?'

'Yes, Miss Marjoribanks, I have it here.' The lawyer tapped his black bag.

'Give it to me then.' She adjusted her glasses with trembling fingers and read the document, breathing hard. Then she clutched the edge of the paper and tried to tear it up the middle. It was too strong for her. She was labouring under great excitement.

'I can't tear the horrid stuff. Will it burn?'

'You could make a fresh will, Miss Marjoribanks, revoking all former wills.'

'So that you could charge me another fee! I asked you a plain question. Will the stuff burn? When it's burnt my former will comes into force, doesn't it? That's exactly what I want. There are matches behind you, sir. Burn it in my presence.'

'But, Miss Marjoribanks——'

'Burn it, I say——' A fit of choking stopped her further utterance. She fell back gasping and the lawyer threw open the door to call for help. Michael ran down the passage at his cry; Endicott called him in and whispered that his aunt had had some kind of seizure. Michael had been into that room every morning for as long as he could remember, sure of welcoming words and smiling eyes. When he saw the poor haggard face framed by the pillows he broke down and knelt beside the bed. The old lady was conscious, though she seemed unable to use her voice.

'Call Dawkins up—my aunt's maid, I mean,' he said to the lawyer. Mr. Endicott seemed glad to escape from the room. When Dawkins appeared the old lady seemed better; she allowed her to smooth the pillows and move her into a more comfortable position. Endicott was hovering about the open door, intent upon recovering his little black bag. Taking courage at last, he slipped into the room and, seeing that Miss Marjoribanks was paying no attention to him, he whispered to Michael that as he could do no more he proposed to go. 'You can always telephone to me, Mr. Elliot, if she wants to see me again.' This whispered message failed to attract notice, but when he stooped to recover the will that had slipped to the floor, Miss Marjoribanks stopped him with a gesture and a frown.

Dawkins touched him on the shoulder. 'She wants you to leave it, sir.'

Endicott looked up and, seeing the stern glare of disapproval in his client's eyes, slunk silently from the room, carrying his bag with him. Michael followed him and caught him in the hall. 'You are going straight back to town, Mr. Endicott? I want you to call at Dr. Vaughan's and ask him to come up here at once.'

In the sick-room Dawkins was busied with her usual duties when some one tapped on the door and Arthur Manderson's bald head and florid face obtruded itself. 'Can I come in, Dawkins?'

The maid hesitated. 'Miss Marjoribanks is not well, sir.'

But the invalid caught her words. 'I'm better now,' she said in a faint, hoarse voice. 'It was nothing. Let him come in.'

Arthur Manderson was wearing the expression which he considered proper to the sick-room and to funerals. It assorted ill with his jovial, empty countenance and his protuberance below the waist.

'Dear me, you've dropped a paper,' he said as he came round the bed.

'Pick it up, Dawkins, and put it into that drawer. I've changed my mind,' said the sick woman.

'How are you feeling, Cousin Frances? They told me that you were not well.'

His cousin assumed an expression almost of ferocity. 'I'm feeling very well indeed, Arthur,' she groaned. 'But I intend to stay in bed. You can stay and tell me the news from this morning's Times.'

'Well, Cousin Frances, I don't know that there's very much to tell, except that Wilkie, the heavy-weight, won the great fight in Chicago.' And as this vital piece of news did not appear to be falling on sympathetic ears, he searched his memory for some item that would appeal to her. 'They've been having frightful weather in the north of Scotland. All the young birds have been drowned and it was a bad grouse season last year, you remember—oh! and Maclean has resigned his seat in the Cabinet.' He thought he saw a gleam of interest in his cousin's eye. 'He's a good riddance. No one wants cranks of that sort in the Government.'

This time it was plain to him that he had misjudged his audience. The old lady was breathing hard. 'You call Maclean a crank, do you, Arthur? He's the one sane man in that gang of fools. It ought to bring down the Government.'

Michael tapped lightly on the door and the stern expression changed; somewhere in that withered heart smouldered the fire of affection. 'Come in,' she said in her deep voice. 'Thank you, Arthur, for giving me the news. You must be longing for some fresh air. Good-bye.'

It was as if she had told him to run away and play.

'I'm afraid, sir,' said Dawkins in a low voice, 'that I'll have to ask you to go, too. It's time that Miss Marjoribanks had a rest.'

The young man stooped over the bed and kissed his aunt's forehead. It was a sudden impulse and he was quite prepared to be repulsed, but she turned her face as if to meet his kiss and he felt that forgiveness had been born in her.

Arthur Manderson left the sick-room with a vivid feeling of relief. He never knew what to do or say at sick-beds. He asked the butler where he would be likely to find Captain Elliot.

Judd suggested the business-room downstairs. 'The Captain generally goes down there after breakfast to deal with his correspondence, sir.'

But Elliot was not to be found in any of his usual haunts—the billiard-room, the smoking-room, or the library. Robert thought that he had seen him going towards the garage, and thither Manderson made his way. Robert was right. Captain Elliot seemed to be loitering near the garage door as if he were waiting for some one.

'You are the very man I wanted to see. The fact is, I'm afraid I shall be called up to London either to-day or to-morrow. Do you think that my cousin would mind if I left at such short notice?'

The other stared at him without cordiality.

'I don't think she'd mind at all.'

'That was a funny sort of attack she had this morning. I wonder what brought it on.'

'I see that you don't know what happened here last night when Michael came home. Miss Marjoribanks was furious and she intends to disinherit him and has ordered him to go.'

Manderson whistled. 'Gad! That'll be awkward for you, won't it? I mean, you're pretty comfortable here now, and if Michael has to go, you'll be out in the street, too, I suppose.'

'Yes. I wonder you want to go now. You step automatically into Michael's shoes. But old ladies sometimes change their minds, you know, and leave everything to a dogs' home, unless the affectionate heir is on the spot to make the running.'

'You seem damned unpleasant this morning, but you needn't worry about the will. I saw the maid shove it into a drawer in her room.'

Captain Elliot made no reply, for at that moment a man approached them, wheeling a motor bicycle. It was ex-Sergeant Naburn, whose deeply bronzed skin and grizzling hair told of many years' service in India.

'I'm ready to start now, sir,' he said to his master.

'All right. Get back as quick as you can.' And then, when the man was twenty yards off, he shouted to him to stop and ran to meet him.

Manderson might have been the fool of the family, as his cousin had said, but he was not so obtuse as to fail in seeing through this device for having speech with Naburn out of earshot. As Elliot returned, he said, 'If he's going to the town, he might ask at the station about my train.'

'He's going in the other direction,' said Elliot. 'To Plymouth.'

CHAPTER IV.

DR. VAUGHAN had come and gone. Michael Elliot had caught him for a moment in the hall as he was making for his car. 'There is nothing to worry about, young man,' he said kindly, taking note of his white face. 'A passing faintness, that's all. Your aunt is not as young as she was and her heart might be stronger. Any little sudden anxiety or worry is liable to upset her—you know what old people are. She has strong views on most subjects, hasn't she? Well, if you will take my advice, humour her and avoid contradicting her and she may live to be a hundred. I'll send up a bottle of medicine which you can give her if she'll consent to take it. Good-bye.'

Immensely relieved and contrite, Michael ran upstairs to the sick-room and tapped lightly on the door. Dawkins opened it an inch or two with her finger on her lip. The patient was dozing. There was no better moment for running over to Tor Park to take Dorothy Wilson into his confidence. He went to the garage for his bicycle. As he was pedalling up the drive at Tor Park he caught sight of his fiancée in the garden. Very attractive she looked under the shade of her garden hat as she came forward to welcome him.

'Why, what's the matter, Michael?' She pronounced the name shyly for the first time. 'You look worried.'

'I am anxious about my aunt. She had some kind of heart attack this morning and—but the doctor thinks it will pass off,' he went on. How was he to tell her the whole truth—that the cause of his aunt's seizure was their engagement, that she did not think this dainty girl a fit wife for him on the score of birth?'

She was quick to divine something of the truth. 'You told her of our engagement and she objected to it. No, Michael, it's no good having pretence with me, because I can read your face. I can guess, too, why she objects to me. I'm not blue-blooded enough. Poor old lady! What a lot of unnecessary suffering she inflicts upon herself with this fetish of family. It's such a waste when you think that the pundits in genealogy tell us that nearly all the families who were on top three centuries ago are in the slums now and vice versa. For all we know, in Norman times the Wilsons—the sons of Will or William—may have been cruelly ordering a Marjoribanks to be pricked from their castle gates by their men-at-arms. Poor old lady!'

'She threatens to disinherit me.'

'Well, what does that matter? We're both young; we can both work. I should rather like love in a cottage—for a change. You know, I'm considered a first-rate cook. I'd like to have a kitchen of my own. Mrs. Jones, our cook, won't let me into hers. Of course it's jealousy.'

'Your father has done nothing yet about putting our engagement in the papers?'

'I never thought of asking Dad. Why, what does it matter if he does?'

'Only that the doctor has warned me against any excitement for my aunt in her present state, and she reads every line of The Times and the Morning Post.'

'Well, I'll warn him if you like, only there is the danger of Dad taking the bit in his teeth. He has his pride, too. Oh, don't let's worry. What shall we do this morning?'

'I must get back, I'm afraid. If she wakes and asks for me she will guess where I've gone and we shall have it all over again.'

'Yes, you're quite right. Only come over as often as you can; don't leave me without news.'

'Dorothy, you're an angel to take it like this.' And as they were now out of sight from the house their parting lasted nearly as long as their interview.

He was putting away his bicycle when he heard the bell for the servants' dinner. He met Dawkins at his aunt's door.

'She's had a nice sleep, sir, and if you don't mind relieving me, I'll run down and get my dinner.'

In the housekeeper's room the decaying ceremonies of former days were still observed. Mrs. Woolston, the housekeeper, had already rustled to her place at the head of the table. Mr. Judd, who had learned punctuality in a hard school, brought in the jug of beer. The younger servants were in their places.

'We can't begin without Miss Dawkins,' said the housekeeper. 'Did the doctor say anything, Mr. Judd?'

'I didn't see him. Mr. Michael let him out. But he must have given a good report, otherwise Mr. Michael wouldn't have gone off on his bike as he did.'

'Gone off, with his aunt so poorly? I'm surprised.'

'Oh, but he was back in under the hour, Mrs. Woolston. Ah, here's Miss Dawkins at last. Well, Miss Dawkins, what's the news?'

'As good as one could wish for, Mr. Judd. Only, all sudden shocks are to be avoided. Mr. Michael is with her now and she doesn't seem to bear him out of her sight. Funny, isn't it?'

'Blood's thicker than water, Miss Dawkins,' said Mrs. Woolston sententiously, 'but, as you say, it is funny after all that happened last night.'

Mr. Judd delivered himself of an eloquent wink, with a glance at Ellen the housemaid and Robert the footman, which was intended to convey a hint that such matters were not appropriate for the hearing of subordinates. All he said was that the weather promised to be fine.

And then the talk drifted to the village and the motor-bicycle which Robert had bought second-hand and whose engine refused to start.

'You'll be breaking your neck, young man, one of these days,' said the housekeeper with her usual cautious disapproval of modern inventions. 'I don't hold with this craze of tearing along the roads, especially after that picture came down in the hall.'

'And for the matter of that, I don't hold with all these signs and wonders that you believe in, Mrs. Woolston. Mr. Naburn will put the bike right when he gets back. Where's he gone?' He addressed his question to Ellen, who drew herself up self-consciously.

'How should I know?'

'Well, if I was engaged to a girl and she went off for the day without telling me where she was going I'd have something to say about it,' remarked Robert. Ellen blushed hotly.

'You needn't worry, Robert. No girl would ever get engaged to you—not if she'd got sense.'

'When is it to be?' asked Mrs. Woolston, who had an appetite for romance.

'Well,' said Ellen, 'there's no secret. Ned—Mr. Naburn I mean—believes that he's come into a legacy, enough to start a little public-house that he knows of. And I expect that that's what has taken him away to-day. He wants it to be quite soon. But I don't know.'

'A legacy?'

'Yes, from an uncle or aunt or somebody. The Captain's arranging it all.'

'What does your sister think of it?' asked Mrs. Woolston. 'Mr. Naburn's getting on and you're a young girl.'

'Oh, it's the legacy that done it, Mrs. Woolston,' said Robert. 'It's quite cut out poor Webster up at Tor Park.'

'He's a nice young feller, that chauffeur of Sir Daniel's,' observed Mrs. Woolston, 'and he thinks the world of you, Ellen. Doesn't your sister think you're making a mistake?'

'Perhaps she likes 'em old,' remarked the flippant Robert, with a wink.

'I don't like them young,' retorted Ellen with asperity. 'Oh, my sister is getting used to the idea, Mrs. Woolston. And as for that little Miss Peggy of hers, she goes wild over him, because one day Ned—Mr. Naburn, I mean—gave her a ride on his motor-bike when the engine wasn't running.' Ellen's sister, it should be remarked, was the nurse to Peggy Evans at Elm Cottage.

'What a dear little girl that is,' said Dawkins. 'I wish she'd come here oftener.'

'Yes, it's the only child that I like to have about me in the kitchen,' said Mrs. Woolston. 'I like her quaint sayings.'

If the midday dinner-party below stairs had been harmonious, it was not so with the two men whom fate had thrown together for the evening meal in the dining-room.

'Mr. Michael has asked to have his dinner sent up on a tray to the mistress's room,' said Judd as they took their seats.

'Cousin Frances is relenting, then,' said Manderson. 'I'm glad.'

'The boy has spent the best part of the day with her,' said Elliot.

'I understand from Dawkins, sir,' murmured Judd, 'that the mistress can't bear to have Mr. Michael out of her sight.'

He moved about with dishes and decanters in an almost unbroken silence. Captain Elliot refused most of the dishes, glancing contemptuously from time to time at his companion, whose appetite never flagged.

'You seem to be off your feed,' said Manderson. 'Has anything gone wrong with the works?'

'I'm all right, thank you. To tell you the truth, I was interested in watching you eat.'

'It's jolly good stuff, this risotto. Try some. Judd, I think I'll have another helping.'

'You found the time-table you were asking for?'

'No. I don't like to run away just because Cousin Frances has a little upset. It wouldn't be kind. I'm going to see my visit out. Thank you all the same.'

He made play with the risotto, the roast chicken, and the dessert, enjoying the moody irritation of his companion to the full. Only once had Elliot spoken to the butler during the meal—to ask whether Naburn had returned.

'Not yet, sir. I'll send him up to you as soon as he does.'

And then, when his companion seemed to be eyeing the bunch of grapes with intention, Captain Elliot said, 'Well, if you've finished, we might have our coffee in the other room.' As he passed Judd in the hall he said, 'Don't forget to let me know when Naburn gets back.'

Judd went downstairs for the coffee; he knew the best way to obtain tidings of Naburn.

'Has anyone seen Ellen?' he asked of his subordinate, who was polishing the knives.

'No, sir, but if she's wanted bad I can guess where you'll find her. If you walk down the drive unobtrusive-like and cough when you're near the big elm, she'll pop out. It's there that Ned—Mr. Naburn, I mean—clears his throat of an evening.'

Judd was in no mood for these pleasantries. 'Naburn not home yet?' he asked sternly.

'No, Mr. Judd.' Robert's sudden change to gravity was in itself suspicious. It began to dawn upon Judd that perhaps Ellen was not the only member of the household whom he mimicked.

'Where did he go, do you know?'

'If you may believe Ellen, it was Plymouth way—some little errand for the Captain as an excuse for running his eye over a public-house he wants to take when he comes into his own.'

'Comes into his own? What do you mean?'

'I mean that fat legacy that he's to get from his poor dead uncle when the Captain has had time to arrange matters with the lawyers. When that's done we're all to get free drinks at the "Jolly Sergeant" in Devonport.'

Mrs. Woolston's voice was heard raised in wrath. Robert cocked his ear. 'She's back, Mr. Judd, and she's catching it for outstaying her leave. Poor girl! But wait till she's landlady of the "Jolly Sergeant." Then you'll see!'

Ellen passed the open door in tears.

'Naburn not back yet?' asked Judd kindly.

'No-o, Mr. Judd,' she sobbed. 'Mrs. Woolston says he must have met with an accident.'

'Nonsense, Ellen. He's all right. He can do pretty well as he likes with the Captain and he's taking a night out.'

The suggestion, kindly meant as it was, did not seem altogether comforting to Ellen, who broke out into tears unrestrained and went sobbing up to her room.

CHAPTER V.

AT Broad Clyst the letters were not delivered until after breakfast. On the following morning Judd sorted them as usual into heaps on the hall table, sending his mistress's letters upstairs by Dawkins and leaving the others in the hall. For Arthur Manderson there were three or four letters forwarded from his club; for Captain Elliot a number of trade circulars; for Michael a letter addressed in a feminine handwriting with the local postmark. 'From his young lady,' thought Judd, for the news of Michael's engagement had filtered through to the servants' hall. There was also a parcel in brown paper addressed 'Mr. Elliot, Esquire.' Judd laid this also under Michael's letter, smiling slightly at the quaintness of the address. Twenty minutes later the newspapers arrived and Judd took them up to the library. On the way down he encountered Dawkins, who had taken down the breakfast tray. 'Is the mistress not so well this morning?' he asked.

'She's much better, Mr. Judd. Why do you ask?'

'Only because Mr. Michael seems so jumpy this morning. I've never seen him like that before. Fairly bit my head off, he did, when I went in with the papers.'

'Why, what did you say to him?'

'Not a word. Just took the papers in and he turned round and snapped at me like this: "What are you doing here?"' Judd mimicked the tone.

'Perhaps you interrupted him, Mr. Judd. What was he doing?'

'Nothing except opening a parcel that come by post for him this morning. And then he pushes past me and runs upstairs. I thought perhaps that the mistress was worse and it had upset him.'

'It's so unlike Mr. Michael anyhow, but the mistress is quite herself this morning. In fact, I'm on my way now to tell Mr. Manderson that she'd like to see him, so it couldn't have been that.'

But that night Miss Marjoribanks was worse. Dawkins carried word to Michael's bedroom door a little before midnight. The news threw him into uncontrollable agitation.

'You mustn't take it like this, sir,' she said. 'We must be doing something. I'd telephone to Dr. Vaughan myself, only I don't know his number.'

'I'll telephone,' stammered Michael. 'Why, your teeth are chattering so, sir, that you wouldn't be able to get a word out.'

'No, no, Dawkins. I'm all right now. I'll go down at once. You mustn't leave my aunt alone for a moment.' He slipped on a dressing-gown and ran downstairs to the telephone. It was past midnight and he scarce hoped to get any reply.

Dr. Vaughan, like other general practitioners, had perforce to have a telephone over his bed, because, as he plaintively explained to his friends women were so inconsiderate: they would persist in having their babies at the most inconvenient hours. He was only half awake when he answered the call. 'Michael Elliot speaking. My aunt is worse. Can you come up at once?'

Dr. Vaughan, now fully awake, began to question him about the new symptoms, and, gathering that it was only the maid who had inspired the message and that she had nothing to go upon but the weakness and lethargy of his patient, he put it down to the foolish anxiety to which all untrained women are prone, and said, 'You had much better let her sleep, Mr. Elliot. I'll be round soon after ten to-morrow morning.' He was not prepared for the warmth of the reply.

'No, we want you to come at once. I know that it is very late and that probably you have gone to bed, but you really must come.'

'Very well; I'll come.' His tone was short: he intended it to be.

Michael waited in the hall for what seemed to be interminable hours; in reality it was only twenty-five minutes before he heard the whirr of a car.

'Worse, is she?' said the doctor. 'Another heart attack, I suppose. Well, I'd better go up at once.'

Michael waited shivering in the hall; the doctor seemed to be a very long time. At last he heard his step on the stairs.

'I don't think that there's much to worry about, Mr. Elliot, but don't let her see people. Keep her as quiet as you can and see that she takes that medicine regularly. Of course, if she gets no better we must get in a nurse, but at present I see no need for anxiety. Her maid seems a steady, sensible woman. Now, look here, young man, you must pull yourself together or I shall be having you on my hands too. Is there any brandy in the house?'

'I think so.'

'Then take a good whack of it and turn in. Get all the sleep you can.'

Next morning Miss Marjoribanks was certainly weaker. She was lying in a kind of stupor, breathing feebly. She could be roused only to swallow her medicine, and on that morning, at any rate, she seemed to know whose arm it was that lifted her head from the pillow and to be glad. Dr. Vaughan called in the course of the morning and seemed puzzled to find her no better. 'She has taken her medicine regularly?'

'Yes, I give it to her myself,' said Michael.

'H'm! Then we must make a change. I'll send you up another bottle of stuff as soon as I get back. In the meantime—absolute quiet.'

Dr. Vaughan drove his car home mechanically. He was ill at ease. It chanced that his greatest friend, a fellow-student at Bart's, who had come from London on professional business, was lunching with him. His guest looked keenly at him.

'You've been overdoing it, Vaughan,' he said. 'You look like a man who wants a holiday.'

'I dare say I do, but I can't take one. Remember that I'm a G.P. It's all very well for you bloated specialists to talk of holidays. You can take them when you like.'

'Can we? Wait till you specialize and then you'll know. Are you worrying about any of your cases?'

'I am—about one of them. Let me tell you about it. I'm attending a wealthy old lady with a weak heart. Otherwise she's as tough as they are made. Two days ago she had some sort of heart attack—nothing much—and she got over it all right. I prescribed the usual kind of thing, and last night they had me out of bed after twelve o'clock and I found her practically unconscious. I went over her thoroughly: the pulse was weak and rather jumpy, but there was nothing out of the ordinary except the dilation of the pupils. That certainly could not be the result of anything I prescribed for her.'

His companion showed a sudden interest. He made his host repeat the prescription in detail and shook his head. 'There was nothing in that to dilate the pupils. It sounds an interesting case. But, look here, my dear fellow, if you take to worrying over your cases, other people may be left to worry about you.'

Vaughan had an inspiration. 'Pavey, old man. What are you doing this evening?'

'If you are going to suggest an evening at the Theatre Royal there's nothing doing.'

'Nothing of the kind. I thought of taking advantage of your being here, that's all. I shall have to go out there again to-night and it would be a great load off my mind to have a second opinion.'

'Right! It's the sort of case that interests me.'

'Then come and dine here like a good fellow and we'll run out in the car after dinner.'

That evening they were half-way through their dinner when the telephone bell rang. Dr. Vaughan took up the receiver and his colleague hissed at him. 'A bargain's a bargain, Vaughan. If you're going to bring another baby into this overcrowded country, I'm not coming.' He heard Vaughan's reply to the message. 'I was coming out in any case this evening, bringing a colleague with me—a specialist from London. I thought it best to have a second opinion.'

The two doctors arrived at the house soon after nine o'clock and went straight to the sick-room. There they found Michael sitting beside the bed and they turned him out while they were making their examination. He spent the time walking up and down the corridor. The doctors seemed interminably slow. Presently Dr. Vaughan opened the door and saw him. 'We can't find the medicine bottles, Mr. Elliot. There should be three or four doses left in both of them.'

'I'll get them.' He ran off to his bedroom, not noticing that Dr. Vaughan was close behind him. He unlocked his cupboard, took out the bottles, and started violently, for he had turned to find Vaughan standing in the doorway. The doctor took the bottles, counted the doses in each, and went back to the sick-room without a word.

'How is she?' Michael called after the retreating figure. There was no reply. The door of the sick-room was shut almost in his face.

Liberated by the arrival of the doctors, Dawkins descended in quest of a cup of tea. She encountered Robert at the bottom of the stairs.

'I'm afraid you'll get no tea, Miss Dawkins—not this evening, you won't.'

'Why not?'

'Because Mrs. Woolston's been seeing signs and she's all upset—and so's the milk.'

Dawkins was in no mood for bandying words with this irresponsible youth; she went straight to the housekeeper's room. Robert had not exaggerated. She found the housekeeper rocking from side to side in a state of nervous loquacity. 'It's no use talking, Miss Dawkins. I've had two warnings to-day, and surely that's enough. First the jug of milk. I was holding it steady on the tray—steady as a rock—and without a word the jug jumps off the tray and goes smash on the floor: that's a sign that never fails—sure trouble. Then what happens next? Ellen goes to dust the library and upsets the pot of ink, which runs all over the table and on to the floor—just the same as blood runs. You know what that means—blood. It's no good fighting against signs like that, and as for tea—well, we may none of us live to take another bite. You've brought bad news from upstairs, I suppose?'

'The doctors are there now.'

'The doctors? Then there's more than one! I knew it. No wonder that poor jug jumped off the tray. I thought that maybe it was this trouble between Mr. Naburn and the Captain, but now I know it's something worse.'

Dawkins tried to divert her flood of prophecy. 'What's the trouble about Mr. Naburn?'

'Oh, the Captain's been carrying on awful, and Mr. Naburn says that he'll not put up with it: he'll give notice. And all because that motor-bike of his broke down and he couldn't get back on Tuesday. It took them all Wednesday to put the thing to rights. It's a mercy he wasn't killed, and so I told him. If it had been Ellen carrying on because her young man had been two nights out without telling her one could understand it; but for the Captain to make all this fuss——'

While Dawkins was swallowing the cup of tea she had wheedled out of this Cassandra, her mistress's bell rang. She ran upstairs to find Dr. Vaughan waiting for her at the door of the sick-room. He took no notice of Michael Elliot on the landing, nor even turned his head to reply when he asked, 'How is she, doctor?'

Dawkins was taken into the room and the door shut behind her. Interminable minutes passed. At last the door opened; the two doctors passed out and went downstairs, carrying bottles and bags in their hands. Michael was about to follow them, but Dawkins intervened. There were tears in her eyes and her voice was unsteady.

'No, Mr. Michael, you are not to go down just yet. They want to see you before they go, but they must have their consultation first.'

'How is she?'

The woman repressed a sob. 'I can't tell you anything, sir. You'd better hear it all from them downstairs. No, sir; you can't come in. The doctors' orders was strict and I dare not disobey them. No one's to come into the room but me.'

She shut the door and bolted it behind her. Michael knocked at it once, but she would not open it. He was left in the passage waiting for the summons from below. The message was brought by Judd.

'Dr. Vaughan's compliments, sir, and would you be good enough to go down to the library?'

There he found the two doctors seated at the writing-table. Dr. Vaughan had assumed a formal, almost judicial manner, which sat oddly upon him. 'Come in, Mr. Elliot. Sit down. Dr. Pavey and I have one or two questions to ask you. We understand from Miss Marjoribanks's maid that you yourself gave her her medicine and that you kept it locked up in a cupboard in your own room.'

'Yes,' said Michael, puzzled by the formality of this interrogation, 'she was quite right. I did.'

Dr. Vaughan whispered with his colleague, who shook his head. 'Very well, Mr. Elliot. We will not ask you why you did this. I have only this painful duty to perform—to inform you that Miss Marjoribanks died this evening in our presence at twelve minutes to ten.'

Michael gasped with horror as if he did not understand. He looked wildly from one to the other; then, seeing from their faces that they were speaking the truth, he flung himself face downward upon the cushions, crying, 'It was all my fault,' with the uncouth noises that make the audible grief of a grown man so painful to listen to.

The two doctors looked at one another without speaking, and Dr. Pavey made a note upon the papers before him. Then they consulted in whispers and Dr. Vaughan rang the bell for the butler and went to meet him at the door. Judd answered the summons.

'Will you please ask Captain Elliot to come to us, and—stop—is there not another gentleman staying in the house—a relation of Miss Marjoribanks?'

'Yes, sir; Mr. Manderson.'

'Then, will you call him too?'

'Mr. Manderson went to bed more than an hour ago, sir. I expect he's asleep by now, sir.'

'Then you must wake him up. Ask him to come down as he is.'

Captain Elliot entered the room fully dressed.

'You want to see me?' he said coldly.

'Yes, Captain Elliot. Will you kindly sit down for a moment. We are waiting for Mr. Manderson.'

Elliot started on seeing his son lying stretched on the couch, but said he nothing. He sat down. A moment later the shuffle of slippers in the hall announced Arthur Manderson, who appeared with a dressing-gown over his striped pyjamas. He had not stopped to brush the few hairs that remained to him; they stood in tufts erect.

'Mr. Manderson? Please sit down.' Dr. Vaughan indicated a chair beside that on which Captain Elliot was sitting. Manderson carried the chair a few feet away and sat down.

'Gentlemen, it is our sad duty to tell you that Miss Marjoribanks died this evening in our presence at twelve minutes to ten, and that in our opinion there will have to be a post-mortem examination before we can give a certificate of the cause of death.'

'I don't understand,' said Elliot. 'Surely you don't intend to add to the grief of the family by a post-mortem examination? You attended her. Why can't you give a certificate in the ordinary way?'

Dr. Pavey spoke for the first time. He had a dry, cold manner which took no account of sentiment. 'I can answer your question, sir. Miss Marjoribanks exhibited symptoms quite inconsistent with her physical state—quite inconsistent with the medicines prescribed for her by my colleague, Dr. Vaughan. We are taking those medicines away with us for analysis. We are bound also to make an examination of her body before we can certify the cause of death.'

'Do you mean,' gasped Manderson, 'that you suspect—poison?'

'It is too early yet to say.'

'But—oh, this is awful!'

Michael started up from the couch. 'I tell you,' he said in a voice shaking with passion, 'there shall be no post-mortem. I suppose that I'm master here now, and I won't allow anyone to touch my aunt's body. I won't allow it.' He dashed out of the room.

CHAPTER VI.

'YOU are that young man's father?' said Dr. Pavey. 'In view of what has happened, I think that it would be wise to keep an eye upon him.'

'You think so? Very well, I'll look after him.' Elliot left the room.

'You see,' said Dr. Vaughan, turning to Manderson, 'an analysis may clear the whole atmosphere, but an analysis of the medicine would be of little value without a post-mortem. If the two together give negative results I could sign my certificate and the difficulty would be at an end. Moreover, there would be no public scandal. You agree, don't you, Pavey?'

'I do; but if all suspicion is to be cleared away I think it would be wise, in the young man's own interest, if a search were made of the room where he seems to have kept the medicine.'

'Surely you don't suspect Michael of poisoning his aunt?' cried Manderson, now fully awake. 'He was devoted to her.'

'It is to clear away any possible suspicion that the search ought to be made.'

'But why suspect young Elliot more than other people—the maid, for instance?'

'Perhaps you do not know that young Elliot insisted on administering the draughts himself and kept the bottle locked up in his own room.'

'Phew!' exclaimed Manderson. 'Then I suppose that there ought to be a search—in his own interests. Let's go up at once.'

Michael was not in his room, which was surprisingly tidy for a bachelor's. There were very few bottles on the wash-stand and the dressing-table, but Dr. Pavey insisted on carrying away such as there were for analysis. Then they searched the wardrobe where his clothes were kept and turned out every drawer. The door of the cupboard in this wardrobe was locked and, at the doctor's suggestion, Arthur Manderson went off to obtain the key if he could. Apparently he had some difficulty in this, for it was nearly twenty minutes before he returned.

'Have you brought the key?'

'Yes, but I had a job to get it, and I had a job trying to persuade him to give way about the post-mortem. I thought I knew the boy pretty well. I had no idea that he could dig his toes in like this. I'd back him against a Carolina mule.'

'You told him that we were searching his room?'

'Yes, and that's where he made a fuss, but I got the key. Here it is.'

Dr. Pavey opened the cupboard. The three shelves were piled with shirts and suits of clothes, neatly arranged. The pile on the lower shelf had been pushed back as if to make room for the medicine bottles. The clothes themselves looked as if they had not been disturbed for weeks.

'I suppose that we must go through with it,' said Dr. Vaughan; 'we shall make an awful mess.'

At that moment there was a rap on the door. It was Judd, who had come to say that whisky and sandwiches would be found laid out in the library. 'I thought that I should find Mr. Michael here, sir,' he explained.

'Did you arrange these clothes, Judd?' asked Manderson, pointing to the shelves.

'Yes, sir. I usually valet Mr. Michael myself.'

'Did you know that the cupboard was kept locked?'

'Locked, sir? It wasn't locked when I last went to it.'

'See whether the clothes are just as you put them.' Judd surveyed the cupboard. 'Yes, sir, they've not been touched as far as I can see, except the lower row. Some one has pushed the things back.'

'Lift the things out, Judd.'

The butler was obeying, but as he was carrying one of the piles of folded clothing to the bed something hard fell out on the carpet. Dr. Pavey pounced upon it. It was a little white metal flask with a screw top. He unscrewed the stopper and sniffed at it; shook out a few grains of white powder into the palm of his hand and examined them under the lamp. Then he turned upon Judd saying, 'Did you know that this was here?'

'No, sir, I didn't. There was nothing in the pockets when I put the things away.'

'Have you ever seen it before?'

'I've seen something like it, sir. A thing like that came by post for Mr. Michael the day before yesterday.'

Dr. Pavey put the flask into his bag. He made a significant sign to his colleague, who tried by a nervous bow and smile to Manderson to undo the impression produced by Pavey, who was not troubled by the need for cultivating a good bedside manner, Manderson and Judd were left staring at one another in stupefaction.

'Hadn't you better see them out, Judd?'

'Certainly, sir.' And Judd fled down the corridor.

The news of Miss Marjoribanks's death was brought to Tor Park by the postman, who had heard it from the servants at Broad Clyst, with such sensational embellishments as might have been expected from Robert the footman. Peter Graham was the first to arrive at the breakfast-table, and Sir Daniel's butler, who took a personal interest in his young mistress's engagement, imparted the news.

'There's bad news this morning, sir. Miss Marjoribanks, of Broad Clyst, was took poorly two days ago and the news has just come in that she died last night. I'm afraid that young Mr. Elliot will be terrible upsets.'

'Died? It's very sudden. Who was attending her?'

'Dr. Vaughan, sir, from the town. They say she had a weak heart, but I don't listen to no tales.'

'Tales? What sort of tales?'

'Oh, well, sir, there's all sorts of rumours about. I never listen to them. Anyway, there were two doctors with her when she died.'

'I hope that nobody has told Miss Dorothy yet?' The butler's eyes narrowed. He knew something of Dorothy's maid, and if she had kept the news to herself, he thought, it would be more than could be expected of her. 'I hope not, sir,' was all he said.

Peter had observed Dorothy Wilson's depression during the last two days. As the butler was leaving the room she came in, looking pale and wan, and Peter jumped up to minister to her wants.

'No, thank you, Mr. Graham; I don't think I want any of those things on the sideboard.'

'But you really must eat something or you'll be ill. Come and sit down; I've some news for you. Our friend Michael's neglect of us is accounted for.'

'Accounted for? What do you mean?'

'His aunt died last night. She has been very ill and he couldn't leave her bedside.'

'Miss Marjoribanks dead! Surely it was very sudden. I knew that she was ill, but I didn't think it was serious.'

'Nor did I; but with people of that age I suppose anything is liable to happen. Two doctors were with her when she died.'

'How dreadful for Michael! How can I see him? I don't like to go to the house. You see, Miss Marjoribanks did not approve of me.'

'That's all right. I'll go over there now and fix things up.'

At Broad Clyst, Peter was met at the door by Judd, who informed him that Mr. Michael Elliot was too much upset to see anyone.

'I think that he'd see me if you told him my name.'

'I'm afraid not, sir; but Captain Elliot and Mr. Manderson are both in the house, if you'd care to see one of them.'

Peter elected to see Mr. Manderson, guessing him to be a friend of Michael's own age. He was a little startled when he was ushered into the presence of a gentleman of suave manners, old enough to be his father. He plunged into the business without unnecessary explanations.

'I am staying with the Wilsons at Tor Park, and Miss Wilson has asked me to find out when she can see Michael Elliot. You know, of course, that they're engaged.'

Manderson was equally frank. 'I think that you had better put her off a bit on some excuse or other. There are complications and no one knows yet how they are going to turn out. These doctor men are not satisfied, so they say, and they won't give a certificate until there's been a post-mortem. The boy has dug his toes in and says he won't have one.'

'Surely you don't mean that they suspect foul play?'

'I don't know what they suspect, but one grim old creature with a face like a bird of prey carried off the bottles of medicine to analyse them. The other man told me that if Michael persists in refusing to allow the post-mortem, he'll call in the coroner and have the body removed to the public mortuary.'

Peter whistled. 'Can't some one talk sense to him?'

'He won't see anyone. He's locked himself into his room and won't open the door even when they bring him his meals. That's one of the signs of mental breakdown isn't it? I tried my best with him myself this morning, but he wouldn't let me in.'

'Can't his father do anything?'

'Oh, he's tried his best, too, and naturally he's very much upset and not in a fit state to persuade anybody.'

Peter Graham had a brain-wave. 'Look here,' he said; 'we must avoid any scandal about this post-mortem. I know a lady who can persuade Michael to be sensible if anyone can. She's known him for years. She lives quite close. If you agree I'll go and see her at once.'

It was thus that Peter found himself in the little drawing-room at the Cottage, waiting for Mrs. Evans to be brought in from the garden. He was not alone. A young lady was standing before him, regarding him with expectant eyes.

'I don't want you to do the gobbler. Will you do the uvver fings?'

'In the morning?' said Peter, shocked. 'Didn't you know that farmyards only talk at tea-time?'

'I can do a skip-rope dance if you like,' she said, feeling that some form of entertainment was called for. Peter said that he would like it very much, but at that moment Mrs. Evans came in and the young lady was dispatched on a reconnoitring errand to find her aunt.

In a few words Peter explained the object of his visit.

'We had heard of Miss Marjoribanks's death,' said Mrs. Evans. 'The housemaid at Broad Clyst came over on her bicycle to tell her sister, who is my little girl's nurse. But, of course, she knew none of these details. I can't understand Michael's obstinacy. He was always so sensible. I don't know that I should have any special influence with him, but of course I'm ready to try. Ah, here comes Sheila.'

Sheila's verdict was emphatic. 'Of course you must go, Margaret, and of course he'll listen to you. It won't be the first time that he has confided his troubles to you. I think that we ought to start at once.'

'I have a car waiting outside,' said Peter, and while Mrs. Evans went to put on her hat he said, 'you'll come too, Sheila, and hold my hand? I'm afraid that there's going to be serious trouble about this business.'

'No, they won't want to have a crowd of people at a time like this. You take Margaret and contrive that she goes up alone to Michael's door. I'm sure that he'll give way.'

There was little conversation in the car. Margaret Evans seemed to be oppressed by the task before her, but she was a woman who put duty before everything else. She had a kind of motherly affection for Michael and she was doggedly determined to go through with it.

Her arrival had a remarkable effect upon Arthur Manderson, who became quite spruce and urbane under her influence. He seemed anxious to detain her in conversation, but she would waste no time.

'Will you take me up to his room, please,' she said; 'and leave me at the door? Then I should like you to clear every one away downstairs so that I can talk to him through the door without being overheard.'

She was left with a clear field. As he went downstairs Arthur Manderson heard her parleying with Michael through the closed door in a voice that was music to his ears. He could have sworn also that he heard the bolt shot back and the door closed behind her. He joined Peter in the library.

'I wonder how long we shall have to give her.'

'Not long, if I know the lady,' said Peter; 'unless, of course, Michael has gone off his head. Hallo! What's that? A car?'

Arthur Manderson waddled to the window. 'Yes, a car, and, as I live, the bird of prey himself and the other doctor with him. They've brought a big black bag with them—for the post-mortem, I suppose. Now, if the boy is going to make trouble, what are we going to do?' He stared at Peter with the desperate gaze of a man who had spent three-quarters of a lifetime in evading trouble.

'We shall have to face the music,' said Peter.

'That bird of prey gives me the creeps. Here he is!' The butler had thrown open the door. 'Dr. Vaughan and Dr. Pavey,' he announced.

The new-comers bowed gravely; they had left their bag of tools outside in the hall. 'Won't you sit down, gentlemen,' said Manderson in his best manner. They did not take the proffered seats. 'We have come to say,' began Vaughan, 'that a post-mortem is inevitable. We think that it would save pain to the family if it took place here. Otherwise it will be necessary to have the body moved to the mortuary.'

'Will there have to be an inquest?'

'At this stage I cannot say. Probably there will.'

'More than probably—certainly,' said Pavey. Peter saw Manderson shiver. 'Can we go upstairs now and begin?'

'As far as Captain Elliot and I are concerned—certainly,' said Manderson. 'But, of course, I cannot speak for Mr. Michael Elliot. He has been taking things very badly, and it is possible that he may object.'

'We must know this at once,' said Pavey; 'otherwise the matter will pass out of our hands.'

There was a gentle knock. Manderson sprang to the door and opened it gallantly for Mrs. Evans. She looked perturbed until she recognized Dr. Vaughan.

'Well?' said Manderson, 'is it all right?

'Yes,' she said; 'he has agreed to the post-mortem taking place here.'

'That's a relief!' said Peter. 'Before you go upstairs, gentlemen, may we ask you one question? Did the analysis reveal anything?'

'I can answer that question,' said Pavey; 'it did!'

CHAPTER VII.

'NOW that we know that there must be an inquest,' said Peter in one of his daily visits to the Cottage, 'what we have to do is to see that Michael Elliot is properly represented.'

'But he says that he won't employ a solicitor,' objected Mrs. Evans.

'Then we must find one for him. I don't care what it costs.'

'Can't we get one to represent the family—Michael as well as the others?' asked Sheila. 'Mr. Manderson is sure to agree. You'd better see him, Peter.'

Arthur Manderson was ready to agree to anything provided that it relieved him of responsibility.

'As far as I'm concerned, go ahead. But I can't speak for Elliot. I think you'd better see him. You'll find him downstairs in that office of his.'

Peter found him looking ill and worried. He explained the object of his visit.

'Certainly, the family ought to be represented, but London solicitors cost money. Of course, I'll do my share.'

'Oh, that's all right,' said Peter. 'The money question can be arranged.'

'Then will you get the best man you can? I'm glad you came. I've been feeling too ill and upset to do anything.'

Peter returned to the Cottage with the news. 'Now it happens,' he said, 'that among my low friends there is just the man for the job. He is young; he'll stick at nothing that won't land him in trouble with the Law Society and he won't rest until his case is won.'

'But he won't work for nothing,' said Sheila.

'Who would?'

'Well, you would, for one.'

'I? I don't work for nothing. I work for reward when I do work, not in vulgar £.s.d., nor in the approval of what other people call my conscience, but in the grudging approbation of one who is blind to all my virtues and thinks that nature cheated me at birth of my proper share of brains.'

'Don't talk nonsense. What I want to know is whether Mr. Manderson or Captain Elliot is going to pay your lawyer friend.'

'Miss Sheila Carey, I would have you know that if I take my coat off to this case I'll see it through. Besides, when I've had Hosking's costs taxed and have threatened once or twice to punch his head, the bill will be so tiny that I'll pay it myself.'

Peter Graham belonged to a club where most of the members know one another and dine at a long table. He sauntered to the desk, ordered his dinner, walked down the table, and laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the diners. Taking the vacant chair beside him, he asked him how the world went. When the last walnut had been cracked, he proposed coffee—not as usual in the lounge, but in the reading-room, which was a desert at that hour.

'Are you busy these days, Hosking?'

'About as usual.'

'Would you like a job of work? I can put you in the way of one which will make a bit of a stir and bring grist to the mill, but there's no money in it.'

'Don't speak in riddles,' said the man of law. 'Come to the facts.'

They sat on far into the night, the lawyer propounding questions and Peter providing the answers.

'It looks pretty black against your young friend,' said Hosking at last. 'What sort of figure will he cut in the witness-box?'

'A damned bad one, I fancy. He's the sort of boy who might cheek the coroner, which would be worse in that county than cheeking St. Peter on the Day of Judgment.'

Hosking looked keenly at him. 'You're satisfied in your own mind that he had nothing to do with it?'

'There are very few things in this world that I'd stake my life on, Hosking, but on that I would.'

'Very well. Then supposing the doctors are right and poison was administered to this poor old lady, who else stood to profit by her death? You say that young Elliot is her heir.'

'So I've always understood. Certainly, there was another man staying at the house, a cousin named Manderson, a great, overfed bachelor, who lives in the Albany when he's not guzzling. There's a story floating about that he was to have the property until young Elliot cut him out. I expect all that will come out in evidence at the inquest.'

'I should like to know a bit more about this man Manderson,' said Hosking musingly.

'Don't put your money on him till you've seen him. He's too damned lazy to commit a murder.'

The county coroner was a person of importance. He was altogether free from the failing of other important people who do not realize their importance and behave as if they were quite ordinary folk. As the officer presiding over the oldest court in the realm of England, he was important, and he knew it. If nature had endowed him with a commanding presence he would have looked the part, but nature did not know her business. In person he was small and rotund; his baldness was not of the shiny kind, his countenance was unimpressive, and his voice seemed to need a touch of oil. But in his earlier years he had been a practising physician and had preserved sufficient knowledge of medical terms to explain them to his juries. He was always most impressive when a case was of sufficient public interest to bring down representatives of the London Press.

For lack of a suitable courthouse, the inquest on the body of Frances Marjoribanks was held in a public-house—an indignity against which the poor lady herself would have protested with vigour, but the law is a great leveller and she was no longer there to protest. The coroner's officer had spent half a day in serving subpoenas impartially upon members of the household at Broad Clyst, upon Miss Marjoribanks's lawyer, upon the two doctors, and upon Michael Elliot. The coroner was resolved that it should not be his fault if the case failed in making history.

Gossip had been busy; paragraphs in the local Press and a sensational announcement in one of the London dailies, always on the alert for a new 'mystery', had brought a cloud of reporters buzzing about Broad Clyst. There was no question now about keeping the case out of the paper.

The largest room in the 'Broad Clyst Arms' was filled to overflowing. The doorways and the hall were packed with people. Even the windows, wide open to palliate the stuffiness of the atmosphere, seemed to be blocked with heads turned in profile to give the ears a better chance. The jury—two farmers, a road surveyor, a gamekeeper, the parish clerk, the butcher, and half a dozen small shopkeepers—were sworn. Shepherded by the coroner's officer they trooped out to view the body in the garage. The Ford car had been wheeled out to make room for it. Thanks to Peter, the party from the Cottage had found seats reserved for them. He himself was sitting quite near with his friend Hosking. The witnesses were not in court. The bar-parlour had been reserved for them at the back.

The jury filed back to their seats and the coroner's officer cried for silence. It was the moment which the coroner liked best. He was about to impress the jury and the reporters for the local Press. But before he could begin a quiet voice, speaking from the body of the court, addressed him. It was Peter's friend Hosking, who said, 'Mr. Coroner, I am here to represent the family.'

'Your name, sir,' snapped the coroner, turning a baleful eye upon him.

'Ernest Hosking, of Lincoln's Inn Fields.' The coroner disliked London solicitors; they knew too much and they were extremely difficult to impress. The interruption had quite spoiled his address. He began by reciting the facts that everybody knew, and called 'Thomas Vaughan'. The coroner's officer opened the door of the bar-parlour and shouted the name as if the witness, who was within a yard of him, must be stone deaf.

Dr. Vaughan gave an account of his patient's last illness. She was a woman of good constitution for her age, but she had some weakness in the heart, though no active cardiac disease. On the 16th of June he was called by telephone. He found her suffering from faintness; he sounded her and found that her heart was jumpy, but he could detect no dangerous symptoms. He prescribed a soothing draught, which was sent to the house the same afternoon. He called the next morning and she was much better, but late the same night he was summoned by telephone again. He found his patient somnolent and weak and he prescribed another medicine. On the following day he saw her at ten o'clock in the morning. The pulse was weaker. There was nothing in his prescription to account for the relapse and, being uneasy, he consulted Dr. Pavey and took him to see the patient the same evening. They found her in a state of coma and she died in their presence at 9.48 p.m.

'Who was in attendance during these two days?'

'The maid Dawkins, and the nephew Michael Elliot.'

'Where was the medicine kept?'

'When I asked Mr. Elliot to produce the bottle he went to a locked cupboard in his bedroom to fetch it. I saw him take it out.'

'Edmund Pavey,' called the coroner.

Dr. Pavey stepped into the witness-box and bowed coldly to the coroner; he knew the ways of coroners and was never unduly communicative with them.

'You are a London specialist, I think, Dr. Pavey?'

'Yes.'

'And you have experience of poisons?'

'I have studied toxicology.'

'And you were called in by the last witness to see the deceased on June 17th. Tell the jury what you found.'

'The patient was in a state of coma; the eyes were greatly dilated; the pulse and the breathing very weak. There was nothing in these conditions that could be accounted for in the medicine prescribed by Dr. Vaughan, and I advised him to secure the remainder of the medicine for analysis. The patient died while we were there, and I expressed the opinion that no death certificate could be given until a post-mortem had been performed. This was carried out on the following day, with the result that lobelin, in quantities sufficient to account for death, were found in the stomach and in what remained of the medicine in both the bottles.' He went on to describe the properties of lobelin, a noxious drug used in India, giving details about the quantities sufficient to cause death. The coroner revelled in this kind of evidence.

'Before you left the house on the night of the death was anything said about the post-mortem?'

'Yes.'

'Was any objection made?'

'Only by the younger Elliot, who said that he was master in the house and he would not allow the body to be touched.' Dr. Pavey appeared to take a ghoulish pleasure in this part of his evidence. 'Hearing from the maid that the younger Elliot had insisted upon administering the medicine with his own hands, we thought it well to look round his room. In a locked cupboard under some clothes—the same cupboard in which he had kept the medicine—we found a metal flask.'

'Is this the flask?' asked the coroner.

Dr. Pavey turned it over in his hand. 'Yes.'

'You analysed the contents?'

'It was three parts full of lobelin, the same drug that we had found in the body and the medicine bottles.'

'The quantity of lobelin you found was sufficient to cause death?'

'Yes. There was sufficient to cause the death of fifty people!'

CHAPTER VIII.

WHEN the rustle of excitement had died down the coroner called 'John Endicott', and Miss Marjoribanks's lawyer was ushered into court. He related his last interview with his client, described how she had tried to destroy the will made in favour of her nephew and had instructed him to burn it, when she was taken ill and had lost the power of speech.

'Do you know why she was going to revoke her will? Had there been a quarrel?'

'So I inferred, but I know nothing about the cause.'

'Did you burn the will?'

'No. Her nephew entered the room, and when I went to pick up the will from the floor she stopped me and virtually ordered me out of the room.'

'So you do not know whether that will exists or not?'

'No, I do not.'

Hosking intervened for the first time. 'I should like to ask the witness a question, Mr. Coroner. If that will had been destroyed and no other will made in its place, who would have inherited her property?'

'An earlier will, revoked by the will she wished to destroy, would have come into force. It left the bulk of her property to her cousin, Arthur Manderson.'

'And he was staying in the house at the time?'

'I believe so—yes.'

'So, if she afterwards put the later will in the fire Arthur Manderson has become her heir.'

'That is so.'

'Deborah Dawkins,' called the coroner.

Dawkins, gaunt, and determined to go through the ordeal with dignity, rustled in her Sunday black silk to the table that did duty for a witness-box. She took the oath defiantly as she would have mounted the scaffold for conscience' sake.

Yes, she was Miss Marjoribanks's maid; she had not been present when the last witness was with her mistress. He himself came down to call her to the room, saying that Miss Marjoribanks had been taken ill.

'Who was in the room when you entered it?'

No one but Mr. Michael, her nephew. He was smoothing her pillow and she seemed glad that he was there. Mr. Endicott was putting papers into his bag. He tried to pick up a paper that had fallen on the floor and her mistress stopped him.

'How? She could not speak.'

'No, but she frowned and signed to him with her hand to leave it and go. So he went.'

'What became of the paper?'

'Afterwards she told me to put it into the drawer where she keeps her papers.'

'Who gave her her medicine?'

'I did until Mr. Michael took charge. Then he gave it. He wouldn't let anyone else touch it.'

'Where did he keep the medicine bottle?'

'In his own room.'

Hosking rose to question her. It was evident that the coroner was irritated by these interruptions.

'What were the relations between Miss Marjoribanks and her nephew?'

'The relations, sir? They were aunt and nephew.'

'I mean—were they on good terms?'

'The very best, sir. He loved her and she loved him.'

'And that continued right up to the end?'

'Oh, yes, sir.'

'Was anyone else alone with Miss Marjoribanks during her illness besides Mr. Endicott, her nephew, and you?'

'No one but Mr. Manderson. He was with her for about twenty minutes on the second morning. She sent for him.'

William Judd was the next witness. He was not quite sure of the proper demeanour for a well-trained servant at an inquest, but he was quite sure that his duty lay in giving as little information as possible. He could not deny that his name was William Judd nor that he was butler at Broad Clyst Manor. He was not too certain about who was staying in the house at the time of the death, but on the whole he agreed with the coroner that Mr. Arthur Manderson, Captain Elliot, and his son Michael made up the party.

The coroner prided himself upon his skill in managing unwilling witnesses.

'Now, Judd, listen to me. Have you ever seen this before?' He held up the metal flask.

Judd shook his head doubtfully.

'Take it in your hand and look at it.'

Judd obeyed; appeared to scrutinize it and weigh it in his hand. 'I've seen something like it, sir.'

'When?

'I've seen things like this in shop windows.'

'Never mind the shop windows. Have you ever seen one at Broad Clyst? Come, you have sworn to tell the whole truth—not part of it.'

'Well, sir, something like it came by post the other day.'

'Who was it addressed to?'

'Mr. Elliot.'

'What day was that?'

'The 17th, I think it was—the day after Miss Marjoribanks was taken poorly.'

'How did you know what was in the parcel?'

'Well, sir, I couldn't help knowing when I see Mr. Elliot open it, could I?'

'When did you next see it?'

'I don't know that I did see it again, sir.'

The coroner was glaring at him. 'At least, I don't know that it was this one.'

'Come now, out with the truth! Did you see a flask like this in Michael Elliot's bedroom when the doctors were searching it?'

'Well, sir, if you put it in that way, I suppose I did.'

'You suppose you did. Where was it?'

'In the cupboard with his clothes. It fell out of them.'

'And it wasn't there when you arranged the clothes in the cupboard?'

'Oh, no, sir.'

'That will do. Call Michael Elliot.'

Judd left the table a limp man. He thought that he had imbued the jury with grave suspicion against himself, and he resolved never again to give evidence in a court of law if he could help it.

The court was buzzing with suppressed excitement when the coroner's officer bellowed the name into the bar-parlour. The witness walked in firmly. He was wearing a black tie and his face was very pale. The women present could not help noticing the air of nobility and determination in his face. He took the oath and turned to the coroner.

'Your name is Michael Elliot and you are nephew to the deceased lady?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I want you to give the jury an account of all you know about her last illness.'

'I will answer any question—any relevant question—that you like to put to me, sir, if I can.'

'When did you first know that she had been taken ill?'

'On June 16th. I was passing her door when Mr. Endicott called me in. She seemed almost unconscious. I asked Mr. Endicott to call her maid Dawkins, and I stayed in the room till she came.'

'Had you had any difference with your aunt shortly before she was taken ill?'

'Yes, sir—on the night before.'

'Tell the jury what it was about.'

'With all respect, sir, I must decline. It has no bearing whatever on this inquiry.' The coroner set his jaw and glared at the witness.

'I ask you now, Michael Elliot, what was this difference about? You have sworn to tell the whole truth.'

'I have sworn to tell the whole truth that is relevant to this inquiry, and, with every respect to you, sir, I say that your question is not relevant. I decline to answer it.'

The coroner glanced meaningly at the jury. 'Now, sir, perhaps you will answer this question. Did you, or did you not, receive this flask by post on or about June 17th?'

'I did, sir!'

'Who sent it to you?'

'I do not know.'

'What did you do with it?'

'I took it upstairs.'

'To your room?'

'I decline to say, sir.'

'Do you contend that that question is not relevant to this inquiry as to how Miss Marjoribanks met her death?'

'No, sir, but with all respect to you and the jury, I decline to answer the question.'

'Do you also decline to tell the jury who administered the medicine to Miss Marjoribanks?'

'Not at all. I gave her every dose with my own hand.'

'Where was the medicine bottle kept?'

'I kept it locked up in the cupboard in my room.'

'Why did you do this?'

'I decline to say.'

The jury shifted uneasily in their seats. How long was the choleric little coroner going to stand such outrageous defiance of his authority? Was there not something medieval, with thumbscrews in it, still sanctioned by the law for compelling a recalcitrant witness to speak? And there the young man stood, calm and resolute, waiting for the next question.

But the coroner thought that he knew a better way. He asked no more questions, but told the witness dryly that he could stand down. Then he turned to the jury. 'Gentlemen,' he said, but he got no further, for Hosking was on his feet. 'Mr. Coroner, I have one or two questions to ask this witness.'

The coroner threw himself back in his chair and acted patience in pantomime.

'You say that you locked up the medicine in your cupboard. You thought you had good reason for doing this?'

Michael hesitated. 'I would rather not answer that question.'

'You were very much attached to your aunt?'

'Yes. She was like my own mother to me.'

'Did you know that the flask which the coroner showed you was locked up in the cupboard in which you kept the medicine?'

'I did not.'

Hosking sat down and the coroner began his address to the jury.

'Gentlemen,' he said, 'you have heard the evidence. It has not all been given as fully or as frankly as you have a right to expect, but you have enough before you to enable you to arrive at a verdict as to how this poor lady met her death.' He went on to review the medical evidence, establishing the cause of death from poisoning by lobelin, and asked by whose hand this poison had been introduced into the medicine. Clearly it must have been by the hand of one of the persons residing in the house. When the question of murder is considered there must be a motive, unless the murder has been committed by a lunatic of homicidal instincts. In this case there was evidence that might point to a motive—the evidence of the witness Endicott, who testified that the deceased lady intended to revoke her will. What happened immediately afterwards? They found the nephew, who was to profit by the will which she intended to revoke, always at her bedside, giving her medicine with his own hand, locking up the bottle in his bedroom in a certain cupboard in which was afterwards found the metal flask which had been shown to them. This flask contained enough lobelin to poison fifty people. They had seen that young man at the witness-table. 'Gentlemen,' he went on, 'in nearly thirty years during which I have presided over this court I have never been so impudently treated by any witness. This young man swore to tell you the whole truth. He carried out that solemn oath by refusing to reply to the most necessary and obvious questions. He even assumed an attitude of indifference to his position. It would be easy for you, gentlemen, to leave other authorities to deal with him and to find a verdict that this poor old lady died from poison administered by some person or persons unknown, but it is my duty to suggest to you that if you find such a verdict as that you will be evading your responsibilities. It is your duty to consider, not part, but the whole of the evidence that you have heard, and if you are satisfied in your own minds of the identity of the person who did this foul act it is your duty to say so. Gentlemen, consider your verdict.'

The local butcher, who had been chosen foreman, swung round in his seat to consult the jurymen behind him. The household at Broad Clyst did not buy their meat from him and his opinion was therefore unfettered. But the parish clerk, the third man in the back row, was talking earnestly to his neighbours, pointing out to them that a guilty man would not refuse to answer questions and that the whole thing might be a 'plot'. After a long whispered discussion, the foreman intimated that the jury would like to retire. They were ushered in single file into the bar-parlour and locked in by the coroner's officer.

Subdued conversation broke out in court; the coroner was talking to the police inspector; Peter Graham asked Hosking what was to be done next.

'Next after what?'

'After the verdict. How dense you are! The whole lot of them, except the man who intones the amens in church, had hanging faces. They'll saddle poor Michael with the murder. Couldn't you have knocked that pompous little coroner off his perch?'

'If they arrest the young man I shall apply for an interview with him. It wasn't worth it. Stop, here they come!'

The butcher led the way; it was his supreme moment. He stood up in his place, hoping that one of the Press photographers was doing his duty. The court was hushed.

'Gentlemen, are you agreed upon your verdict?'

'We are.'

The foreman produced a crumpled bill-head of his own to refresh his memory and recited its contents in a high, artificial voice. 'We find that the diseased Frances Marjoribanks died from the effects of a poison, to wit'—he turned the bill-head round to catch the light and spelt the word 'lobelin' the handwriting of the parish clerk being unfamiliar—'and that the said poison was administered by her nephew, Michael Elliot.' He sat down, mopping his brow and seemed to be expecting a burst of applause. The police inspector moved over to the chair where Michael was sitting.

'Michael Elliot stands committed for trial on the coroner's warrant,' said the coroner.

CHAPTER IX.

MRS. EVANS, followed by her sister and Peter Graham, went over to the prisoner and took both his hands in hers. She was smiling through her tears. 'We know that everything will come right, Michael, and we want you to feel certain of it too.' Michael returned the pressure of her hands.

'You have always been my friend, Mrs. Evans—even when I used to chase your chickens about at Trelawney. Will you do something for me? Go and break the news to Dorothy before she hears it from anyone else, and tell her—tell her that, of course, she is free now.'

'Yes, I'll go there at once, but I'm sure Dorothy won't be such a little fool as to accept her freedom.'

Peter grasped his hand. 'You know your own business best, Elliot, but if you could tell all you know to this lawyer man of ours it might save everybody a great deal of anxiety.' Michael shook his head.

'There's nothing to do,' he said, but to let things take their course.'

Arthur Manderson touched Peter on the arm. 'Would you lend a hand, Graham? Captain Elliot got up to go over to his son and fainted. We must get him out of the court somehow.'

And then the police inspector touched Michael and led the way out to a car that was waiting. Michael turned to them as he was going and said, 'Remember, I don't want any of you to visit me in the place I'm going to.'

Judd and Dawkins were kept back to sign their depositions. They were a depressed and pathetic-looking pair as they walked silently back to the house. They had tried to do their best and it was a poor best. They found nothing to restore their spirits when they got back. Mrs. Woolston was brooding like Fate at the head of the table while the younger servants sat waiting for their tea. She shook her head as the two witnesses came in and broke into speech. 'It wasn't for nothing that I saw that magpie in the road this morning. One for sorrow that means. I looked for another, but there was only that one, so I knew what would happen. It was no surprise to me. What you two wanted to give that evidence for is more than I shall ever know. I shall dream to-night of that poor young man sitting in a dungeon with gyves upon his wrists (whatever they may be) as the song says.'

'What was wrong with our evidence, Mrs. Woolston, I should like to know?' said Judd gloomily.

Robert looked up from his plate. 'With all respect to you, Mr. Judd, you and Miss Dawkins between you have 'anged him.'

'What do you mean, Robert?'

'I mean this, Mr. Judd—and I haven't got a brother a private detective for nothing—what they look for in these cases is motive. Miss Dawkins supplied that when she told the jury about that will—the mistress wanting to destroy it and all and being took bad before she could do it. What's the jury to think? Why, that Mr. Michael turns to and does her in before she can change her mind.'

'Pshaw!' Judd did not like liberties of this kind from his juniors. He tried to change the subject. 'Your clock's stopped, Mrs. Woolston.'

'Yes,' said the sibyl in a hollow voice, 'and do you know why, Mr. Judd? The pendulum fell off, no one touching it—a sure sign of death that is—death in this house, death that's coming, nothing to do with the death that's gone.' She turned her solemn eyes upon Dawkins. 'When I was young in service I remember the housemaid—a nice girl she was from Bristol way—they called her to give evidence in a court, and it preyed upon her mind to that extent that she committed suicide the same night—jumped from the third floor window she did, and was smashed to atoms on the pavement. That's what comes of giving evidence.'

'I swore to tell the truth, so I had to tell it,' murmured Dawkins in a faint voice.

'Yes,' said Robert, 'but there are ways of telling the truth. There's nothing worse, my brother says, than a witness who wants to tell too much. Look at Mr. Judd's evidence.'

'Oh, leave my evidence alone.'

'No, but this is just a friendly discussion, Mr. Judd,' continued Robert, unabashed. 'In circumstantial evidence, my brother says, you have to forge the chain complete to the last link. You done it, Mr. Judd. Where did he get the poison? You told them. It came by post in a metal flask addressed to him. You see him open it. You find it among the clothes in his own cupboard. People may say what they like, but you've 'anged him all right.'

'Mark my words,' said Mrs. Woolston heavily, 'death never comes singly—always in threes.'

Ellen burst into tears, crying through her sobs, 'Oh, please have done with your signs, Mrs. Woolston. I can't drink my tea.'

When the party broke up Judd followed Dawkins along the passage. Dawkins was crying quietly to herself. 'I wonder you listen to that Robert, Mr. Judd,' she said.

'He talks a lot of stuff, but you know, Miss Dawkins, some of what he said is quite correct. It is the motive that counts. It's all along of that will which makes Mr. Michael the heir. If some one else was the heir then there'd be no motive and he'd get off. I wonder where that will is.'

'I know where it is. I put it into the drawer myself, and if I thought you were right——'

'You heard what Robert said. They always look for a motive. His brother's a detective.' A bell rang. 'Why, that's the Captain's bell. Naburn will see to that.' The bell rang again, louder and more insistent. 'What's become of the man? I suppose I'd better go and see what the Captain wants.' He hurried off upstairs.

'Where's Naburn? There's no hot water and he's forgotten to lay out my things.'

'I don't know, sir. I saw him at the inquest. I thought he'd come back, but he wasn't at tea downstairs, sir. And then——' as Captain Elliot still looked black, he hastened to add, 'But it's all right, sir. I'll get you your hot water. We've plenty of time before dinner. It may be a little late this evening with all the upsets we've had.' He filled the breach quite as well as the absent Naburn would have done.

There was no conversation at dinner that night. Captain Elliot helped himself to food which he did not eat. Arthur Manderson alone did full justice to Mrs. Woolston's cooking. When Judd left the room Manderson broke the silence. 'I hope you're feeling better, Elliot. There'll be a lot to see to—the funeral, the lawyers, and God knows what besides. And everybody's off his balance.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, it's quite natural that you should be upset—a murder in the house, your son arrested, and on the top of everything else your man makes a bolt of it.'

'A bolt of it? Why should he bolt?'

'God knows! I went for a walk after the inquest and he passed me on his motor-bike riding as if the fiend were on his heels. I could scarcely breathe for the dust. He was going in the opposite direction to this. You know there's something funny about the whole business. Perhaps he's got something to hide. He was as white as a sheet when I saw him. These inquests are ghastly things. I'm awfully sorry about your boy. I suppose you'll take steps about getting him properly defended.'

'Of course I shall.'

'You know, Elliot, if I were in your shoes, I'd get hold of a good sleuth and give him the run of the house—call him your new valet and let him run about among the servants. Depend upon it, a fellow like that would discover who played monkey tricks with that medicine bottle in twenty-four hours. I believe I could do it myself.'

Captain Elliot rose. 'I've got so much to do, Manderson, that I must leave you. Here's the port. You might ring for coffee when you're ready.'

'Can I take anything off your hands?'

'No, thank you. I have to do it all myself.'

'Of course we don't know yet, do we, who this place belongs to—until the will has been read?'

Elliot turned at the door. 'I shouldn't nurse any false hopes if I were you, Manderson. You heard the lawyer's evidence this afternoon. That will was not destroyed.' He shut the door behind him.

For once Arthur Manderson left the port untouched and forgot to ring for coffee. He sat staring at his empty plate, thinking deeply.

As no one rang for coffee, Judd brought it in. Manderson started violently. 'Gad! How you startled me, Judd. You move about on rubber tyres.'

The butler smiled faintly.

'I heard you give your evidence this afternoon. I thought you did it jolly well.'

'I'm afraid, sir, it told terribly against Mr. Michael. That's what they all say.'

'Bosh! What told against him were the facts themselves—not what you said.'

'You think he'll get off, sir, don't you?'

'We must get him off, but he'll have to help us. I suppose you know this man of Captain Elliot's very well.'

'Naburn? Yes, sir.'

'Is he a steady sort of man?'

'Oh, yes, sir. He's engaged to the housemaid here—Ellen.'

'Been many years with Captain Elliot?'

'I believe so, sir. He was a sergeant in the Captain's regiment in India and before that I believe he was his soldier servant.'

'And he's been with him all these years?'

'No, sir. He's only been here about two years. He came when he got his discharge from the army.'

The house was very quiet that night. Dawkins, who could not sleep for thinking, had never known it so still. She had come to a resolve if her natural terror would permit her to carry it out. That will that she had put away in the drawer was the only thing that stood between Michael Elliot and liberty. That was the inference she had drawn from the conversation at tea. If that will were to disappear and Mr. Michael were no longer the heir he could have had no motive for committing the crime they accused him of. She knew where it was. She would redeem the harm she had done to Mr. Michael by the evidence she had given by making the will disappear. Very softly she opened her door, and immediately the house seemed to break into life. Was that creaking a footfall? No, it was only the century-old rafters, groaning as old people groan, with the burden of age. And that? Surely that was the rustle of garments? No, a mouse scuttling for his hole with a flirt of his tail. She would not be frightened from her duty even by a mouse; otherwise she would have the vision of a body dangling before her eyes for the rest of her days. She crept down the stairs and ran along the landing to the door she knew so well. She had its key in her hand, and the drawer, she knew, was unlocked. She hesitated a moment when she had turned the key, for she remembered that murder-rooms are haunted. It was the beating of her own heart that she heard now. She went in. She had no need of a light. Groping her way to the secretaire, she felt for the drawer and drew it out. She had put the will on the top of the other papers: she knew the feel of it. She thrust in her hand and staggered back, gasping. She had never let the key of the room out of her keeping since they took her dead mistress away, yet the will was not there!

CHAPTER X.

IT was the morning of the funeral. The gathering was far larger than any that would have met in that churchyard if Frances Marjoribanks had died a natural death. Bicycles were stacked along the fence; police were present to keep order; reporters from the London dailies and from the west of England press were gathered in a knot near the open grave. The entire village had turned out, not to do honour to the lady of the big house, but to stare curiously at the witnesses who had given evidence at the inquest. Arthur Manderson and Captain Elliot were the mourners, Elm Cottage had sent its mistress and her sister, and from Tor Park Sir Daniel himself had come with Peter to do honour to one who had been always hostile to him when she was alive. The aged vicar, grown rusty in the service of a rural parish, felt that he, too, must rise to so great an occasion. His daughter, who played the organ a little uncertainly, had spent the previous afternoon in rehearsing the 'Dead March in Saul'. The parish clerk—the same who had done his best to stand out against his fellow-jurymen—threw his convictions into the sonority of his 'amens'.

In the churchyard the reporters were discussing the murder and missed the vicar's exuberant little address, in which he overemphasized the kindliness, the gentleness, and the open-handed charity of 'our poor sister so untimely called away'. And the organist made a sad hash of the Funeral March, because, so she said, Tommy Mason, who officiated at the bellows, did not give her enough wind for the rumble in the pedals. They had words about it afterwards.

There was a buzz of excitement when the cortege, marshalled by the local undertaker, emerged from the church. It was sternly repressed by the police sergeant on duty, who shouted 'Silence' as if he were in a law court.

'Who's the bald-headed blighter with the red face all screwed up as if he'd got the toothache?' asked a reporter from the Daily Mercury.

'A cousin, I believe—Anderson or Sanderson they call him.' But Arthur Manderson was only wearing the expression he considered appropriate to funerals.

'He looks ghastly, the Captain, don't he?' whispered the keeper's wife to her sister.

'No wonder, poor man, with his son in jail, condemned to death, as you might say.'

Judd had claimed the right to be one of the bearers of his late mistress. All the other servants were there, Mrs. Woolston brooding like Fate over the proceedings, and Ellen sobbing her heart out because she was emotional and was deserted by her affianced.

Peter Graham was standing with Sir Daniel at a little distance, and when the solemn words of the most moving service in any Church were said, and the vicar was returning to the vestry Sir Daniel whispered, 'I don't know what is being done about defending that young man—do you?'

Peter assured him that the best counsel would be obtained.

'Yes,' said the old man, 'but the best counsel costs money, and there may not be too much of it about. You know the family. I wish you'd convey a 'int to them that I'd like to take a hand in it by getting the very best man that money can buy. You understand? The bill's to be sent to me.'

Peter felt that he could have hugged his host if he were not so hirsute.

The household at Broad Clyst enjoyed no respite. The servants had scarcely returned from the funeral when the superintendent of the county police appeared with his clerk to take detailed statements from them to be forwarded to the director of public prosecutions. He was accompanied by Lawyer Endicott, who had called to take charge of Miss Marjoribanks's will.

'If you don't mind, superintendent, I think we might go straight up to the writing-table mentioned in the maid's evidence. That's where we shall find the will.'

'That room will have to be searched. We may as well do it at the same time.'

Judd left them in Miss Marjoribanks's bedroom, saying, 'You will ring, sir, if you want anything.'

He had not long to wait for a summons. Mr. Endicott seemed to be perturbed. 'Will you please ask Miss Dawkins, the maid, to come here at once.'

Deborah Dawkins mounted the stairs with the air of those martyrs for conscience's sake who were called upon to climb the fatal ladder to the scaffold. It was enough for her that a police inspector was lying in wait. Nor had Mrs. Woolston's parting words when Judd brought the message done anything to comfort her. 'I'm glad it's you, Miss Dawkins,' she had said, 'very glad. You may melt the stony heart of that inspector, which is more than I would undertake to do. He may let you sleep one more night in your own bed.'

'Miss Dawkins,' began the lawyer smoothly, 'you said in your evidence that you put that will into one of the drawers in this room. We've been through all the drawers and we can't find it.'

'This was the drawer I put it in, sir.'

'Well, look for yourself.'

Dawkins was glad to be able to fall on her knees, which had been giving way under her. She took out paper after paper and turned a scared face upon Endicott. She did not dare look at the inspector, feeling sure that he was fingering the handcuffs that were to click about her wrists.

'Did you keep the drawer locked?'

'No, sir, not the drawer, but the door of the room was locked.'

'Who kept the key?'

'I—I—did.' Her teeth were chattering.

'And the key was never out of your keeping?'

'No.'

The inspector spoke for the first time, and Dawkins started violently. 'There was no other key?'

'Not that I know of, sir.'

'That will do, thank you, Miss Dawkins,' said the lawyer. Dawkins fled to her own room: she could not face the sibyl in her present mood.

Endicott remained in secret conference with the inspector for many minutes before Judd was called to the room. He was sent in quest of Captain Elliot, who was immersed in accounts in the business-room downstairs. He came to them at once.

'We've asked for you, Captain Elliot, to see whether you can throw any light upon the will made in favour of your son. We can't find it anywhere.'

'Can't find it?' Elliot's face was suffused. 'It must be found.'

'The maid says that the door was kept locked and she knows of no other key.' A light seemed to break in upon Elliot.

'I suppose she did not know of the master-key. Miss Marjoribanks had a great dread of fire and she arranged that there should be one master-key that would open every door in the house. It was kept hanging on a nail in the hall, but I don't think that any of the servants, who may have seen it there, knew what it was for. When I suggested having the key made, she stipulated that the servants were not to be told of it. She may, of course, have told the butler. The matter is so serious that I suggest having them up one by one and questioning them in the presence of the inspector. If anyone has been into the room since the death it must have been one of the servants.'

He rang the bell and Judd made his appearance.

'Judd, I want you to bring us the master-key.'

'The master-key, sir? What key is that?'

'You know, the key that opens all the doors in case of fires.'

'You must be mistaken, sir. I never heard of such a key.'

'You must have seen it hanging in the hall.'

'You mean that rusty old key that's hung on a nail under the stairs, sir? I thought that was the key of the furnace-room. I can get you that key, sir. I believe I saw it as late as yesterday.' He was back with the key in under a minute. The inspector tried it. It turned the lock of the door.

'Send Robert up to us, Judd,' said Elliot, who seemed to have taken charge of the proceedings.

Robert wore an expression of gravity which far outran his years. He did not seem to be in the least daunted at having to face the three inquisitors, but he was composed and respectful.

'Robert,' said Elliot, 'have you had any special instructions in case of fire?'

'Not that I know of, sir.'

'If a fire broke out in a room that was locked up, what would you do?'

'I'd fetch the case-opener, sir, and break through the door.'

'Why not use the master-key?'

'There isn't one, sir!'

'The key that hangs near the coats in the hall.'

'That's not a master-key, sir. That's the key of the furnace-room.'

'Very well. Will you send Ellen up here?' They did not hear the manner in which that message was conveyed. Robert found the housemaid in her pantry. 'You're wanted, Ellen.'

'Who wants me?'

'The Captain, and if you don't tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, you're for it.'

'You're kidding me.'

'If you keep him waiting he won't ask you no questions. He'll call in the police. So hurry up.'

'Where is he, Robert?'

'In the mistress's bedroom, unless he's waiting somewhere to pop out on you.'

It was not the kind of preparation that conduced to an appearance of calm and innocence. Ellen appeared before the inquisition with heaving breast.

'Yes, sir,' she said with a gulp.

'We want to ask you a few questions, Ellen. Have you ever been into this room since Miss Marjoribanks's death?'

'No, sir, I wouldn't have dared.'

'Has anyone else been in?'

'No, sir, I'm sure they haven't.'

'What was that key for that hangs under the stairs in the hall?'

'Oh, that was a master-key, sir, that opens all the rooms.'

'How do you know that?'

'Because Mr. Manderson told me, sir. It was one day when he was going to get his coat and I'd knocked the key down on the floor with my brush. He told me to be careful because that key was very important and opened all the rooms when the house caught fire.'

'Did you mention it to anyone else?'

'No, sir. I can swear to that.'

'Why not? It was no secret.'

'Well, I didn't give it another thought.'

Ellen, who had learned at the tea-table below stairs what traps are laid for the unwary in question and answer, wondered whether she had put a rope round the neck of some one who had never harmed her. But the inquisitors seemed to have tired of their questioning. They desired her to send Mrs. Woolston up to them. She found the sibyl resting in the housekeeper's room. Robert followed her in.

'Mrs. Woolston, you're wanted upstairs.'

'Who wants me?'

'I can tell you, Mrs. Woolston,' chimed in Robert. 'It's the police.'

The sibyl turned a solemn eye upon him.

'It's the truth I'm telling you, Mrs. Woolston. It's the police inspector and a lawyer come all the way from town to question you.'

'To question me? What for?'

'I believe it's this way, Mrs. Woolston. You see, the jury found that the mistress was poisoned. Right. What's the next question? Who prepared the food that the mistress ate? It wasn't me and it wasn't Ellen. It was you, and they want to know, the police do, what you put in it.'

'I can tell them what I put in it and I can tell them a great deal more. Where are they?'

'In the mistress's bedroom.'

Mrs. Woolston rose heavily and made her way upstairs, charged with omens. No police inspector had any terrors for her. She dealt with personalities on a loftier plane. Even Elliot seemed a little daunted by the Presence he had called up.

'Mrs. Woolston,' he began, half apologetically, 'we want to ask you about this key.'

'It wasn't the key, gentlemen. It was the milk-jug that jumped out of my tray on to the floor. It was the pendulum of the old clock that fell off, no one touching it. It was the ink that Ellen spilt that ran like blood all over the carpet. Bless you, gentlemen, I knew what was coming. I knew that Death was coming to this house, and I fear he's not far off from us now. It may be you next, Captain.'

'Thank you, Mrs. Woolston. That will do.'

'I could tell you of signs we've had since the mistress's death, poor soul.'

'No, thank you, Mrs. Woolston, We won't trouble you. Will you ask Miss Dawkins to come.'

Dawkins obeyed the summons with a quaking heart.

'There was one question we forgot to ask you, Dawkins. Was anyone else in the room when you put the will away in the drawer?'

'No one but Mr. Manderson, sir.'

CHAPTER XI.

THE three men were silent for a full minute after Dawkins had left the room. The police inspector appeared to be waiting for one of the others to speak. Endicott was the first to break silence. 'It doesn't seem to me, Captain Elliot, that we've carried the matter very much farther.'

'You think not? If several of the servants did not know about the master-key, there was one man who did—Arthur Manderson—and he was present in the room when the maid, Dawkins, put the document into that drawer. Who was to benefit by the disappearance of that document? Why, Manderson. He had the entire run of the house; he knew that Miss Marjoribanks had thought of destroying the will, because I told him so myself. He intended to leave and go back to London, but as soon as I told him that, he changed his plans and decided to stay.'

He seemed to be addressing his remarks more to the police inspector than to the lawyer.

'We have no proof of this, Captain Elliot,' said Endicott. 'We might, of course, have a search made of every paper in the house, but the fact remains that Miss Marjoribanks intended to destroy that will with the view of bringing an earlier will into force. It is, of course, a rule that the solicitor who prepares a new will should destroy the old one, but, as you know, Miss Marjoribanks was a lady of very determined will. She forbade me to destroy the old will, saying that if that was my rule, she would keep it herself. She muttered something about never knowing whether she might not want to bring it into force by destroying the new one. I objected that, in that case, it would be quite easy to draft a new will containing the old conditions, but opposition always made her more obstinate and I did not press the point. We must continue our search, and I suppose that if it is unsuccessful we must assume that she destroyed her last will and prove that made in favour of Mr. Manderson.'

'According to Dr. Vaughan's evidence,' said the inspector, 'the deceased lady was not so ill on the day following her first attack that she could not have destroyed the will as she intended—destroyed it, mean, with her own hands when no one was looking. If the document is still in existence, it will be where the maid put it. In the meantime, gentlemen, there seems to be nothing that I can do. By your leave I will proceed to search this room and then take the statements of the witnesses downstairs.'

The lawyer and Elliot left him to his task and went down to the business-room. 'You see,' said Elliot, 'we mustn't hurry things too much. For all we know, the inspector may come across the will when he is searching, and, if we burn our boats by starting to prove the earlier will we should look rather foolish, shouldn't we? I want to protect the interests of my poor boy.'

'Quite so,' replied Endicott; 'and therefore the search must be very thorough. But remember, Captain Elliot, that I have my duty to do and if the other will is not found I shall have no choice but to prove the earlier will of which I am executor.'

'I don't agree with you, Mr. Endicott. According to the maid Dawkins my sister-in-law changed her mind after you left,' said Elliot.

'Well, have a thorough search made; but if nothing is found by to-morrow I shall have to ask you and Mr. Manderson to be present while I read the will that we know to exist.'

Every search having been unavailing, Captain Elliot and Arthur Manderson were duly summoned to the library to hear the earlier will read. The document was quite short. After specifying legacies to her butler, William Judd and her maid, Deborah Dawkins, the testatrix bequeathed the rest of her property to her cousin Arthur Manderson. There was no mention of her sister. The sole executor was Endicott himself.

'This will revoked a former will made in favour of her sister,' said the lawyer, folding up the document.

For some moments Elliot could not trust himself to speak; then he said, 'Do I understand that you intend to prove this will at once?'

'Yes, Captain Elliot. As executor, I have really no choice in the matter.'

'So I suppose that my job has come to an end—that this is a notice to quit?' He addressed his question to the lawyer.

'That is entirely a matter for Mr. Manderson after the will is proved.'

'I don't propose to make any sudden changes,' said Manderson; 'not for some weeks at any rate. And, of course, I should be glad to give Captain Elliot as long as he likes for making his arrangements. Do you suppose, Mr. Endicott, that any of the servants will want to leave?'

'Well, Judd and Dawkins have rather substantial legacies. They may not wish to continue in service. I remember that Miss Marjoribanks wished to fix their legacies rather high for that reason, and in the later will, which she threatened to destroy, she insisted on my inserting the same amounts. I could, of course, find out about the others.'

But Manderson, as usual, preferred the line of least resistance. 'I'll let sleeping dogs lie, I think, Mr. Endicott. I have so many engagements in London'—he waved his hand to indicate that they were past counting in number and importance, and he saw an unpleasant curl about Elliot's lips—'I may not be here very much, you know, and the servants will grow tired of being always on board wages. Then things will settle themselves.' He rose to intimate that, as far as he was concerned, the conference was at an end.

Only one place was laid for luncheon. Judd conveyed Captain Elliot's compliments, and said that the gentleman was so full of work in the business-room that he was having a tray brought to his writing-table. Manderson sat down to the business of his midday meal with a sense of intense relief. From the luncheon-table he went to his room to expend unusual care upon his toilet. Captain Elliot saw him pass, and went to the window to watch his retreating figure, wondering why he was so newly-groomed and spruce. He did not guess that the gentleman was feeling the call of youth and was on his way to the Cottage, intent upon making an impression.

There was quite a gathering in the little drawing-room at the Cottage. Mrs. Evans and her sister were listening to Dorothy Wilson's account of her visit to Exeter Prison that morning, and Peter Graham, who had already heard the story, was watching the faces of the two ladies to note the impression that it made upon them. Dorothy had the superlative quality of courage. She spoke almost cheerfully about her misfortunes, appearing never to doubt that ultimately all would be well.

'Did you see him?' asked Mrs. Evans. A shade crossed the girl's face.

'No, though the governor went himself to ask Michael to see me, but he was so sympathetic and nice that I came away quite cheered up.'

'What did he say?'

'He had already made up his mind about Michael. I can remember every word he said. "The boy is innocent, of course—that we all know, and he doesn't seem to be at all depressed by the indignity of finding himself in a place like this. I know very little of the case, but I suppose that there is some secret behind it all, and the reason that he won't consent to see his friends or his lawyer is that he is determined not to give the secret away."'

'The governor is quite right,' said Mrs. Evans. 'I felt sure all along that Michael was determined to be a scapegoat. But who could he be shielding?'

'Who did he love best in the world after Dorothy?' asked Sheila.

'His aunt. I'm quite sure of that,' said Mrs. Evans.

'Surely you don't think that it was a case of suicide and that he knew it?'

'My dear child, what curious ideas you have!'

Peter spoke for the first time. 'I don't know. I remember once seeing a film—a very boring, American film it was—where one man hated another so acutely that he committed suicide under circumstances that left no doubt in the mind of a jury that he had been murdered by the gentleman he disliked. Poor Miss Marjoribanks had her likes and dislikes.'

'What nonsense!' said Sheila. 'If there was one being in the world that she did care for, it was Michael.'

'Well, if he is shielding his aunt and she's dead, then I suppose nothing will clear him. He'll never give way,' said Dorothy. For the first time there was a break in her voice. It chanced that the nurse, whose duty it was to face visitors at the front door, had taken Peggy out for her walk and that the function now devolved upon the raw Devon girl who was attached to Mrs. Evans's kitchen. She put her head in at the door and blurted out in some excitement that there was a gentleman.

'Asking for me?'

'Yes, missus.'

'Didn't he give you a name?'

'Yes, but I didn't catch it very well—Anderson or something.'

'Show him in.' Thereupon, into this intimate little circle there burst the portentous figure of Mr. Arthur Manderson, decked like a votive offering. He seemed abashed for a moment by the number of the company, but only for a moment. He had brought flowers with him.

'How lovely!' exclaimed Mrs. Evans, putting the roses to her cheek. 'Come and sit here.'

Sheila had withdrawn towards the window with Peter and Dorothy, but she was keeping a watchful eye upon the visitor, and very soon she came back. Anyone but Manderson would have noticed a threat of changing weather in her eye.

'I've had a rather strenuous morning,' he was saying; 'and—I don't know how it is—it seems natural for me to come to you for advice. The fact is, Mrs. Evans, they've just been reading my poor cousin's will. She's left everything to me, and now you will be my nearest neighbour.'

Sheila recoiled. There was suitor written all over the man, and that any mere man, even if he should pass the standard of the most censorious, should dare to aspire to her adored elder sister was an outrage. Mrs. Evans was murmuring some kind of congratulations. 'Do you hear that, Mr. Graham?'

Peter and Dorothy rejoined the group. 'Mr. Manderson has just told me that Miss Marjoribanks has left everything to him.'

'Then she did destroy the other will?' asked Peter.

'I suppose so,' said Manderson. 'At any rate, it can't be found. And now that you are here, Graham, I should like to talk to you on the subject of what we discussed two days ago. I want to put up the funds for the defence.'

Dorothy Wilson winced and touched Peter's arm. 'It's very good of you,' said Peter, understanding her hint, 'but all that has been arranged. Sir Daniel Wilson came forward at once and insisted upon providing what may be necessary.'

'Sir Daniel Wilson? But I fancy that, with the exception of Michael's father, I am his nearest relation.'

'Not quite,' said Dorothy, with a proud little lift of her head. 'I'm engaged to Michael and Sir Daniel is my father.'

Little feet were pattering in the hall and a new light came into Margaret Evans's eyes. Assaults were made upon the handle of the door from outside, and presently the latch yielded and Miss Peggy Evans stood surveying the assembled company. 'They're not having tea, Lucy,' she called over her shoulder, 'so I can go in.'

For some moments Mrs. Evans had been endeavouring to catch her sister's eye with the signal that it was the moment for tea, but Sheila was obstinately deaf and blind to the hint. She was determined to give the visitor no excuse for lingering. Her sister knew her in this mood. 'What about tea, Sheila?' she said at last, and Sheila, rather languid and ungracious in her movements, rose to obey.

'I'll come with you and lend a hand,' said Peter.

Peggy sidled, as usual, over to the new face. 'I don't want you to do the gobbler,' she said, 'but I like the hen when she's just laid an egg. Will you do it, please?'

Arthur Manderson did not know how to talk to children. He confessed that the part of the laying hen was not one of his accomplishments.

'Then what can you do?'

'Nothing very much, I'm afraid.' The child looked him up and down thoughtfully. 'Then I'll show you my toys.' She ran off towards the door.

Was it some subtle warning that impelled her mother to cry after her, 'Not now, darling. You'll show them to Mr. Manderson next time.'

At this moment Peter carried in the tray. It was not until after the guest had taken his leave that Peter said to Mrs. Evans, 'Why wouldn't you let Peggy show Manderson her toys?'

'Yes, mummy, why wouldn't you?' echoed the young lady herself. 'I wanted to show him my new Humpty-Dumpty 'cos he's zackly like him.'

'I guessed what she intended to do,' murmured her mother.

Sheila drew her little niece to her and kissed her.

CHAPTER XII.

THERE was unwonted animation in the housekeeper's room at Broad Clyst at tea-time that afternoon. Lawyer Endicott had communicated to the legatees such parts of the will as concerned them, and Judd and Dawkins were called upon to reply to the congratulations of their fellow-servants.

'I was sorry, Mrs. Woolston, that there was no mention of your name in the will, but I suppose that it was because you hadn't been here as long as us.'

The sibyl's eye became charged with fate. 'It wasn't that, Miss Dawkins. What has to be will surely come to pass. What are we all going to do now is what I want to know?'

'We must all suit ourselves, I suppose,' said Judd, feeling that he was called upon to give a lead. 'Of course, I shan't leave until Mr. Michael is cleared.'

'Nor I,' echoed Dawkins.

'I'll have to go,' said the sibyl. 'This house of death is shaking me up something terrible. And you, Robert and Ellen?'

Ellen, as usual, burst into tears.

'If it's Mr. Naburn you're crying about, Ellen, men were deceivers ever, as the Scripture says.' Even this view of the case did not seem to alleviate the poor girl's feelings. She continued to sob into her handkerchief. Robert drew out a packet wrapped in a scrap of newspaper and unfolded it on the table.

'Do any of you know what this is?' He displayed the fragments of a small porcelain cup. Dawkins examined it.

'Why, I do believe that it's the medicine cup out of the Blue Room,' she said. 'Look, here's the figures on this piece. And the bottom's not broken. I would know it anywhere! Where did you find it, Robert?'

'Under Mr. Manderson's window; that's where I found it.'

'Ellen, come and look. Isn't this the cup I gave to you to put in the Blue Room last week when Mr. Manderson was coming?'

Ellen looked up from her wet handkerchief and nodded.

'You see,' explained Dawkins, 'the mistress told me to be careful that there was a medicine glass put in that room, because, she said, the gentleman over-ate himself and was very particular about measuring out his doses. So I gave that cup to Ellen and told her to put it there.'

'I missed it when I was doing the room some days ago, Miss Dawkins,' said Ellen.

Judd examined the fragments. 'Look,' he said, 'you can see that some sort of medicine's dried in the bottom. It ought to be analysed.'

Then Robert dropped his bomb. 'Unless you see any objection, Mr. Judd, I think I'll telegraph for my brother to come down.' The company shivered with anticipation. 'He's set up as a private detective in Birmingham, Mr. Judd, and if he can't find out who administered that poison to the deceased no one else can.'

Judd reflected for a few seconds. Ought he to be a party to this without obtaining the sanction of his new master? The urgency of the task of clearing Michael Elliot prevailed. 'You couldn't do better, Robert,' he said.

'You see, Mr. Judd, he couldn't come here on duty because this is Devonshire—not Birmingham—and the chief constable here might complain if he butted in. No, he'll just take a few days' holiday and drop in here in a private capacity, and if I know my brother Reginald it will only take him forty-eight hours to get at the truth.'

Robert haunted the hall waiting for the telegraph boy who would bring the reply to his telegram. It came the same night:

### TELEGRAM

ARRIVING 6.40 TO-MORROW.—REGINALD.

During his hours of vigil Robert had admitted only one visitor and had shown him into the library. Reporting the incident to Judd, he said, 'It was that London lawyer chap that represented the family at the inquest. He'll never find out a thing. We must wait for Reginald.'

Hosking was relieved at finding Manderson alone in the library. 'I've come to report progress, Mr. Manderson, because I am acting on your instructions.'

'You were, Mr. Hosking, but I understand now that Sir Daniel Wilson of Tor Park has taken the case out of my hands and is defraying the cost of the defence. It's an odd proceeding, but of course I have no say in the matter. Perhaps you had better call there. Mr. Graham is still staying there; he will tell you how the matter stands.'

'I'm afraid that we are up against a brick wall, Mr. Manderson. I called at the prison to-day and the young man positively refused to see me.'

'Did he? Well, I'm afraid that I've nothing helpful to tell you unless this can have any bearing on the case. The will made in favour of Michael can't be found and they are falling back upon an earlier will which left all the property to me. Ah! And there is one other point. Captain Elliot's servant, an old soldier named Naburn, rode off on his motor-bike immediately after the inquest and hasn't been seen since.'

'That's interesting. It may be worth looking into. I'll go to Tor Park at once.'

It was thus that Hosking made his first visit to Tor Park. He asked for Mr. Graham and was shown into the morning-room. Peter was with him in two minutes.

'Well, my learned friend, what luck?' he said when he had carefully closed the door behind him.

'None at all. There is no hope for the people of the west country. They ought to be brought to the notice of the Royal Commission on the Feeble-minded. I called at the prison; your young friend flatly refused to see me. But, anyhow, I'm out of the picture now. They tell me that your host is arranging for the defence—through his own solicitors, I suppose. So I'm off to town to-night. Next time we meet I hope you'll tell me how the case is shaping. I'm curious about it.'

'Have you taken your ticket?'

'Not yet.'

'Then don't take one. I've talked matters over with Sir Daniel Wilson and he wished you to undertake the case. He told me this three minutes ago, and said that if you would like to see him he is at your service, but that probably it would be better if you and I were to talk the whole case over together.'

'Right! I'll take the case on. Go ahead.'

Peter went ahead. He went first to the door and locked it; then he produced a box of cigarettes, two glasses, a siphon, and a decanter of whisky, filled the glasses and sat down.

'I suppose that the first thing is to decide in our own minds who it is that Michael is shielding. Could it possibly be his father?'

'I can tell you this,' said Hosking, 'I've been round to see Endicott and have got from him the fact that Captain Elliot did not stand to benefit in any way from the second will. Endicott thinks that the old lady had no liking for him; at any rate, she shook her head vigorously when Endicott suggested his name as a legatee. As a matter of fact, he was one of the witnesses to her signature, and he must have known that that ruled him out as a beneficiary. Besides, Endicott says that Elliot did know, and therefore his object must have been to keep the old lady alive as long as possible, since at her death he would lose a very comfortable billet unless his son chose to keep him on.'

'I don't think that there was very much love lost between father and son, from all I hear,' said Peter.

'Well, then, we can leave the father out. Who else was there? The maid, Dawkins? I saw her in court; she's not of the stuff that poisoners are made of. This cousin, Manderson? You might say the same of him, but I don't think that we can dismiss him quite so quickly. He has come rather easily into the inheritance of the old lady's property; almost certainly he knew of her intention destroy the second will, and, of course, he guessed that old ladies are prone to change their minds. Endicott tells me that he knew where to find a master-key that opened every door in the house, and only half an hour ago he himself volunteered the information that Elliot's servant, a man he called Naburn, disappeared immediately after the inquest. I may be wrong, but I had the impression that he wanted to throw suspicion on some one else.'

'Naburn disappeared? That's funny!'

'It might be well to find out all we can about Naburn. If I were to go to Elliot and ask questions probably he would have me thrown out. But you could ask him what has become of the man and hear what he has to say.'

'Right. If he tries to throw me out I'll have something to say to him first.'

'Now, I took some notes on the evidence given at the inquest. Here they are. First who sent the metal flask to young Elliot? He said that he didn't know, and his manner was convincing. We ought to get hold of the wrapper of that parcel if it has not been burnt. You might see the butler and find out what they do with the waste-paper. If the parcel was wrapped in brown paper the wrapper may still be in existence, because people don't use brown paper for lighting fires. We have each our job to do. Yours is to see Elliot about this man Naburn, and the butler Judd about that parcel. He may have noticed the postmark. Mine is to find out what manner of man this cousin, Manderson, is. I'm going back to town to-night to do it.'

'I'll do my part at once, but the real crux of the case, it seems to me, is young Elliot himself. If he won't see you, his solicitor, or any of his friends, how can we hope to get any farther?'

'My dear fellow, it is that very fact that gives me hope. Obviously, a guilty man would not behave in this way, and I have still sufficient confidence in our criminal courts to feel sure that, in these days, innocent men are not condemned. When the time comes I am going to brief Harlech. I haven't yet decided whom to give him as a junior, but I'm inclining towards young Thesiger. You know the boy. He has a wonderful flair for this kind of mystery. Also, I don't mind confessing to you that I believe firmly in luck. Within the next three weeks something will turn up if we all work hard.'

CHAPTER XIII.

SHEILA CAREY was in the garden when Peter inquired for her. He followed close upon the heels of the little maid, because he felt that this cottage garden in full flower was a more congenial atmosphere for a quiet talk than the little sitting-room indoors.

'I'm delighted to see you, Peter, of course, but it's not ten o'clock yet, and I'm wondering what brings you here so early.'

'That, I suppose, is what you would call a warm welcome, Sheila. But I'll answer your question. I've come to carry you off.'

'Where?'

'To Broad Clyst. Hosking has given me a job of work. I am to question Michael's father about his man Naburn, who disappeared after the inquest, and I want you to come and hold my hand.'

'He won't eat you.'

'If he tried to I should disagree with him. No, what I really want is this. While I am talking to the man and you are waiting for me in some sitting-room, I want you to cultivate the butler with a view of finding out from him what postmark there was on the parcel that came for Michael. If he doesn't remember it, you could get him to make a search for the paper the flask was wrapped in. Hosking says that we must trace the sender of that parcel, and, of course, he's right. Besides, the butler may know something useful to us, and, being human like the rest of us, he would at once make a clean breast of everything to Miss Sheila Carey, as his betters have always done.'

'I'll come on one condition—that you'll be serious and undertake to abstain from talking nonsense, if you can, until this afternoon.'

Judd showed the two visitors into the library, and, understanding that Peter desired a private interview with Captain Elliot, he took him down to the business-room in the basement. He gave Captain Elliot no opportunity of declining the interview, but threw open the door and announced, 'Mr. Graham.'

Elliot rose to his feet and appeared interrogative and not inordinately pleased at the interruption. Peter had time to notice that the room was a bare office, furnished with shelves and a trestle table on which papers and account books were scattered in disorder.

'I'm sorry to have to bother you Captain Elliot, but, as I think you know, Sir Daniel's solicitor is acting for your son and he has commissioned me to find out how we can get hold of your chauffeur Naburn.'

Elliot's pale features flushed faintly. 'I'm sorry I can't help you,' he said. 'I shall not know Naburn's address until he returns from leave.'

'From leave?'

'Yes. He asked me for a few days' leave to enable him to look for some premises. I believe he is starting a public-house if he can find one to suit him.'

'When do you expect him back?'

'He ought to be back this evening or tomorrow, but, if you would like my private opinion, I shouldn't be surprised if he took quite a long leave. The fact is, he got entangled with a young woman, one of the servants here, and promised to marry her. From a word or two he let drop I fancy that he wishes he hadn't, and I shouldn't be surprised if we did not see him again. He was leaving in three weeks' time in any case. He seems to have come into a legacy from an uncle or aunt, so he said.'

'Thank you,' said Peter. 'I ought not to have bothered you at such a time, but we all have the same object in view—to clear poor Michael of this monstrous charge.'

'Of course,' said Elliot, rising. 'You were quite right to come, I don't think that I ought to allow Sir Daniel Wilson to undertake my son's defence. That duty falls upon me, but at such a time as this it's no good discussing it. It is a matter that we must settle between us later on. Good-bye.' He bowed rather stiffly and Peter felt relief to find that he was over the first fence.

Sheila had been more fortunate. She called the butler back to her as he turned to leave the room. 'I suppose you're very anxious about Mr. Michael Elliot?'

'Oh, yes, miss. Have you any news of him?'

'Not yet, but I hear that a great deal will turn upon that parcel he received by post.'

'Yes, miss,' said Judd eagerly.

'Did you happen to notice the postmark and the handwriting?'

'No, miss, not particularly. All I remember was the address, "Mr. Elliot, Esq.," in a scrawly handwriting.'

'If we could get hold of the wrapper.'

'The wrapper, miss? I never thought of that. It was brown paper, I remember.'

'What becomes of the waste-paper here?'

'If it's a big, clean sheet of paper, it's put away to use for parcels. But a little piece like that, I suppose, goes down with the dust.'

'What becomes of the dust?'

'Well, miss, once, a week or so a garden cart comes round for it, and, I believe, the gardeners put the papers in the greenhouse furnace and dig the dust into the ground.'

'You may be doing a very great service to Mr. Michael by making a thorough search for that wrapper, and if you find it you might bring it down to the Cottage, and we could try to make out the postmark between us, Judd.'

'Indeed I will, miss. I'll begin this very morning. You think that if we find it it may make a difference to Mr. Michael?'

'I do, because the lawyers think so.'

'Very well, miss, then you can depend on me.'

Sheila and Peter compared notes on the way home. 'I don't pretend to like this father of Michael's,' said Peter, 'but I'm bound to say that he impressed me as telling the truth. He thinks that Naburn asked for leave as an excuse for leaving his young woman in the lurch; such perfidy is not quite unknown.'

'I never thought that we should advance matters much by hunting up Naburn. I don't see how he comes into the case at all. He may be behaving abominably to Lucy's sister, but that doesn't make him a murderer. Why, here comes Peggy and Lucy herself. Let's hear what she says.'

But Peggy claimed the first hearing. She did not greet them, because she assumed that there was no break between two conversations, however divided by the fleeting hours. She ran to them and slipped her hand into her aunt's. 'We've just seen Ellen, Auntie Sheila, and she was crying. What do you think for?—'cos Mr. Naburn has gone away. Well, I liked Mr. Naburn better than she did 'cos he gave me a ride on his motor-bike, but I don't cry 'cos he's gone away. Ellen's a crybaby.'

Peter took this censorious little lady aside to show her how his cigarette lighter worked, and Sheila drew the nurse on to speak of her brother-in-law who was to be. Lucy made no secret of her views. 'I told Ellen that she was silly when she got engaged to that man, miss—a man that's nearly twice her age, and now she's taking on so I thought it best to tell her what I think.'

'What do you think?'

'That he's changed his mind, miss. Now that he's come into a legacy and he's going to have a public-house of his own, he thinks he'll find some one that'll be more useful to him with the customers than Ellen could ever be. You know what men are, miss—always for themselves.' Sheila glanced at the other group, hoping that Peter might be within earshot.

'I told her,' Lucy went on, 'that if she'd had more sense she would have listened to that young chauffeur at Tor Park—a nice young fellow of the right age.'

'Is she taking it very badly, Lucy?'

'Very badly indeed, miss. She can't do her work lying awake at nights and crying hard all the time.'

The reluctant Peggy was dragged away from her new friend to continue her walk.

'I wish that I could get things clear in my own mind, Peter,' said Sheila as they went on. 'I have an instinct, but it wouldn't be fair to act upon it yet.'

'Don't tell me. My own mind is as empty of ideas on the subject as my examination paper used to be at school. I'm leaving Hosking to do my thinking for me.'

'At any rate, I think we can rule Naburn out. Let us see what Judd produces this evening.'

At half-past nine that evening the front-door bell rang and Sheila went herself to receive the visitor and conducted him into the dining-room.

'Have you found it?' she asked, with sparkling eyes.

'The wrapper, miss? No, miss, I've looked everywhere and I can't find a trace of it. The dust-bin hasn't been touched by anyone since the parcel came, but we've been through every scrap of paper that's in it and the wrapper's not there. I'm sorry, miss.' He saw the disappointment in Sheila's face.

'Oh, well——' she said despondently.

But Judd made no move towards going. He seemed to be meditating upon the proper way in which to impart tidings of supreme importance.

'I don't know that I ought to tell you, miss,' he said at last.

'You can tell me anything, Judd. I am as anxious as any of you to clear Mr. Michael.'

'Well, miss, it's this way. We've got a trained private detective working for us up at Broad Clyst.'

'We? Who?'

'Just us servants, miss. And no one knows it and no one must ever know it. He's a wonderful man, miss.'

'When did he come?'

'This afternoon. You see, miss, he's the elder brother of Robert, the footman. He was telling us himself what promotion he had in the Force, and all through his skill as a detective. What I wanted to ask you, miss, is this. He's come all the way from Birmingham at his own expense just to help us clear Mr. Michael if he can, and he's found out things already. Now, miss, Dawkins and I want to remunerate him, but he's the kind of man that wouldn't care to take anything from the likes of us. But if anyone like you, miss, were to give him the remuneration he'd make no difficulty, I think. So, you see, miss, as I've got this legacy coming to me I thought you'd be so kind, if I give you the money, to hand it to him as if it came from yourself and never let him know where it came from.'

'I know a better plan than that, Judd. You tell me what you intended to give him and I'll see that he gets it as coming from me. Never mind where I get it from.'

'Oh, miss, I couldn't allow that.'

'But you don't understand, Judd. I've been wondering for some time how I could get hold of a trained detective to work for me in this case on account of my friendship for Mr. Michael and for Miss Wilson. All you have to do is to ask him to come here and see me. I'll take care that he doesn't lose anything by coming here to help us. What has he found out?'

'Well, miss, I'd rather he told you himself. It wouldn't be my place as a servant at Broad Clyst to tell you everything he's discovered, but I can tell you one thing: they've found a broken medicine glass under the window of the Blue Room.'

'The Blue Room?'

'Yes, miss, the room occupied by Mr. Manderson, and there's a few grains of dried stuff on the bottom of it, and the detective-inspector is going to have it analysed. He's sending it off to-night. But he's found out a lot more than came out at the inquest.'

'I'd like to see him, Judd.'

'You shall, miss.'

CHAPTER XIV.

THERE was an air of mystery and apprehension about Mrs. Evans's little maid when she entered the drawing-room the next morning. She approached Sheila and said in a hoarse whisper audible in every part of the room, 'Ex-Detective Reginald Kewiss for you, Miss.' She held a card by its corner in which the titles were inscribed in ornamental capitals. Mrs. Evans looked up in some alarm. 'Shall I come with you, Sheila?' She seemed to think that in critical times like this sisters ought to cling closely to one another, lest one be taken and the other left.

'No, thank you, Margaret. I must see him alone.'

The interview took place in the dining-room. Sheila found herself in the presence of a tall, pale young man with an intensely black moustache. He was grave beyond his years and rather slow of speech, as if he were repeating a stage part in which the note was oracular. 'You desired to see me, miss?'

If she had not felt how much might hang upon the visit Sheila would have laughed. She had not known that detectives in real life were anything like this.

'Mr. Judd told me that you had made some discoveries at Broad Clyst, Mr. Kewiss.'

'Yes, miss, I have, but my inquiry is not complete, you understand.'

'I hope that Mr. Judd made it clear that I should like you to work for me—of course on a professional basis.'

'Very kind of you, I'm sure, miss, but at this stage I prefer not to speak of business. I'm here to discover the truth, and it will not be my fault if I fail.'

'I'm sure it won't, Mr. Kewiss. What do you make of that medicine glass I hear that you've found under the window of the Blue Room?'

Mr. Reginald Kewiss's eyes seemed to turn in their sockets to watch the evolutions of the brain behind them. He looked inscrutable. 'I would rather not say yet, miss—not before I receive the report of the analyst.'

'They have told you, of course, that the case is complicated by the disappearance of a will?'

'Made in favour of the young man who is falsely charged with the murder of Miss Marjoribanks. Yes, miss, they have.'

'Have you formed any opinion upon that?'

'I have, miss.' His mouth shut like a steel trap.

'You know, Mr. Kewiss, everything you say will be quite safe with me. I might be able to help you by telling you what I know.' Mr. Kewiss cleared his throat.

'In all these cases, miss, we have to consider the question of motive. That will was made in favour of the accused man; he had no motive for stealing it. The old lady herself was too ill to leave her bed and destroy it. Who had a motive?' His voice assumed a deep, impressive tone. He seemed to be addressing a classroom of aspirants in the art of detection. 'Who had a motive? Why, the man who was to profit from the disappearance of that will. The motive by itself is insufficient. The next question is: Did he know where the will was? He did. He was in the room—in the very room when the will was put into a drawer by Miss Dawkins, the maid. "Ah! you say, but the room was locked up and some one else kept the key. Did he climb in at the window?" you ask.'—(With the picture of Mr. Manderson's physique vivid in her memory, Sheila felt that it was the last question she would have asked.)—'He did not climb in at the window. Why? Because he knew a better way.' His tone relaxed and assumed narrative ease. 'Hanging on a nail in the hall near the coat-rack was a key; the servants—most of them—thought that it was the key to the furnace-room, and so it was, and they used it as such. But it was far more than that: it was the master-key that opened every door in that house, and one man knew it. He told the housemaid what it was. There hung the key ready to his hand whenever he chose to use it. There he lay night after night in his bed, thinking of that will that stood between him and the possession of those broad acres. He had but to lift a finger to get possession of it and destroy it for ever. Think of the temptation he had.'

Sheila's eyes showed her appreciation of his logic and encouraged him to go on.

'I cannot insist too often upon the importance of motive. The same motive that drove that man to possess himself of that will may well have driven him to do something else. That we shall know when we have the report from the analyst.'

'The medicine cup was found under his window, I know, but there was nothing to show that it was his.'

'Perhaps you do not know, miss, that the poor murdered lady herself ordered that cup to be put into his room before he arrived, that he used it regular, and that the housemaid missed it just before the death?'

'No,' said Sheila, 'I didn't know that.'

'I think that before I've finished with this case I shall be able to tell you a great deal more that you didn't know.'

'I'm quite sure you will, Mr. Kewiss. Please let me know at once what the analyst says. You can trust me to be discreet about everything you tell me.'

'Very well, miss, and now I'll ask you to excuse me. I have much to do to-day.'

Sheila found her sister shaken out of her usual calm. 'My dear, I'm so glad you're back. What had the policeman to say to you?'

'He is not a policeman, Margaret. He's a private detective and he's working for me.'

'For you? Are we all going off our heads about this terrible business?'

'Now, Margaret, sit down and listen.' She told her the whole case against Manderson. 'Remember,' she said at the end, 'these are not my arguments, but the detective's, and, though he looks young, he seems to have had great experience.'

'Yes, my dear child, I've no doubt he has. But remember this: why in the world should Michael take the blame for Mr. Manderson?'

'I have an idea that he may be labouring under some delusion about his aunt. He probably thinks he is shielding her.' Mrs. Evans remained quite unconvinced.

More than once during that afternoon Judd found himself wishing that Miss Carey could have been there to see her detective at work. To him it was an education. He had imagined that detectives allowed nothing to escape their keen eyes, and that with every discovery, however small, they would turn round and explain the exact bearing that it had upon the guilt of the suspected person. Robert's brother Reginald did not work in this way. He said practically nothing; they could judge of the importance of each discovery only from the little click that he made with his tongue, and if they were incautious enough to question him, he froze their inquiry upon their lips with a glance.

He said nothing at all when he returned from the Cottage. He was invited to take his dinner in the housekeeper's room because Mr. Manderson was away in London and it was fifteen minutes' walk to the hotel where he was staying. But if Robert and Ellen had hoped for hair-raising experiences in his exciting profession they were disappointed. He drank deep of the cup of adulation during that meal, but his oracular gravity never once relaxed. He produced an uncomfortable feeling in the sybil that she was being watched, and the conversation became more frigidly polite and ceremonious with every mouthful. He ate sparingly.

The meal was scarce finished when he rose, bowed gravely to the sibyl, and, turning to the butler at the other end of the table, said, 'Mr. Judd, I must get to work. Kindly accompany me.'

Robert seemed to claim the right to be one of the party and was not denied.

'I should like first to see the room in which the old lady died.'

'Shall I stay with you, sir?' asked Judd, who thought that perhaps detectives could work only when alone.

'Please do so. This was her bed? She slept, I suppose, on this side of it so as to have the light from the window when she was reading. I suppose that the police have already searched the room and found nothing? Quite so: there was nothing to find. That door leads into the dressing-room or bathroom, and that has its own door leading into the landing? We will come back to these rooms directly, but I want to see the room occupied by the accused man and also the room you call the "Blue Room."'

'You won't have to touch anything in that room, I hope, sir,' said Judd. 'If the master came to know that a detective had been searching his room it would be awkward.'

'You can safely leave that to me, Mr. Judd. So this was Michael Elliot's room and this is the cupboard where the poison was found?' The key was in the lock; he took it out, blew into the barrel, and examined it. He clicked with his tongue. The younger brother beamed with anticipation.

'You've found something, sir?' asked Judd.

Kewiss made no reply, but slipped the key into his pocket and led the way to the door.

'Now, Mr. Manderson's room, please.' The Blue Room was at the other end of the corridor. They had to pass the doors of the dead woman's room on the left and Captain Elliot's room on the right as they went to it. The Blue Room was, like most middle-aged bachelor's rooms, immaculately tidy except for bottles on the wash-stand sufficient to stock a chemist's shop. Kewiss spent some time in examining these. He read the labels, drew their corks, and sniffed at their contents. Then he turned to the high mahogany wardrobe, turned the key in the lock, drew it out and compared it with the key he had taken from the other room. He left his companions abruptly and they saw him moving quickly to Michael Elliot's bedroom, into which he disappeared. They waited a full minute for him. He reappeared, but instead of returning to them, he stopped at the bathroom door and beckoned to them. They followed him into the bathroom.

He was standing at the marble wash-stand. 'Now, Mr. Judd, I am going to show you how this crime was committed. The sick woman is lying there on that bed; her maid is down at breakfast; the medicine bottle is standing here on the wash-stand. Down the passage comes a man. He is in his slippers that make no noise. He has a medicine glass containing white powder in his hand. He opens the bathroom door, creeps to this wash-stand, takes up the bottle—so—uncorks it, pours in the white powder, goes out, closing the door without a sound, and, safe back in his room, he opens the window and throws the medicine glass out into the garden. When she comes back from breakfast the maid does the rest. She, or the nephew, administers the medicine—what matter which?'

'Ah!' exclaimed Judd, too much impressed by the demonstration to say more. And then, as difficulties began to obtrude themselves, 'but the bottles and that metal flask were found locked up in Mr. Michael's cupboard.'

'They were, and now I'll ask you to step this way, Mr. Judd.' He led the way to Michael's bedroom and halted facing the cupboard. 'Locked, was it? And this is the key, isn't it? Try it, Mr. Judd.' The butler obeyed. The key fitted.

'And this is the key of the cupboard in the Blue Room. Will you try that too, please, Mr. Judd?'

Judd tried it. The key opened the cupboard as easily as the other had done. Judd stared at him in stupefaction.

'So it was Mr. Manderson that did it after all, and stole the will too, Reg,' exclaimed the irrepressible Robert. The elder brother turned upon him.

'Never mention names, Robert. No names until you've your case complete. That's the golden rule,' he said in severe reproof. 'No names.'

CHAPTER XV.

THAT evening the mysterious visitor asked for Sheila Carey again. She received him in the dining-room.

'You have something to tell me? You have had the report from the analyst?'

'I have it here, miss.'

'May I see it?'

'There would be no objection, but I am afraid that a lady would not understand the technical terms. I had better give you a summary of his report in simpler language. There were crystals caked in the bottom of that medicine cup, and, after a number of tests, he found that the crystals were lobelin—the same poison that was found in the body and the medicine bottles.'

Sheila gasped. 'Then you think——' The young man lifted a warning hand.

'It's only a step, miss, and until every step in the chain is complete it is too early to form an opinion.'

Sheila scarcely noticed the confusion of metaphors; his manner was so impressive.

'Have you found out anything else?'

'Yes, miss, I have. The key of the cupboard in the Blue Room fits the lock of the cupboard in which the accused locked the medicine bottles.'

'But that's most important, Mr. Kewiss.'

The warning hand went up again.

'Another step in the chain, miss—nothing more.'

'It seems to me that the chain is complete. I suppose that you will go on working, but I feel that I ought to tell one of my friends of this new development—a friend who is working for the liberation of Mr. Michael Elliot. Surely you will let me tell him in confidence?'

'If he has no connexion with the county constabulary, miss, I shall have no objection. You see, there is always the question of professional jealousy to consider—as between police forces, and men in private practice, I mean.'

'No, he has nothing to do with the police. He is a personal friend of Mr. Elliot, and he has instructed a London solicitor to defend him.'

'Very well, miss, and if you would like him to see me he can always inquire for me at Broad Clyst.'

Peter Graham was an early visitor to the Cottage next morning. He found Sheila in the dining-room.

'I've brought you this letter from Hosking to see. There's nothing in it. He had been round asking questions about Arthur Manderson and finds that he leads a blameless life of eating and sleep; that he plays an irreproachable hand at bridge; attends the board meetings of companies from which he draws director's fees and occasionally a public dinner. He is on his club committee; he has never been known to speak in public—not even at a public dinner, a point greatly in his favour—nor to speak much at any time. His friends refer to him as "Poor old Manderson," which means that they rate his intellect as C 3. In short, he leads a blameless life and will leave no gap behind him when he goes to join the other sheep in heaven. I suggest that we strike Arthur Manderson out of the picture.'

'Wait till you hear what I have to tell you. You don't know, of course, that I have a detective working for me?'

'Are you serious?'

'Quite. He's a real live private detective and he has made what I think are very important discoveries.'

'How did you get him?'

'Through Judd, the butler at Broad Clyst. He brought him to me. Really, it was rather touching. The servants seem to have clubbed together to get him down, and they wanted me to pay him the money and pretend that it came from me, because if he knew that it came from them they thought he wouldn't accept it. He is a brother of Robert the footman.'

'What's he like?'

'Well, he's a tall, rather solemn young man. He looks more like a Sunday school teacher than a detective, but he's done wonders in a very short time. Under Mr. Manderson's window Robert found a medicine cup—broken as if it had been thrown out from a height. The detective sent the foot of the glass to an analyst, who found traces of the same poison that was put in the medicine.'

Peter's eyes grew round with wonder. 'But that is not all,' she went on. 'He has solved the mystery of that locked cupboard in Michael's room. The key of the cupboard in Mr. Manderson's room fits it.'

'And so he has jumped to the conclusion that Arthur Manderson committed the murder?'

'I thought you would say that. He is much too cautious to jump to any conclusion. As he puts it rather quaintly, "It is only a step in the chain of evidence."'

'And any jumping to conclusions is being jumped by Miss Sheila Carey? Let me give you one or two other links in the step-ladder. Arthur Manderson has a red face and a shiny bald head, and—if you won't think the expression indelicate—a tummy. Those facts would concern no one but the owner of the face and the tummy, but—he has dared to cast sheep's eyes at your adored sister, so, obviously, he must have committed a cold-blooded murder.'

'Can't you be serious, Peter, for one moment? It isn't a matter of prejudice—it's a matter of fact. A will has disappeared; its disappearance makes Mr. Manderson heir to the property. He knew of a key that would unlock the door of the room in which the will was kept. Miss Marjoribanks died from taking a little-known poison in her medicine, which was found locked up in Michael's cupboard. The man who put the poison in those bottles—we know that it was not Michael himself—must have had a key to that cupboard. Who had a key? Mr. Manderson. And on the top of all this comes the discovery of Mr. Manderson's own medicine cup with some of the poison dried in it. Could you have a stronger case? If you doubt me, go and see the detective yourself. He is quite prepared for a visit from you!'

'I will—on one condition, that you come with me. Only, what about Manderson? What will he say to our prying into his household arrangements?'

'He'll say nothing because he's not there, and he won't hear of it. Judd will see to that. Oh, but I forgot Captain Elliot.'

'Your news was so exciting, Sheila, that I forgot to tell you mine. I met Elliot this morning with his luggage. He told me that he had left Broad Clyst for good. He and Manderson don't hit it off together.'

'Why?'

'Perhaps for the same reason that Manderson does not appeal to you: he doesn't conform to your ideal of personal beauty. Or it may be for the same reason that I don't take to Elliot and think him a rather surly, offensive person. But if we stay talking half the morning your sleuth will be out sleuthing. Let us start.'

'How is Dorothy?' asked Sheila, as they walked. 'Margaret and I were hoping to see her.'

'I'll bring her down to tea this afternoon, if I may. She's terribly hipped, but she doesn't howl about her troubles. Sometimes wish she would. Keeping a brave face is an awful strain.'

Judd seemed greatly relieved to see them, particularly when they asked for the detective, Mr. Kewiss. 'I think he's upstairs, miss, looking for finger-prints with a magnifying glass. Would you like me to call him?' Sheila appealed to Peter with her eyes.

'No, thank you, Judd,' said Peter. 'We oughtn't to interrupt his work. Can we go upstairs and find him?'

'Certainly, sir. I think that you'll find him in Mr. Michael's room—the third door on the left when you turn down the corridor.'

They found the young man who mixed his metaphors, and looked like a Sunday school teacher, on his knees examining the woodwork of the bedstead through a reading-glass. He rose to his full height at the sound of their voices.

'I'm afraid that we are interrupting you, Mr. Kewiss,' said Sheila. 'I've brought the gentleman I spoke to you about—Mr. Peter Graham.' The inspector permitted himself to relax in a faint smile of welcome.

'I hear that you have made some rather important discoveries, inspector,' said Peter.

'We cannot judge of their importance, sir, before the chain is complete,' corrected Kewiss with modesty.

'That medicine glass, for instance, and the key that opens Michael Elliot's cupboard?'

'Just steps in the chain, sir. I hope to find others—finger-prints, for instance.'

'Ah, finger-prints! Wonderful things, aren't they? One can prove anything with them!'

'Useful as corroboration, that is all, sir.'

'I should like very much to have a look at those keys, inspector.'

'Certainly, sir. Nothing easier. I left them in their respective locks. If you'll come to the Blue Room with me we'll bring that key back with us.'

Peter, being cursed with a sceptical order of mind, preferred to make the tests for himself. Having done so, he paused to examine the two keys and looked uncomfortably at the detective. He seemed to be thinking what to say to him. 'I suppose, Mr. Kewiss, that you have made a careful report of this?'

'Yes, sir, with the names of the witnesses. You may trust me for that.'

'I don't like to be indiscreet. Would it be quite against the rules if you let me see that report?'

'Well, sir, it would be a little out of routine, but, still, you are the gentleman who is instructing the defence. Yes, sir, I think I might. I'll go and get it.' It was evident that he prided himself upon his written reports.

'That's good,' whispered Peter, as soon as he was out of hearing. 'I wanted to get him out of the room!'

'Why?'

'In case I wounded the poor fellow's feelings by my discoveries, supposing that I made any.' He pulled a goodly bunch of keys out of his pocket; again examined Michael's key and selected one from the bunch.

'Now, Sheila, observe. You may be called as a witness to testify to what you see. I shove this key into the lock so, turn it so, and hey, presto! the cupboard is open and the mystery solved. You didn't know that among my other accomplishments I was an amateur lock-fancier. These cupboard locks are the cheapest, rottenest kind of fastenings on the market. The furniture makers buy them by the gross and the key of one fits all the others. Now you can see why I induced the gentleman to leave us.'

'Yes, but you didn't think of my feelings.'

'No, because you've long given me to understand that you haven't any. What am I to say to the poor fellow when he comes back?'

'Leave me to soften the blow,' said Sheila.

And so, while Peter was reading the really admirable report in which no metaphors were mixed and the handwriting looked like copperplate. Sheila said, 'These cupboard locks are not very good, Mr. Kewiss, are they? Mr. Graham happened to try one of his own keys out of his bunch and, as you see, it opens the cupboard as easily as the others.'

For the moment the private practitioner's crest appeared to fall, but it recovered its natural altitude almost immediately.

'The key, miss, was only a little step in the chain.'

Peter had finished reading the report. 'That's an excellent report, Mr. Kewiss, if I may say so, and the finding of that medicine glass is very important. You won't hand it over to anyone without letting us know, will you?'

'Certainly not, sir. I am, in a sense, acting privately for Miss Carey, not for any public authority.'

CHAPTER XVI.

AS they walked home together Sheila was strangely silent and Peter was careful not to show any elation at the success of his experiment. All that he said was, 'Personally, I am going to keep an open mind about Manderson.'

'We haven't much time for keeping open minds,' said Sheila. 'The trial takes place in less than three weeks.'

'Yes, I wish that I could feel the same confidence in luck as Hosking does. Somehow or other we must discover who sent that parcel, but I confess that I don't know which way to turn. I won't say good-bye. I am bringing Dorothy to tea this afternoon.'

There was a brave attempt at cheerfulness at that tea-party at the Cottage. They did not avoid the subject that was oppressing all their minds, for Mrs. Evans thought it better for Dorothy to take part in their discussion than to be left to brood over the darkness of her future. She patted her hand and whispered, 'I've never been so certain of anything as I am that we have turned the corner.'

'Michael and I are lucky to have such good friends working for us,' said Dorothy, 'but I wish that I could be doing something.'

'Your turn will come when he is free from that horrible place. Then you'll make it up to him.' Peter and Sheila were deep in argument over the subject of Mr. Manderson. For once Peter was behaving like a serious person. 'Look here, Sheila, as far as circumstantial evidence goes the case against Manderson is fairly strong, but circumstantial evidence doesn't go the whole length. Any lawyer will tell you that. Besides, look at the man!'

'What's wrong with him?' asked Mrs. Evans.

'Everything's wrong with him, your sister will tell you. He's one of the Creator's mistakes, and, though I don't go as far as she does, I refuse altogether to believe that Michael or anyone else would choose to go to prison to shield Manderson from the clutches of the law. And then, think of his figure and his health! A spell of prison diet and regular exercise would work a miracle with his appearance and would probably prolong his life.'

'Michael has an extraordinary sense of duty,' said Dorothy. 'I believe that he would sacrifice his life to save anyone who was in a tight place, whether he liked him or not.'

'Yes, but he wouldn't sacrifice your happiness without a good reason,' said Sheila.

'Besides,' added Mrs. Evans, 'he certainly wouldn't try to shield a man who had killed the person he loved best in the world after you, Dorothy.'

'He answered my letter.' They all looked at her, for it was the first communication that any of them had received from behind the grim walls!

'What did he say?' asked Mrs. Evans.

Dorothy coloured. 'It was a long letter, but he never referred to the charge against him except once. He begged me to forget him and treat him as if he had never existed.'

While they were talking the door was pushed slowly open, disclosing Miss Peggy Evans with a doll nearly half as big as herself in her arms. She looked critically round the room before deciding which of the grown-ups she should favour with her company. For a moment her eyes lingered on Peter, who could reproduce all the animals whose acquaintance she had made on her country walks, but she passed him by and advanced upon Dorothy.

'This is the doll you gave me, Dowothy. Do you wemember? She's goin' to have a chair to sit in when Michael comes home. He's promised to make her one.'

Peter rushed into the breach. 'Did Dorothy give you that beautiful doll? What's her name?'

'Margaret.' Peggy christened all her favourite dolls after her mother.

'She's beautifully dressed.'

'Oh, but this isn't her best frock. That's upstairs. Ellen made it before she began to cry so much. You know, Lucy won't let me cry like Ellen does. She says, "Have a good cry and done wiv it," but Ellen's never done wiv it. Isn't it a pity?'

'I should like to see that frock.'

'Would you? I'll run and get it, Mr. Peter.'

'Cousin Peter,' he corrected.

They heard the little feet pattering away upstairs.

'You've made a conquest,' said Margaret Evans. 'I hope you realize it.'

'No, Mrs. Evans. The conquest is all the other way. I'm not quite sure how much one gets for child-stealing, but if you miss her one of these days you'll know where to look for her. When the judge sees her he'll let me off lightly. In these days they make allowances for temptation.'

'It's curious how Peggy harps upon Ellen's crying,' said Mrs. Evans. 'You know that her sister, Lucy, is becoming anxious about her. She seems to think that the girl will have a nervous breakdown if this goes on.'

'Why don't you invite the girl here, Margaret, and talk to her? She might be able to tell us something more about Naburn.'

'As a matter of fact, she's somewhere in the house now. If you think that it would be useful, I'm quite ready to try before she goes.'

'Yes,' said Peter. 'I'm for trying everything. It's weary waiting for this stroke of luck that Hosking believes in.'

Peggy was heard traversing the hall on her high gear. She tore across the room to 'Cousin Peter' with a neat little brown parcel extended at arm's length before her.

'Will you open it, please, Cousin Peter?'

'What is it? The frock?'

'Yes; it's never been unpacked. Lucy wouldn't let me open it before my birthday.'

'We mustn't waste the string, Peggy. Careful people, like you and I, never waste string. But, oh! what dreadful knots Ellen ties!' He worked at the knots with his finger-nails, appearing to expend superhuman muscular energy on the task, Peggy bursting into peals of laughter at each tug. And then the knot gave way, the string was carefully coiled and put away for future use, and the brown paper unfolded.

'Always save paper,' said Peter. 'You never know. Some day you may be cast away on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe, and have to dress in it.'

'Dress in brown paper!' shrieked Peggy, through her laughter. 'You are funny, Cousin Peter! But you're not unfolding the other paper. What's the matter?'

Clearly something was the matter with Peter Graham. He had lost all interest in the modern fashions, as interpreted by Ellen's needle, and was staring at the little sheet of brown paper lying on the carpet at his feet. The doll's garment, wrapped in tissue paper, slipped from his knees. Peggy was very near to tears. The others stopped talking to look at him.

'What's the matter?' asked Sheila. 'Aren't your well?'

Peter snatched up the brown paper and half concealed it from them, for on its inner side were postage stamps and a postmark and the words, 'Mr. Elliot, Esq., Broad Clyst, Devon.'

'Aren't you well, Peter?' asked Sheila again.

'Quite well, only I'm going through the throes of conversion—to Hosking's faith in luck.'

Sheila snatched the brown paper from his hand and read the words of the address aloud. 'Isn't this the paper we have all been looking for? It has a postmark—Plymouth. How could it have been used for wrapping up doll's clothes for Peggy?'

'That's simple enough,' remarked her sister. 'Ellen does the rooms at Broad Clyst. She must have taken the paper out of one of them and used it for her own parcel. And if Mr. Graham had not shown this surprising interest in Peggy's doll it would have lain hidden in the nursery cupboard until after the trial.'

'Is Ellen in the house?' asked Sheila. 'Let's send for her.'

It was Dorothy who noticed that poor little Peggy was gulping down her tears. She drew the child to her, unfolded the parcel, lavished admiration on Ellen's creation and suggested retiring into a corner to disrobe and re-clothe the doll, Margaret, between them. 'Never mind about those silly grown-ups, Peggy, fussing about things that don't matter.'

'My Mummy's not silly—not generally—nor Auntie Sheila.' She expressed no opinion about her new cousin—Peter.

'No, but they are going to talk about silly grown-up things, and we're going to play together, you and I.'

Sheila had left the room. Mrs. Evans and Peter were consulting about the questions they were to put to Ellen when Sheila reappeared and announced in dumb show that Ellen was awaiting them in the dining-room. They found the girl pale and red-eyed, with something of the trapped animal in her mien. Mrs. Evans tried to reassure her.

'Don't be frightened, Ellen. We are not going to eat you. We are all your friends. We have asked you to come down to help us. We were looking at that lovely frock you made for Peggy's doll when Mr. Graham noticed that there was writing on the piece of brown paper—a paper that every one has been hunting for. Do you remember where you found it?'

'No, ma'am,' faltered the girl. Mrs. Evans took the paper from Peter. 'Look,' she said, 'there's an address on it.'

The girl brightened. 'Why, that must be the paper Mr. Judd was asking about the other day, ma'am.'

'Yes,' said Sheila; 'and Peggy had it all the time. Can't you remember where you found it? Was it in Mr. Michael's room?'

'Oh, no, miss. He never had any waste-paper in his room.' She looked at the paper more closely. 'Ah, now I remember, ma'am. It came out of the waste-paper basket in the Captain's room. I never noticed any writing on it, but I remember hearing Miss Peggy's voice downstairs asking for Mrs. Woolston, and I had that doll's frock ready to give her. I had this paper in my hand at the time and I thought that it would just do to wrap the frock up in, because, you know, ma'am, Miss Peggy does like opening parcels. You see, it couldn't have been any other room but the Captain's because it's the only one where you can hear voices from downstairs. I remember it all now.'

Peter intervened, and Sheila was glad to notice that his manner was reassuring. 'You're sure that you couldn't be mistaken about the room, Ellen?'

'Quite sure, sir.'

'Because, you know, it may make all the difference to Mr. Michael if that paper came from the Captain's room and you could swear to it.'

'I could swear to it anywhere without that, sir.'

'Thank you, Ellen,' said Margaret Evans. 'Do you know that you have helped on Mr. Michael's case a great deal. You won't say a word about this to anyone, will you? Not to Mrs. Woolston or to anyone? And, you know,' she added, 'there's nothing you need be unhappy about. I'm sure that everything will end well.'

'Thank you, ma'am.' There was a ring of heartfelt relief in her tone. The three were left together.

'Poor little devil!' said Peter. 'Now it's my turn to get to work.'

'How could that paper have got into Captain Elliot's room? Judd saw Michael opening the parcel. Could he have put it there?'

'Perhaps we shall know that when we've found the person who sent it,' said Peter. 'I'm going off now to wire to Hosking to come down. I don't know Plymouth, and if I did it would bring me no nearer to tracing the person who wrote this address.'

'It's a funny handwriting,' said Sheila.

'Yes, but so is yours, if I may take the liberty of saying so.'

'There must be a regular way of tracing people by their handwriting,' remarked Sheila. 'Probably my detective-inspector knows it. Now that he has finished his investigations at Broad Clyst, why shouldn't I turn him over to you, Peter?'

'Thank you,' said Peter dryly. 'I won't forget your offer if the time should ever come. Now for the telegraph office, but before I go I must make my peace with Peggy.'

That peacemaking ceremony took place in the hall. When the front door had shut behind Peter, the sisters came out of the dining-room.

'Mummy,' said the young lady, 'Cousin Peter 'pologized—and, Auntie Sheila, do you know what? He kissed me!'

CHAPTER XVII.

WHILE Peter was taking Dorothy Wilson home a covered car passed them. 'Did you see who that was?' said Peter. 'Arthur Manderson. So he's back! I wonder whether he will detect any change in the demeanour of his servants, who, one and all, believe him guilty of murder. What has become of Sheila's detective? They did not expect their master back.'

Had Peter Graham been in the housekeeper's room that evening his curiosity would have been satisfied. Judd had behaved like the well-trained servant that he was. He had unpacked his master's luggage and attended to his creature comforts. The other servants had assembled for tea before he was free to join them. Robert's brother was to take his last meal with them. He was unusually silent and preoccupied. Robert was determined to thaw the ice and compel his brother to leave a brilliant reputation behind him.

'When I heard that car driving up to the door and seen who got out of it I said to myself, "It's a rum world. Half a dozen nice honest English folk set to carry trays and say, 'Yes, sir' and 'No, sir' to a bloke that may be in Dartmoor in a month or two if his neck's not stretched in the meantime."'

Mrs. Woolston turned a reproving eye upon the trifler, and his brother spoke. 'You're young, Robert, and you talk too fast. Never talk like that until the chain's complete and—no names.'

'You're right, Mr. Inspector,' said the sibyl. 'I knew a young man once who took names in vain and he lost situation after situation in consequence. Here's Mr. Judd. He'll bear me out.'

But Judd was too preoccupied and ill at ease. There was an awkward silence. The sibyl dispensed the tea. 'You'll take two lumps this evening, Mr. Inspector, seeing as it's to be your last?'

'Ah,' said Judd. 'We'll be very sorry to lose you, Mr. Kewiss. I'm glad you're not gone yet. It's funny the way things turn out, but p'r'aps I'd better tell you after tea.'

'Why not now, Mr. Judd?' said Dawkins, aflame with curiosity. 'Ellen's out to tea this afternoon and I'm sure that you can trust us.'

'Well,' said Judd, 'I was unpacking in Mr. Manderson's room when he himself comes in. "There used to be a sort of medicine cup in this room, Judd," he says—"a thing with the doses marked. I missed it before I went to town and forgot to ask for it. Get some one to find it for me," he says. "I don't like being without it." I tell you, you could have knocked me down with a feather.'

Every one looked at Robert's brother.

'As I told you, that medicine cup was nothing but a step in the chain. Let this be a warning to you, Robert, never to mention names. No names!'

'What did you tell him, Mr. Judd?' asked Dawkins.

'I said that I'd inquire. Do you know whether there's another medicine cup in the house?'

'Not with the doses marked, Mr. Judd.'

'Then one of us must slip into the town and get another at the chemist's as like the other one as possible. Robert, you'll be going down with your brother. You'd better do it.'

Peter had had a reply to his telegram, and he met the down express next morning.

'If you dare to send me any more telegrams in cipher, Graham, I shall pass you in the street and refuse to speak to you. What have you found?'

Peter drew the brown paper from his pocket and displayed it. 'I wanted an expert to advise me. Plymouth is quite a big place, so I've heard.'

'You say that this was found in the father's room? Surely the girl is mistaken?'

'No. I don't pride myself on knowing human nature, but I'd bet my last shilling that she's telling the truth.'

Hosking began to think aloud. 'How could that father come in? He didn't stand to profit by the will; he did stand to lose his job if anything happened to the old lady. And letting his own son take the blame——' He shook his head and was silent for a full minute, Peter watching him. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. 'Where can I find Endicott? It's nearly twelve o'clock. Let's try for him at his office.'

'Can I come with you?'

'Yes, if you'll undertake not to open your mouth until the business is finished.'

The clerk told them that Mr. Endicott was alone and asked for their names. He came flying down the stairs to invite them to the sanctum. Hosking plunged at once into the business and told Endicott of the discovery of the afternoon before. 'Mr. Graham has the paper in his pocket, but we won't waste time by asking you to look at it. We have come to you to ask whether you are satisfied that Miss Marjoribanks's affairs were in perfect order.'

'You mean?'

'Well, I understand that she employed that young man's father as a sort of bailiff to look after her property. I suppose that he collected rents, paid bills and wages, and so on.'

'Yes. I used to collect the rents for her house property here in Exeter, and a few years ago she took that part of her work from me and transferred it to Captain Elliot, giving him power to make contracts with builders for repairs and to collect the rents. He was already managing the Broad Clyst property. I did not much like the change, but if I had raised any objection I should have brought a storm about my ears. She did not like being opposed.'

'At any rate, she was satisfied with him?'

'It is curious that you should ask me that. About three weeks before her death I had occasion to see her to obtain her signature, and she asked me whether I knew of a good firm of auditors accustomed to dealing with estate books. I asked her why, and she as good as told me to mind my own business. I gathered that she was meditating a sort of secret audit. I gave her the address of a good firm and heard no more of it.'

'Can I have the address?'

'Certainly. I have it here. But you will want my authority as executor. I will give you that too. No doubt you will get them to furnish me with a copy of their report.'

Peter had kept to his bargain. Not once had he opened his lips during the interview, and even when they were on the pavement outside he said not a word. Hosking took out the envelope that bore the address. 'Do you know these people?'

'No, but I can lead you to the street, and, what's more, I am beginning to divine your fell purpose.'

The senior partner of the chartered accountants was still in his office. 'I have come on a rather unusual errand,' said Hosking. 'First let me ask you whether your firm has carried out any audit of the estate accounts at Broad Clyst, for the late Miss Marjoribanks?'

'You mean the old lady who was poisoned a few days ago. No, sir, we have not, though about a fortnight ago we had a letter from her—a rather eccentric letter—intimating that she wanted a sort of secret audit carried out. We replied that if we could have access to the books and vouchers we could audit them, but we had no reply. I have since thought it possible that our letter might have fallen into the wrong hands.'

'As you may have heard, the estate has been left to her cousin, a Mr. Manderson, but the executor and trustee is in legal possession at the moment. I have here an authority from him to submit the accounts to an audit. Will you undertake it?'

'Certainly, if we can have the usual facilities.'

'If you were to start, say, to-morrow, how long would it take you to make a preliminary report?'

'That depends upon the period we should have to cover.'

'Say for the last two years.'

'No doubt we could furnish the executor with a preliminary report within eight days—possibly less. A detailed report would take longer.'

'Thank you,' said Hosking. 'Then I may want you to begin at once.'

'Oh, why didn't I think of it before?' asked Peter, looking into the sky.

'Don't count your chickens yet, my boy. We are only exploring the ground. Which of us is to tackle Manderson and sow the seeds of distrust?'

'You. You will carry more weight as a solicitor. I'm going to run a side-line of my own.'

Hosking found Manderson at home. A medicine cup had been found for him; he was relieved of Captain Elliot's society, and he felt at peace with the world.

'I am sorry to have to bother you again so soon,' said Hosking.

'Things not going well?'

'Not so badly, but I called to ask you whether you are having the estate accounts audited.'

'I suppose that the executor is seeing to that. Has it any bearing on Michael's defence?'

'I don't know yet. The point is that if it has to be done the auditors ought to get to work at once.'

A gleam came into Arthur Manderson's rather fishy eye. 'That means auditing Captain Elliot's books. Yes, certainly that ought to be done.'

'They could start to-morrow if you will give them authority.'

'Lord, you don't waste any time. Of course I approve. Go ahead.'

While this conversation was taking place in the library, Peter Graham had prompted Judd to bring him to speech with Ellen, the housemaid. 'I want you to be present, Judd, and hear what she says.'

There was a suspicion of defiance in Ellen's manner. Peter began by trying to put her at her ease. You know that Mrs. Evans, Miss Carey, and I are working to clear Mr. Michael Elliot?'

'Yes, sir.'

'In fact, that we all are?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I believe that you could help us and that Mr. Naburn could help us if only we knew where to find him.' Peter saw that he had said the wrong thing and found himself wishing that Sheila had been there to rescue him. He had never known what to do when young women burst into tears. Judd seemed to know better than he did. He patted her on the shoulder, making uncouth and incoherent noises.

'I'm so sorry,' said Peter. 'I only wanted to ask you whether you have heard from Mr. Naburn and whether you happen to have kept a scrap of his handwriting.'

Ellen made it clear through her gulps that her swain was not given to writing love-letters; in fact, that, as far as she could remember, she had never seen his handwriting at all. And as to where he was, she only wished she knew. Another bout of weeping brought that interview to a close.

Peter met Hosking at the library door and told him that he was expected to lunch at Tor Park.

'I can't do that, Graham, thanks all the same. I've got to set these confounded auditors to work.'

'Nonsense! You can do that by telephone from the house. I promised Sir Daniel that I'd bring you, and if you don't come he'll never forgive me.'

It was a new role for Hosking to find himself treated as a deliverer by a very charming girl and a father who made up for lack of education by generosity and good sense. The two hung upon his words and showed a touching confidence in his power to save them.

'I'm not going to ask you how the case stands,' said Sir Daniel, 'because I feel quite safe in your 'ands.'

The telephone message was sent and the auditors undertook to begin their work immediately. The party was drinking coffee when Mrs. Evans was announced.

'You have something important to tell us,' said Dorothy. 'I can see it in your face. Come along, Daddy: we shall only be in the way.' Mrs. Evans laughed.

'If either of you go away I shan't tell you anything at all. It's quite true that I've brought something for Mr. Graham to see, but there's nothing secret about it. Lucy, my nurse, received an anonymous letter this morning. I've brought it with me for you to see.'

'Typewritten, eh?' said Peter, taking it from her. 'The writer is shy about his handwriting.'

'Read it aloud,' said Mrs. Evans.

TYPEWRTER

'I'm surprised at you allowing your sister to keep company with a man twice her age who goes visiting a woman in King Street, Plymouth, regular. It's a low place, and no respectable man ought to be seen there. Ask him what he was doing there on Wednesday week at 2.40 in the afternoon and see what he says.

'ONE WHO KNOWS.'

Hosking put out his hand for the letter.

'Typewritten. Not much to go on,' said Peter.

Hosking looked up sharply. 'You think so? I prefer the machine-made article every time. For one thing, you get away from those precious handwriting experts.'

'You haven't heard all my story,' said Mrs. Evans. 'When Lucy brought me the letter she said that she had shown it to Ellen and that she flared up and said, "Then I won't shield him any longer." Lucy asked her what she meant, and she began to cry. She said, "You mustn't pay any attention to things I say in these days," and then she became incoherent. But Lucy is quite positive about the words.'

CHAPTER XVIII.

SIR DANIEL'S eyes were fixed upon Hosking, who, with knitted brow, was scrutinizing the letter. As no one spoke, he said, 'The man who wrote that was jealous. Won't the young woman say who it was that wanted to marry her before this Naburn came along?'

'I can tell you that, Daddy,' said his daughter. 'Webster did.'

'Our Webster? The man who drives my car?'

'Yes. I thought you knew that he was a disappointed suitor.' Hosking looked up. 'Have you a typewriter, Sir Daniel?'

'Miss Williams has one in the office.'

'May I go and see Miss Williams?'

'I'll take you to her myself.'

Sir Daniel led the way to a little room where a faded lady with weak eyes brooded over his correspondence. Hosking was presented to her. He noticed that her machine was a Remington.

'May I dictate to you a few rather foolish sentences, Miss Williams? Single spacing, if you please.'

The lady caught up her shorthand note-book and Hosking read sonorously from the anonymous letter. The faded lady betrayed no emotion. She rattled off the compromising document as if it were a complaint to the butcher about meat, drew it from the roller, and handed it to Hosking.

'Thank you very much, Miss Williams. Your writing is a miracle of speed. Shall we go back to the others, Sir Daniel?'

'Now,' said Hosking, 'I am going to wrap myself in the tattered mantle of the expert in handwriting, only I am on far surer ground than they are because I am dealing with a machine. Here are two anonymous letters. Mrs. Evans, will you take this and tell me whether it is the letter you brought with you?'

Margaret Evans looked at it and hesitated.

'If I did not know that you were setting a trap for me, I should say "Yes."'

'You could have sworn to it?'

'Probably.'

'No one could have blamed you, because it was typed on the same machine as the other.'

'How do you know that, my learned friend?' asked Peter.

'By the faults in the type. Look at the letter "s" in "surprised." It is slightly out of alignment, and all the other "s's" are the same. Miss Williams, admirable as she is as a secretary, is a little careless about keeping her type clean. Look at the "e's." The loop is blocked with ink; the letter "e," having to do more work than the rest of the alphabet, gets blocked with ink sooner than the "a" and the "o." Then look at the capital "P" in "Plymouth." That is the most convincing evidence of all. At some time in the machine's career it has met with an accident. Part of the tail of the "P" was broken off. I could show you a dozen other instances to prove that both letters came from the same machine. The Only difference is that Miss Williams is a skilled typist and the other fellow isn't. He was never taught in the typewriting school to study neatness. He operates with one finger, and that a heavy one. Moreover, the force of his blows varies, whereas Miss Williams—bless her!—has a light and even touch.'

'You don't suggest that Miss Williams wrote the anonymous letter?' asked Sir Daniel, who had not followed the demonstration very carefully.

'God forbid! I mean that the writer of this made use of her machine when she wasn't there.'

'Daddy,' said Dorothy, 'when Webster comes for orders in the morning, doesn't he have to wait in Miss Williams's room?'

'Yes, but he can't use the typewriter.'

Peter intervened. 'I should like very much to have a private interview with Webster in that room when Miss Williams has gone home.'

'So you can,' said Sir Daniel, 'and if I knew for certain——'

Peter held up his hand. 'You would overlook it, Sir Daniel; oh, yes, you would, because unless I could assure Webster that making a clean breast of it wouldn't get him into trouble, I wouldn't see him at all. The man was in love, Sir Daniel. Think of the temptation, and think of what it may mean to Michael if Webster made it possible to trace Naburn.'

'Yes, Daddy. Think of that! Besides, Webster is a careful driver.'

It was enough that his daughter pleaded. Sir Daniel gave way. He rang the bell and ordered a telephone message to be sent to the garage. Dorothy went off to grant Miss Williams a holiday for the rest of the day.

Webster sauntered into the room as innocently as the spider walks on to a hot plate. He displayed some of the emotions of that insect before Peter had done with him.

'Hallo, Webster,' he said, 'anything wrong with the car?'

'Not that I know of, Mr. Graham. Sir Daniel sent for me.'

'I believe he's busy at the moment, but I suppose you're accustomed to waiting.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Where do you wait as a rule?'

'In here, except when Miss Williams, the lady secretary, is here: then I wait in the passage.'

'Oh, yes, she taps away on that machine, doesn't she? I suppose if anything goes wrong they turn it over to you for repairs.'

'No, sir. I don't understand machines like them.'

'But you can use them?'

'No, sir. I often wish I could.'

'Oh, I thought you were a skilled hand at all machines, Webster, and could write letters on them as well as Miss Williams could.'

'No, sir.'

'You're too modest, Webster. I think that letter that you tapped out to the nurse at Mrs. Evans's cottage would do credit to anyone.'

Webster stared at him with blanching cheek.

'I don't understand you, sir.'

'I happen to have it here. Look at it. I think it's a most creditable bit of work for a beginner—spacing and stops all complete, and only one slip in the whole letter.'

Webster was very white now and his breath was coming fast.

'You've got a good place here, Webster. You oughtn't to have used this machine, but I don't think you'll hear any more of it if you tell me frankly and truly what it was that made you write the letter.'

The man was silent. He gulped once or twice and Peter felt that he was safely over the first fence. 'I quite understand the temptation, Webster. You were fond of that girl Ellen, and you couldn't bear to think of her marrying a man like Naburn.'

Then it all came out with a rush. 'I wonder what you'd have done in my place, Mr. Graham, seeing that man going into the lowest part of Plymouth and kissing a woman when he came out. To think that poor little Ellen was crying her heart out for him.'

'Where was it, Webster?'

'Well, sir, I took Miss Dorothy to the Army and Navy Stores in Plymouth and I had to turn the car. There's no room to turn in Union Street, so I ran along King Street to the next turning, and there was Naburn on the pavement in front of me. I knew the kind of street it was and I pulled up to see what he would do. He went to one of the houses and a woman comes down to the door, and as plain as I'm standing here I see him take her in his arms and kiss her. Disgusting, I call it. Now they tell me he's bolted. I'm not surprised.'

'Did you notice the address?'

'No, sir, I didn't, but I could take anyone to it. I shouldn't mistake the house.'

'Well, I may want you to take me there, if Sir Daniel can spare you. I'll let you know when. And, look here, Webster, don't you worry about that letter you wrote. We've all forgotten it. I think Sir Daniel must have changed his mind about seeing you. I shouldn't wait any longer.'

When Peter rejoined the group assembled in the drawing-room he found an addition to its numbers. Sheila had called for her sister. He was strangely reticent and the others forbore to question him.

'You got what you wanted, I can see,' said Hosking.

'I did.' He sat down by Dorothy. She questioned him with her eyes. He nodded and patted her hand lightly, saying in a low voice, 'We're a good step farther on.'

'I want your advice, Mr. Graham,' said Margaret Evans.

'A member of your family coming to me for advice! You must have a better opinion of my wisdom than—well—than other people have.' He glanced at Sheila.

Mrs. Evans laughed. 'If I hadn't a high opinion of your capabilities as an adviser I shouldn't come to you. What do you think I ought to do about Lucy's sister?'

'On that point I've no doubt whatever. You ought to see her and get her to tell you what she has on her mind about Naburn. Do it this evening if you possibly can.'

Peter's advice was not difficult to follow, for when the sisters reached home they found that Ellen was with Lucy in the nursery. She came down unwillingly, though it was to see Mrs. Evans, to whom, under ordinary conditions, she would have told all her secrets. No one knew what passed at that interview, but when Ellen returned to her sister in the nursery, though she was crying, she said, 'I've told Mrs. Evans everything, and I feel happier now than I've done for days past.'

When Peter called for news at the cottage that evening Mrs. Evans met him in the hall. 'I've been waiting for you,' she said. 'This time I really have some news to give you. I know now what has been on Ellen's mind. She was present at the inquest and when the coroner produced that metal flask she recognized it as the flask that belonged to Naburn.'

Peter was ill-bred enough to whistle. 'That settles it, Mrs. Evans. I'm off to Plymouth. I shall get Sir Daniel to lend me Webster and the car. Webster knows the house where he last saw Naburn; he knows Naburn by sight and I don't.'

He rose and was surprised by the warmth of Mrs. Evans's hand-clasp as she wished him good luck.

At eight o'clock next morning the car was on the road. Webster drove down Union Street to a turning beyond the Army and Navy Stores, where big cars seemed to be rare, for collarless men and slatternly women thrust their heads out of windows to look at them. The car slowed down.

'Here's where I pulled up, sir—right in front of this side street, and it's the fourth door on the left. I seen him kiss her at the door.'

Peter jumped down and made straight for the door of one of the dreary two-story tenements in that squalid street. The front door stood open, which signified that the house was let in single rooms. He knocked, wondering what he should do if four inquiring heads should appear to ask him what he wanted. Fortunately there was but one. A rather pleasant-looking woman put her head over the banister of the landing.

'Does Mr. Naburn live here?'

'No, sir.'

'But you know him?'

The woman began to laugh. It was a rather pleasant laugh.

'Yes, I know him all right, but he hasn't been here for quite a while.'

She came running down the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron. Peter pulled the brown paper wrapper from his pocket.

'Well, you may be able to help me by looking at this address. Is this his handwriting?'

She burst out laughing. 'No, sir, it's mine.'

CHAPTER XIX.

IT was tea-time in the housekeeper's room at Broad Clyst.

'The new master's said nothing about going back to London, has he, Mr. Judd?' said Dawkins, 'because I'll have to see him. There's nothing for me to do here now and I don't like being a fifth wheel in the coach, as you might say. Of course, I wouldn't leave the neighbourhood until Mr. Michael's cleared.'

'I think he's stopping on till after the trial, Miss Dawkins.'

'It's a pity that your brother didn't fix it on anyone definite, Robert. I suppose he thought that Mr. Manderson done it and then he let it drop.'

'There you're wrong, Mrs. Woolston. My brother never mentioned names. He knows who done it right enough, but it's not his way to talk till he's marshalled all the evidence. No names is what he's always said.'

'What day's the trial?' asked Dawkins.

'Tuesday week, they say, and I'm told they've got some wonderful barristers for the defence. You'll see, things will come out at that trial.' Ellen dropped her teaspoon.

'When Mr. Michael walks out of the dock an innocent man,' said Judd, 'he'll owe it to Mr. Graham more than to any barrister. He's a clever young man that, but even he's not a patch on Miss Carey. If women were barristers and Miss Carey had to plead the case before a jury, with her good looks and all, why they'd find a verdict of "Not Guilty" without leaving the box. What do you say, Mrs. Woolston?'

'I don't trouble about no barristers, nor judges, nor juries because I know what I know.'

'Do tell,' said Dawkins.

'Well, just to let you all sleep comfortable until the trial, I will tell you. You know that portrait of young Mr. Michael that his poor aunt had hung up in the dining-room. I was in there to-day looking at it and I says to myself, "Keep a good heart," I says, "even with those gyves that are hanging on your wrists and your ankles, because there's a lot of us that wish you well." And then all of a sudden the sun shot out a ray on the wall just above his head and the light came down and down until it made a halo on his face, so bright that you could see the splotches of paint on it, and, would you believe it, the picture smiled at me. So barristers may argue and jurymen come and go—it doesn't signify what any of them does—Mr. Michael's coming out of that place back to us all.'

'A nice home-coming it'll be for him,' said Robert, 'with all his inheritance gone. Nothing for it but to work for his living like the rest of us. Not that work's not a honourable thing if you've been brought up to it, but if you haven't—why, he may have to come down to sweep a crossing.'

'Aren't you feeling well, Mr. Judd?' said the sibyl.

'I don't know what's come over me. I think, with your leave, Mrs. Woolston, I'll step out and take the air.'

'You've not drunk your tea.'

'I'm not feeling like tea, thank you, Mrs. Woolston.'

'That man takes things too much to 'eart to be healthy,' said the sibyl.

Judd went to his room for his hat and made for the garden, deserted at this hour even by the gardeners. He walked rapidly until he was lost behind the shrubberies. He walked like a man without a purpose. He seemed to be turning great matters over in his mind. Suddenly he stopped and clapped his right fist into his left palm. He had taken a resolve and now he had a purpose. He made for the garden gate that opened into the lane leading down to the Cottage.

The little maid was not surprised when he asked for Miss Carey, and as that lady had received him on former visits, she showed him into the dining-room.

Sheila was with him in an instant. 'You've brought news?'

'No, miss, not exactly. The fact is, miss, we were talking things over at tea and—well, miss, I thought I'd come down to ask you a question. Do you think Mr. Michael will be cleared?'

'Yes, Judd. I'm sure of it. I can't tell you yet why I am so sure, but I can tell you that Mr. Graham has gone off now on a new clue which will lead in the end to clearing Mr. Michael and bringing the guilt home to the right person.'

'And if Mr. Michael had inherited the property it would have been just the same?'

'Certainly.'

'Are you sure, miss? You know, the coroner made it out against Mr. Michael that he had killed his aunt to prevent her disinheriting him.'

'If Mr. Graham brings the guilt home to the right person, as I feel sure he will, it won't matter a bit whether Mr. Michael inherited the property or whether he comes out of prison a pauper, as, of course, he will, because everything's been left to Mr. Manderson.'

'A pauper, miss?'

'Yes, but what does that matter, if he's cleared? Why, what's the matter, Judd?'

There was reason for her question. Judd had turned very white and was leaning back against the wall: his knees were trembling. 'If I'd only thought of that before, miss.'

Sheila was now seriously alarmed, not for Judd, but for what he might have to tell her, if she could bring him to it. 'Listen, Judd,' she said. 'You're hiding something from me, and if we begin hiding things from each other in all this dreadful business there's no hope for Mr. Michael.'

'Yes, miss,' he gasped. 'I have been hiding something.'

'Surely you can tell me. I should never betray your confidence.'

'I know you wouldn't, miss.'

'And I might be able to help you.'

'Well, it's this way, miss. I don't know what you'll think of me. I'm not a thief. I never stole anything in my life and that's God's truth. But after that inquest and what the coroner said and what Robert told us his brother said—about motive—that that will was the motive that made Mr. Michael put that stuff in his aunt's medicine—I thought to myself that I'd save him. So I did it.'

'Did what?'

'Why, miss, hid the will.'

'Hid the will?'

'Yes, miss, but I've got it hid away safe. You see, miss, I knew where it was, and that night I took the master-key and slipped upstairs and took it out of the drawer and hid it where no one but me can find it. But now I suppose if I own up I shall be put in prison. I know I done wrong, miss, but I only told one lie right through. I told Lawyer Endicott in the presence of a police-inspector that I didn't know about that master-key.'

Was it the dramatic instinct lying dormant in Sheila that flooded her face with joy and set her bosom heaving?

'Now, Judd,' she said, 'you've nothing to be alarmed about. I think it was splendid—your doing that for Mr. Michael's sake. It's going to be a secret between you and me. I shall never tell anyone what you've told me, and, if you do what I say, Mr. Michael will not only come back to us a free and much-injured man, but he will come into his inheritance as well. But first tell me whether any piece of furniture has been moved out of Miss Marjoribanks's room since her death.'

Judd reflected.

'Well, yes, miss, there's the old chippendale card-table she used to have by her bed for playing patience. I took that down myself to the library, where it belonged. I thought Mr. Manderson might be having friends in for bridge of an afternoon.'

'I know that table: it couldn't be better, Judd.' Thereupon she unfolded her plan. As she detailed it, Judd's eyes blazed with appreciation, and at the end he so far forgot himself as to go up to her and shake her warmly by the hand. He recovered himself immediately.

'I beg your pardon, miss, for the liberty, I'm sure. You see, I forgot myself.'

Sheila laughed. 'Bargains are always sealed in that way, Judd.'

Judd left the room blowing his nose violently.

'Any fresh news?' asked her sister, when Sheila returned to the drawing-room.

'Nothing very exciting. Do you know, Margaret, I think I'll change my mind about to-morrow and not go out to tea.'

'I'm glad. It doesn't look well for you always to run away when Mr. Manderson is coming. After all, you may not like him, but he is our nearest neighbour. Besides, you've no excuse for avoiding him now that all those ridiculous suspicions against him are cleared up.'

'Very well, then. I'll send a line to Dorothy excusing myself. He's sure to come, you think?'

'Oh, yes, he proposed himself.'

'Where's Peggy?'

'In her bath, I hope. I sent her off to bed twenty minutes ago.'

'Then I must go and say good night to her.'

Auntie Sheila's occasional visits to the bathroom at bedtime filled her little niece's dreams of adventure and romance, for Auntie Sheila knew all the exciting games with soap dishes and sponges and paper boats that had ever been invented for the bather's happiness. Only, if one laughed too uproariously, one was apt to swallow soapy water and to bring Mummy up from the regions below to quell the riot. So one tried to stifle one's merriment, and that made it all the merrier.

On this particular evening Auntie Sheila was serious-minded. She doused the little head only once with the bath sponge, and then lifted the little person out of the water before half the fun was over. She seemed attuned to conversation while she applied the bath towel.

'Mr. Manderson's coming to tea to-morrow, isn't he, Peggy?'

'Yes. I wish it was Cousin Peter. I do like Cousin Peter, don't you, Auntie Sheila?'

Sheila did not answer the question. 'It's a long time since we went to tea at Broad Clyst, isn't it, Peggy?'

'Yes. I wish we could go to tea there again, and then I could wear the coral necklace you wore when you were a little girl, couldn't I, Auntie Sheila?'

'Of course you could—if only Mr. Manderson would ask us all to tea there.' The child became thoughtful. Sheila knew she was revolving schemes of which her mother certainly would have disapproved. The leaven was working.

Sheila was glad that she had decided to do her duty as assistant hostess at the tea-party on the following afternoon. It was a dull entertainment, though her sister did her best, but the moment came when Peggy was admitted to enliven the proceedings. She went straight to Mr. Manderson and shook hands with him gravely. This time she did not ask him to reproduce the conversations of the farm-yard. But after regarding him critically for a moment she said, 'We never go to tea at Broad Clyst now.'

'Did you go to tea there before?'

'Yes. Almost always, generally.'

'Peggy!' cried her mother, horror-struck.

'But she's quite right, Mrs. Evans. You must all come to tea "almost always generally" and we'll start to-morrow.'

Mrs. Evans was cudgelling her brains for an excuse. To her intense surprise her sister, who made no secret of her disapproval of the guest, said, 'Thank you very much, Mr. Manderson. We shall be delighted.'

CHAPTER XX.

ALTHOUGH it was the first time that Arthur Manderson had played host to a child of five, it must be confessed that he did it rather well. He had been in consultation with Judd and the sibyl, both authorities upon Miss Peggy's taste in jam and cakes and her preference in the matter of games. Judd understood that 'Hunt the Thimble' was her favourite, and as Dawkins could supply a thimble, there was to be no outlay on this score. Nevertheless, Arthur Manderson spent part of the morning at a toyshop in the town, and, upon the advice of its proprietor, he returned with a gaudily attired doll and a toy perambulator which fitted it. It struck Manderson that the cultivation of an understanding with Peggy was a useful step in the direction of a closer understanding with Peggy's mother. He found himself wishing that the sister had not been included in the invitation. She belonged, he feared, to the order of women whose sense of humour and hypercritical attitude of mind made him ill at ease. She knew too much, and he feared her. Had he guessed what part she was to play that afternoon he would have taken to his bed and recalled his invitation. As it was, he spent half an hour in his dressing-room.

The guests were punctual. The host had been in favour of the drawing-room for tea, but had been overruled by Judd. 'Miss Peggy's favourite room is the library, sir. She always had her tea there in Miss Marjoribanks's time.' So, in deference to Miss Peggy, the library was the chosen room, and into the library the guests were conducted. The room was specially decorated with the roses for which Broad Clyst was famous.

Peggy looked round the room. 'Shall we have tea first and games after?' She said.

'We'll do as Mr. Manderson likes,' said her mother reprovingly.

Manderson rang for Judd. 'We'll have tea here, Judd.' The butler was retiring when a small voice called him. 'Did Mrs. Woolston know I was coming, Judd?'

'Yes, Miss Peggy,'

'That's all right. Now there'll be iced cakes, mummy.'

When the tea appeared there was a cake far beyond Peggy's dreams—a large, round cake, snowy with icing sugar, with the word Peggy in pink lettering scrawled across the top.

During tea the host was beguiled into talking of his plans. He deplored the fate that had cast him for a Londoner. 'I never knew how beautiful the country could be,' he said to Mrs. Evans. 'I mean to be here a good deal, and I hope that my nearest neighbours will be kind to me.'

'I am glad that you are not going to be an absentee landlord,' murmured Mrs. Evans. 'Landowners ought never to be that.'

Peggy's little mouth was full, and this distracted her mother from giving full attention to her host's conversation, but the moment came when the young lady pronounced that her meal was completed and that the time had come for 'Hunt the Thimble'. The future country gentleman did not shine at children's games, and Mrs. Evans was the first to suggest something more reposeful.

Sheila was ready with a suggestion. 'Why not play "Beggar my Neighbour?" Peggy loves that, only—we shall want a pack of cards.' She looked inquiringly at her host, who was not the sort of man to be without a pack of cards, wherever you might find him.

'Cards? Yes. I'm not sure that I know the rules of "Beggar my Neighbour," but you will teach me, won't you?' he said, with an appealing look to Mrs. Evans.

The tables were encumbered with tea-things. 'Where shall we play?' asked Sheila. 'There's sure to be a card-table somewhere about.' He looked round the room and his eye fell upon the chippendale table. 'Of course, there it is.' He carried it out to the widest space of empty carpet. It was one of those tables that cannot be opened until the top has been slewed round to give support to the flap. But Arthur Manderson knew the mechanism of old. Sheila came forward to help him. The top slid round, disclosing a little well that should have been void and empty.

'What's this?' exclaimed Manderson. A rather bulky folded document, tied with red tape, nearly filled the cavity. He took it out.

'It looks a very legal kind of document,' said Sheila.

'Yes, but what's it doing here?'

'Look, Margaret what we've found!' cried Sheila. 'It's rather exciting. They used always to hide title-deeds and things in odd corners of old country houses, didn't they?'

Manderson had untied the tape and unfolded the paper. Mrs. Evans approached and read over his shoulder, 'Last Will and Testament.'

'It's a will!'

'Yes,' said Manderson. 'It's a will. I believe it's the missing will that everybody's been hunting for. But how did it get into this table?' He dropped the document on the table and rang the bell.

Judd appeared. He was as calm and impassive as he had been trained to be. 'You rang, sir?'

'Where did this card-table come from?'

'It was always here, sir, until the late Miss Marjoribanks had it taken up to her room to play patience on. After her death, sir, of course it was brought back to the library.'

'Thank you, Judd.'

The tea-party had lost its gaiety. A little voice said plaintively, 'When are we going to begin?' A little hand twitched Arthur Manderson's sleeve.

'Begin what, little woman?' he said, absently.

'"Beggar my Neighbour."'

'We've begun it already,' he said, with a whimsical look at her mother. 'Now, Mrs. Evans, there's no danger of an absentee landlord as a neighbour. The landlord is to be Michael, and, upon my soul, I'm glad. I always liked that boy, and, after all, do I look like the kind of person who would settle down and fuss about labourers' cottages and the rotation of crops in the country? Besides'—he caught up the will again and read a paragraph—'Cousin Frances has behaved very generously to me in this will, God bless her!'

'What are you going to do, Mr. Manderson?'

'Oh, that's quite clear. I must telephone for Mr. Endicott and hand the will over to him. He will get to work at proving it and I shall pack up and go back to town as soon as this miserable trial is over and young Michael comes home again.'

He was taking it uncommonly well. Sheila knew that the accusing eyes of her sister were fixed upon her. She felt doubly a traitress. She had struck at Manderson, who had never harmed her, and she had quite spoiled the pleasure of her little niece.

Mrs. Evans had an instinct for dealing with strained situations. 'Come and sit down, Mr. Manderson,' she said, 'and we can talk while the others play. I should like to hear your plans, and I want to tell you how Michael's case is going.'

So Peggy had her game of 'Beggar my Neighbour' after all, and beat her aunt so shamelessly that her infant mind was troubled. 'What's the matter with you, Auntie Sheila? You can't remember the cards or anything.'

And when the party had taken their leave and were walking down the drive Mrs. Evans said, 'It couldn't be helped, I suppose, but I should be very sorry if I had had a hand in hurting a man who took it so well.'

Sheila made no answer, but presently an idea struck her. 'Do you think that Captain Elliot will go back to Broad Clyst now the new will has been found and Michael becomes the owner?'

'I don't know. Mr. Manderson told me that Captain Elliot always thought that the will would be found, and that was why he stayed in the neighbourhood.'

'Is he here still?'

'Yes, he's staying at a small hotel somewhere in Exeter, but of course he hasn't been back to Broad Clyst. He had some sort of quarrel with Mr. Manderson, and now that little office he had in the house is in the hands of the auditors.'

'You mean that they're not satisfied about his accounts?'

'I don't know that. It was a suggestion of Mr. Graham's London solicitor, I believe.'

'And Peter told me nothing. I wonder why he's so secretive. And he's never been round to see us for days.'

'For two days,' corrected her sister.

'Well, for two days. But with the trial so near, two days are inexcusable. Do you think they suspect Captain Elliot?'

'I don't know what to think, but I feel sure that Mr. Graham is a good deal cleverer than you give him credit for. I'm certain that he has something up his sleeve.'

'I never doubted his cleverness, when he chooses to work. His trouble is sheer indolence. I do wish we knew what he was doing.'

'Well, we know that he's away hunting for that man, Naburn, and I don't think that you will have any ground for complaining that he's indolent when he comes back.'

'There's a gentleman waiting for you in the drawing-room, missus,' announced the little Devon maid when they reached home.

'What's his name?'

'He gave a name, but I disremember it.'

Mrs. Evans hurried in to find Hosking reading a local paper to pass the time.

'I'm so sorry that I was out, Mr. Hosking.'

'I called to see Miss Carey. Graham asked me to give her a message.'

'Where is he?'

'I don't know. I arranged to write to him poste restante at Plymouth. He gives no address in his letter, which I have with me.'

'I'll call my sister.'

Sheila appeared, and they shook hands.

'Perhaps you will understand the message which Mr. Graham has asked me to convey to you. I must confess that I don't. Here it is.'

He took a letter from his pocket and read:

### LETTER

'Please call on Mrs. Evans at the Cottage and see her sister, Miss Sheila Carey. Give this message to her: After all, I haven't waited till the autumn to reform. I've given up racing in favour of hunting, which is much more amusing, and I think that I shall bring you back the brush.'

'It's an odd time to be hunting—in June,' said the visitor, with a twinkle, 'but Peter Graham was always rather eccentric. He gave me a message also for Miss Wilson, and he might just as well have written to you both.'

'He seems to have a new mania—secretiveness about his movements,' said Sheila.

'I think he wants to keep his address a secret.'

'Was Miss Wilson's message cheering?'

'Yes, he said that she was to keep smiling—that everything would turn out well.'

'And you yourself, are you optimistic?'

'I have great faith in Peter Graham.'

CHAPTER XXI.

MRS. EVANS returned to the room. 'There is one point in this case that I do not think you can have heard of yet, Mr. Hosking. The later will, in which the bulk of the property was left to Michael Elliot, was found at Broad Clyst this afternoon.'

'The missing will? Then the old lady did not destroy it after all!'

'The card-table in which it was found was in her room,' said Sheila.

'I see. You suggest that she must have taken it from that drawer and hidden it in the card-table,' said Hosking.

'So every one seems to think,' murmured Sheila. Her sister looked at her, but said nothing.

'I must think what bearing this is going to have on the case,' said Hosking gravely. 'Does Mr. Endicott know this?'

'There's scarcely been time yet to tell him.'

From the Cottage, Hosking went straight to Lawyer Endicott's office, scarcely hoping to find him still at work. To his surprise, though all the clerks had left, he found the office open and Endicott still at his table. He conveyed the news of the finding of the will.

'It's a curious story,' said Endicott, 'and most unlike the old lady, who was very methodical in her business habits. She was set upon destroying that will, and, if she changed her mind, most certainly she would not have hidden it away in a table. H'm. I doubt very much whether the finding of that will can make much difference. The testatrix intended to destroy it—in fact, she told me to burn it in her presence. In the face of such evidence no court would accept it as valid.'

'I agree, unless there was definite evidence that she changed her mind after you left her. I understand that her maid, Dawkins, could give evidence to that effect.'

'Still, I can't believe that Miss Marjoribanks hid it in that table. We must leave it until after the trial and hear what Mr. Manderson has to say. I'm glad you called. I have some news for you. An hour ago I received the preliminary report of the auditors. It discloses a rather serious state of things. I think I'd better read it to you:

'"In accordance with our instructions, we have made a preliminary examination of the estate accounts at Broad Clyst. The work was carried on under difficulties. Though Mr. Manderson, the present owner of the estate, gave us every facility, the late bailiff, Captain Elliot, was not at our disposal, either to indicate where we should find the books, the vouchers, and the bank passbooks, which were necessary for a complete audit, or to give the necessary explanations. Such books as were available were well kept, but we regret to say that they disclosed transactions which, in default of proper explanations, appear to have been most irregular."

'I don't know that I need trouble you with all the details that follow, Mr. Hosking. It is enough to say that two years ago a sum of one hundred and ninety-seven pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence, received on rent day, was never paid in to Miss Marjoribanks's account at the bank, nor credited in the books, and from that time this seems to have become a regular practice. On comparing the report with the pass-books I find that, in default of satisfactory explanations, there are defalcations of over two thousand pounds; it may be more. Generally they relate to little sums, received for the sale of timber and produce. There is a very interesting passage in the report showing that Miss Marjoribanks did write to the auditors suggesting a secret audit, and that their reply was found in Captain Elliot's desk. She may, of course, have handed it to him, but as she wanted a secret report it is far more likely that he intercepted the letter after reading the words "Chartered Accountants" on the flap of the envelope.'

'This is going to make things easier for us next week,' said Hosking. 'It accounts for Captain Elliot being so anxious to have the will found, because, if his son inherited, he would have nothing to fear. It may account for other things too. I suppose that Miss Marjoribanks was the kind of old lady who would take things badly if she discovered that she was being defrauded?'

'Very badly indeed—so badly that I feel sure she would have summoned the chief constable and handed Elliot over to the police without the least compunction. She might have disinherited Elliot's son at the same time.'

'So,' mused Hosking, 'Elliot had a motive for getting rid of the old lady before she altered her will. Upon my word, I think that this man, Arthur Manderson, did wisely in getting him out of the house. I suppose that Elliot has not left the neighbourhood?'

'No, he was still at his hotel in Exeter this morning. Why? Do you think of getting him arrested?'

'How can I, unless you as executor of the last will are prepared to swear an information?'

'And look rather foolish afterwards when the son withdraws the prosecution,' said the other.

'Still, somehow or other we ought to see that he doesn't bolt.'

They talked for half an hour, and it was arranged that Endicott should employ a private inquiry agent of his acquaintance to keep an eye upon the hotel, and if Captain Elliot showed signs of flitting should have him arrested on a charge of embezzlement, and swear an information against him.

Hosking rose to leave. 'It's a comfort, at any rate, to know why young Elliot won't do a hand's turn to defend himself, or see me, his solicitor, or his young woman, or any of his friends. He must suspect his father and know something against him that we don't. I take him to be the sort of pig-headed young enthusiast who thinks that he is serving God by shielding a guilty father. He's the kind of defendant that brings despair to honest lawyers. And remember this, Mr. Endicott—unless we can bring that young man to tell us what he knows there is very little hope for any of us. We are not in a position to prove anything.'

At Broad Clyst, Judd had been summoned to receive the demission of his sovereign after the shortest reign in the history of that ancient domain. He found his master standing on the hearthrug with his legs apart and his hands behind him as if he were warming himself before the empty grate.

'Well, Judd, I'm afraid that we have to part.'

The butler recoiled. 'Haven't I given you satisfaction, sir?'

'Every satisfaction—only, you see, I am no longer the owner of this property. So I'm leaving it and am going back to town.'

'Indeed, sir? How is that?'

'Well, in that card-table was a will—a later will—which leaves the property to Mr. Michael Elliot.'

'In-deed, sir!' The astonishment written in Judd's face would have won him success on any stage.

'I think of leaving to-morrow, Judd, and of coming down again for the trial. You and the rest of the staff will look to Mr. Endicott for anything you want. Will you kindly tell the others?'

'Yes, sir, I will. I'm sure we shall all be very sorry to lose you, sir.'

'Thank you, Judd. I was going to say something of the kind myself, only you took the words out of my mouth. I hope that you will soon have Mr. Michael back again.'

Charged with tidings, Judd found the household assembled for dinner in the housekeeper's room. The sibyl was the first to notice something unusual in his bearing. 'You've news for us, Mr. Judd,' she said, 'and it's good news too. I knew that before you came.'

'I've news, certainly, Mrs. Woolston. There's to be a new master of Broad Clyst.' He paused to watch his effect.

'Is that all?' said the sibyl. 'I could have told you that. Mr. Michael's come into the property. I suppose they've found the missing will.'

'They have.'

'Where did they find it, Mr. Judd?' asked Dawkins, with a tremor in her voice.

'In the card-table, I understand,' said Judd airily. 'The card-table Miss Marjoribanks had in her room for patience.'

'The card-table! I'm sure it wasn't the mistress that put it there. She didn't even know how to open it. I always had to open it myself.'

'I can't help that, Miss Dawkins. That's where they say they found it.'

'Your poor brother, Robert,' began Dawkins. 'He was wide of the mark.'

'In what way, Miss Dawkins?' inquired Robert.

'Well, by suspecting Mr. Manderson of taking it.'

'How do you know that he suspected Mr. Manderson, Miss Dawkins, may I ask? Did you ever hear him mention names? I can tell you this—that if my brother was called in again and given the run of the house for three-quarters of an hour he could lay his hand on the person who took that will out of the drawer and put it in the card-table. And he could lay his hand on the shoulder of the person who administered that poison and arrest him in the name of the King. That's what my brother could do.'

'At any rate, your brother did find out one useful thing, Robert,' said Judd—'that the cupboard in Mr. Michael's room, where the medicine was locked up could be opened by more than one key.'

'He did, Mr. Judd, and you'll see when the trial comes on that that's a very important piece of evidence. I shouldn't be surprised if the whole case against Mr. Michael turned on that.'

'And another thing that your brother didn't find out is that they've got the paper in which the poison came by post with the address and postmark and all on it, and now they're tracing the sender.'

'Who's tracing him? My brother? Because if he's doing it, you may be sure that the sender's been found.'

'No, it's not your brother this time. It's the lawyer from London.'

'Well, how does that help it on, knowing who addressed the parcel? If he could find out who was the owner of that metal flask——' Ellen choked over her plate and took out her handkerchief. 'Now, Ellen, no more floods, please.'

'The hardest thing to get over,' said Judd, 'is Mr. Michael insisting on giving his aunt's medicine himself. Did he give you any reason for that, Miss Dawkins?'

'No, Mr. Judd. When I saw him do it the first time I said to him, "Surely you can trust me to measure it out, Mr. Michael." And he turned round solemn like and said, "You must let me do my duty in my own way." Those were his very words.'

'You didn't say that at the inquest, Miss Dawkins.'

'No, Mr. Judd; knowing what I did, I said as little as possible at the inquest. Of course, I could have said a lot more.' A shiver of anticipation ran round the table, and, as Dawkins remained silent, Judd became the prompter.

'What could you have said, Miss Dawkins?'

'Well, I remember one thing. You know that looking-glass that hangs in the dressing-room? When you come to the door you can see the face of anyone standing at the washstand and everything he's doing. Well, one morning—it was nearly the last morning—as I came to the door, I saw Mr. Michael measuring out a dose from the bottle. He smelt it, made a face and poured the medicine down the sink. Then he turned and saw me and looked funny.'

'Did he say anything?'

'No, he didn't. He just passed me without a word and took the bottle back to his room.'

'I wish my brother had known that,' said Robert. 'He didn't have a fair show.'

Judd looked at the clock and rose as a signal to the younger servants that it was time to go about their several businesses. Dawkins followed him out of the room. When they were half-way down the passage she whispered, 'I'd like to tell you something, Mr. Judd—in the strictest confidence. You remember that evening after the inquest, when Robert said that it was that will that would hang Mr. Michael if they found it? Well, I lay awake that night, thinking. I knew where the will was, and I knew it was my duty to save Mr. Michael if I could, so, in the dead of night, I went down to the mistress's room to find it, meaning, of course, to hide it safe away. And, would you believe it? When I got to the drawer the will was gone! How can you explain that?'

'Extraordinary, Miss Dawkins! There's a lot of things in this case that I can't explain.'

CHAPTER XXII.

THE Devon Assizes were invested with something of their traditional pomp, because the high sheriff for that year was a county magnate who could afford to pay for trumpeters and to provide the judges with an equipage worthy of the King's representatives. The feasting, the dressing-up, and the procession-making were over and the judges were free to devote themselves to the serious business for which they came to the west. The calendar was not a very long one. There was but one murder charge; the rest were burglaries and a few cases of shop-lifting. In his charge to the grand jury the senior judge devoted nearly half of his address to the charge of murder against Michael Elliot. He laid stress upon the pitfalls in cases that rested on circumstantial evidence alone and upon the relative weakness of the motive—namely, that the murdered woman might have altered her will if she had been allowed to live.

'If you think that, taken as a whole, the evidence is insufficient, you will not return a true bill; but, if on the other hand, you think that the circumstantial evidence, which certainly is strong, will prove sufficient to convince a jury, then your duty is plain: you must act as your oath prescribes.'

The grand jury, composed of county magistrates, some of whom had been personally acquainted with Miss Marjoribanks, filed out of the gallery. Presently three or four of them returned. The usher extended a pole with a little net attached to it and they dropped little sheets of paper into the net. The clerk of assize announced 'true bills' against six of the minor delinquents. The name of the first was called and he came up into the dock from beneath the floor—a little wizened, pale youth, with a warder on either side of him. The jury were sworn; the prisoner pleaded 'Not guilty' and the case proceeded.

By special arrangement with the usher, seats had been reserved for the parties from Tor Park and the Cottage. A place had been found also for Arthur Manderson, who had come down specially from London to attend the trial. He had halted in front of Mrs. Evans, and the others moved up to make room for him. He sat down, separating Sir Daniel from the party from the Cottage and also from his daughter, who was sitting between Mrs. Evans and her sister. There were two absentees—Captain Elliot and Peter Graham.

'Have you heard nothing from Mr. Graham?' whispered Dorothy.

'Not a line,' said Sheila. 'Really, it's very wrong of him to keep us all in suspense like this. If he has failed, surely he could have told us. We're not children.'

Mrs. Evans overheard her. 'My sister knows Mr. Graham better than I do,' she whispered; 'but I imagine that with him no news means good news.'

Arthur Manderson was engaged in pointing out the barristers to Sir Daniel Wilson. 'No, Harlech hasn't turned up yet. That youngster with the long chin is Thesiger, our junior counsel—a clever youth, so they say. The man with the face like a bulldog is Culloch; he's leader for the Director of Public Prosecutions. He's a hard-headed, merciless Scot and he looks it. The man with a silly smile on his face is Parminter-Jones, his junior. He's not such a fool as he looks. Of course, you know the judge.'

'No,' said Sir Daniel. 'Who is he?'

'Anstey. I used to play bridge with him when he was in practice at the bar, and he played a damned poor hand. But he's a decent, fair-minded sort of man, I believe.'

He was leading Sir Daniel into an undiscovered country. The worthy man had never dreamed that men in wigs and gowns could be ordinary mortals with heads and hearts. He shivered slightly when he caught the eye of the man with the bulldog face.

'Ah, here comes our man, Harlech!' A fresh-coloured, confident little man shouldered his way to a seat next to his junior. He nodded and smiled to his opponent and appeared to have said something facetious to him, for the other grinned. This was a shock to Sir Daniel, who thought it scarcely decent that two men, who would soon be at grips for a man's life, should be on speaking terms. They seemed strangely insensible to the solemnity of the occasion. 'Is Harlech a good man?' he whispered.

'One of the best. You should hear some of his after-dinner stories.'

'I meant—is he a good counsel?'

'He's a wonderful man with juries. If I were on my trial for murder I'd have Harlech every time. The judges like him.'

'Does he know this judge?'

'Gad, they're as thick as thieves!' Sir Daniel began to feel more hopeful.

The little band of grand jurymen again made their appearance with bills, but the name of Michael Elliot was not called.

'They're a long time,' whispered Sir Daniel.

'That means that the grand jury is having up the witnesses. They may take all day. That's all to the good. They are pitching in these true bills against the small fry just to give the judge something to do.'

But the grand jury did not take all day. The gallery door opened and the whole thirty of them trooped in behind their foreman, who dropped a bill into the landing-net. In the same routine voice the clerk announced that a true bill had been found against Michael Elliot for wilful murder. The judge leaned over his desk and the clerk rose from his seat to confer with him. They glanced at the clock. In the case then being dealt with all the witnesses for the prosecution had been heard. The prisoner had declined to go into the witness-box; the judge had summed up and the jury were consulting without leaving the box. Presently the foreman stood up to announce a verdict of 'Guilty'. The judge was consulting his grey confidential calendar in which the delinquent's previous convictions were set out in manuscript. There was a damning array of them, and the sentence of twelve months seemed to the man himself so far below what he had expected that he thanked the judge warmly before leaving the dock. The court adjourned for luncheon.

Sir Daniel carried off his party to the Queen's Hotel, where he had reserved a private room. Mrs. Evans made a brave attempt to appear cheerful, Manderson seconding her, but the hearts of the others were too full of sickening anxiety to make conversation easy. Dorothy had visions of her hero disappearing down the dock stairs like those other wretches, but with a shameful death before him. They were back in their places in court within the hour.

'Michael Elliot!' called the clerk of assize. The court was hushed in expectancy. It had not long to wait. Michael appeared at the dock rail quite suddenly. He was pallid and thin, but he faced the court with a quiet confidence that made itself felt. The clerk read the charge. 'Do you plead "Guilty" or "Not guilty?"'

'Not guilty.' The words were spoken very quietly, and Michael's eyes wandered round the court—to the box where the jurymen were assembling to be sworn; to the crowded benches of the reporters, on which two were busy sketching him; to the judge; to the wigs of the counsel below him; to the bench below the clerk of assize where his friends were sitting. He recognized them, smiling recognition on Mrs. Evans and her sister, and then dwelt upon the drooping head of Dorothy, on which he seemed to lavish all the tenderness that was in him. Once she looked up timidly, caught his eye, and then averted hers lest he should see the tears that dimmed them. Her presence seemed to give him courage.

Culloch was on his feet opening his case to the jury. With cold and merciless skill he forged link after link of the chain of circumstantial evidence that before had impressed the coroner's jury. It seemed to Sir Daniel an unanswerable case and he was startled to see a smile on the face of the defending counsel when Hosking put a pencilled note into his hand. What was there to smile about? But Hosking had written but three words: 'No fresh evidence!'

The two doctors were called; they repeated the evidence they had given at the inquest and were not cross-examined. The next witness was William Endicott. He, too, repeated his former evidence, but Mr. Parminter-Jones asked him one additional question. 'When the deceased lady ordered you to destroy the will, she seemed to be very much incensed against her nephew, the prisoner?'

'I cannot say. She seemed determined to revoke her will made in his favour.' Counsel sat down and Harlech rose to cross-examine.

'To your knowledge, Mr. Endicott, is that will in existence?'

'It is.'

'And you, as executor, are taking steps to prove it.'

'Yes.'

'You left that will in her room when you came away and she lived for two days afterwards?'

'Yes.'

'You have been her legal adviser for some years? Do you know whether she was satisfied with the way in which her estate accounts were kept?'

'She was not.'

'Who kept those accounts?'

'Captain Elliot.'

'The prisoner's father?'

'Yes.'

Harlech sat down and William Judd was called.

Judd had learned that it was imprudent to appear to be an unwilling witness. He stepped into the box, outwardly impassive but alert, as all good butlers should be. He seemed quite eager to give the evidence that had had to be dragged out of him at the inquest.

'Now, about that metal flask. It came by post?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Addressed to Michael Elliot?'

'There was no Christian name, sir—just Mr. Elliot.'

'How did you know what was in the parcel?'

'I couldn't help knowing, sir. I saw Mr. Elliot open it.'

'Did he say anything?'

'Yes, sir. He was rather short with me.'

'You mean, he didn't like you coming in when he was opening it?'

'I thought that was the reason, sir.'

'Was he given to being short-tempered with you?'

'Oh, no, sir. He was always pleasant to us members of the household.'

Mr. Parminter-Jones resumed his seat, well-pleased with himself, and Mr. Harlech rose. He was observed to hitch his gown up on his shoulder. Arthur Manderson touched Sir Daniel on the knee. 'Did you see him hitch up his gown? That's his regular trick when he thinks that he's going to score a point.'

'You have been butler at Broad Clyst for years?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Was the key that was always in the lock of Michael Elliot's cupboard the only key in the house that fitted that lock?'

'No, sir. Other keys fitted it.'

'What other keys?'

'The key of the Blue Room where Mr. Manderson slept and the key of a gentleman who visited the house as well. It was quite a common lock.'

'So that, with one of these other keys, any one could have hidden that metal flask in Michael Elliot's cupboard?'

'Yes, sir; they could.'

'I think, Judd, that the deceased lady had so high an opinion of you that she left you a legacy?'

'Yes, sir.'

'In both her wills?'

'So I understand, sir.'

'Thank you.'

Sir Daniel noticed the slightest sign of concern on the face of the prosecuting counsel, but Mr. Culloch did not rise to re-examine.

Deborah Dawkins ascended the steps of the witness-box in a state of tremulous agitation. She seemed to think that the dark deed she had meditated on that fateful night of the inquest, when she had gone will-stealing, would be dragged into the light of day. She kissed the book audibly, and prepared to meet her doom. Her replies to Mr. Parminter-Jones's questions, put in the most conciliatory manner, were almost inaudible, but they bore out the evidence which she had already given. Mr. Harlech rose.

'You have been in the late Miss Marjoribanks's service for years as her maid?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And when she was ill you nursed her?'

'Well, sir——'

Harlech waved his hand. 'I don't mean that you were a trained nurse, but you did little personal services for her, and so on?'

'Oh, yes, sir.'

'She was very fond of her nephew, was she not?'

'Oh, yes, sir—and he of her. It was beautiful to see them together.'

'So that it was quite natural that she should wish to take her medicine from him?'

'Oh, yes, sir. She seemed to want him to give it to her.'

'Where was that will put, Miss Dawkins?'

'In the drawer of the writing-table, sir.'

'And where was it afterwards found?'

'In the card-table.'

'Exactly, the card-table that she had close to her bedside?'

'Yes, sir, but——'

Mr. Harlech held up a fat white hand and repeated, 'In the card-table by her bedside. You never heard her speak of destroying that will?'

'Oh, no, sir.'

'On the contrary, she told you to put it into the drawer, didn't she?'

'Yes, sir.'

Harlech resumed his seat slowly, with a satisfied smile directed at the jury. Mr. Culloch rose to re-examine.

'For the last two days of her illness was anyone except the prisoner and yourself alone in the room with the deceased?'

'No, sir.'

'And no one but the prisoner administered the medicine to her?'

'No, sir.'

'He brought the medicine bottles from his own room to give her the dose and took the bottles back with him?'

'Yes, sir.' Dawkins gulped down a sob.

'Thank you, Miss Dawkins,' said Culloch, with a sidelong glance at the jury.

It was past six o'clock. 'Is that your last witness, Mr. Culloch?' inquired the judge.

'Yes, my lord.'

'Then I think we will adjourn until tomorrow.'

CHAPTER XXIII.

SIR DANIEL had insisted on carrying off Hosking to Tor Park to spend the night and talk things over after dinner. When they were left alone, Hosking spoke out.

'No, Sir Daniel, it is no good my giving you fictitious hopes. I tried again this afternoon to induce Michael to go into the box, or at any rate, to take me, his solicitor, into his full confidence. But to no purpose. Without his evidence or the production of this man, Naburn, we have really nothing to put before the jury. We can trust only to such effect as Harlech can produce on a west country jury when he comes to address them.'

'You've heard nothing from Graham?'

'Not a word. And it's too late now to hope for it. I shall have something to say to him when he does come back. He might, at least, have kept us posted. Harlech is going on a fishing excursion to-morrow morning——' Sir Daniel's eyes bulged.

'A fishing excursion in the middle of a trial?'

'I beg your pardon for the expression. He is going to call the housemaid at Broad Clyst, who was engaged to marry the missing man, Naburn, and see whether he can get anything out of her that favours the defence. I'm glad to say that Mrs. Evans has kindly consented to keep the girl at her house with her sister to-night, and put some courage into her.'

'So you've very little hope, Mr. Hosking?'

'It's too much to say that. A case is never lost before it's finished, and Harlech has won more apparently hopeless cases than any other man at the Bar. But I confess that I'm very anxious.'

The judge took his seat at ten next morning. The court was crowded to suffocation. People were thronging the corridor, greedy for news that was passed from mouth to mouth from those standing nearest to the door. The clerk of assize alone behaved like a machine. 'Michael Elliot,' he called.

Michael, paler even than yesterday, appeared in the dock. This time it was as if Destiny had built a wall about him, shutting out the world. He did not even glance at his friends sitting at the table facing him.

Mr. Thesiger rose to call Ellen Swan and Ellen climbed into the witness-box, looking like a frightened animal. Thesiger knew this type of witness and was soothing and reassuring in his tone. 'You are housemaid, I think, at Broad Clyst?'

Her lips formed the affirmative, but no sound came from them.

'Now, Miss Swan, we want you to answer a few questions. There's nothing to be alarmed about. You're engaged to be married, I think, to Naburn, who is valet to Captain Elliot at Broad Clyst?'

'Yes, sir.'

'He's away, isn't he?'

'Yes, sir.' Thesiger hurried on to the next question, seeing that his witness was showing premonitory symptoms of tears.

'He had a metal flask, hadn't he? A little white metal flask with a screw top—like this?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Will you take the flask in your hand?'

Ellen recoiled as the usher handed it to her, as if she thought that it was red hot.

'Don't be afraid of it, Miss Swan. Just tell me if that isn't the flask that Mr. Naburn had.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You recognize it as his?' said the judge.

Ellen started as if she had been stung.

'Yes, sir,' she sobbed.

'You used to do the bedrooms at Broad Clyst. Do you remember finding a piece of brown paper in one of the bedrooms, and using it to wrap up some doll's clothes that you made?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Is this the piece of paper?' Ellen was now beyond looking at anything.

'Yes, sir.'

'What is this paper, Mr. Thesiger?' asked the judge.

'It is the wrapper, my lord, in which the flask came by post. It has the address upon it.'

The usher handed it to the judge, who read the address aloud: '"Mr. Elliot, Esq., Broad Clyst." Go on, Mr. Thesiger.'

'May I see the paper, my lord?' asked Culloch, who examined it with his junior, and tossed it back to Thesiger.

'Do you remember, Miss Swan, in which room you found this piece of paper?'

Ellen burst into tears and blurted out in a shrill voice, 'I found it in the waste-paper basket in the Captain's room.'

'You're sure that you didn't find it in Mr. Michael's room?'

'Yes, sir, because I heard Miss Peggy's voice downstairs, and you can't hear anything from Mr. Michael's room.'

'So you're quite certain?'

'Quite certain, sir.'

Thesiger sat down and Culloch rose to cross-examine. A subtle instinct told Ellen that she had fallen among thieves. She shut up like an oyster.

'Naburn was valet, you say. I suppose he valeted other people besides Captain Elliot.'

'Only Mr. Michael, sir.'

'And sometimes he had other duties?'

'He used to drive the car, sir, when Mr. Michael wasn't driving it.'

'Oh, so Mr. Michael and Naburn took it in turns to drive the car?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Was Naburn once soldier-servant to Captain Elliot?

'Yes, sir, he was.'

'And he would know the proper way to address a parcel to an officer?'

'Yes, sir.'

'He would have addressed it "Captain Elliot" if he had intended it for the Captain, wouldn't he? Not "Mr. Elliot, Esq."?'

'No, sir, he knew how to address gentlemen.'

'Thank you.' Mr. Culloch sat down, expecting another witness for the defence, but since no move was made the judge intervened.

'Are you going to call the prisoner?' he asked, and a voice from the dock itself replied, 'No, my lord, I do not wish to give evidence.'

At this moment there was a disturbance at the door. One or two men were pushed into the court from the corridor. 'Silence,' cried the usher, rising to his feet. But the disturbance grew worse. A man put his arm across the door to maintain his position and was roughly thrust aside. The usher hurried forward. One or two of the Press-men stood up to get a better view. The disturbance was degenerating into a football scrum. The solicitors' clerks congregated in the alleyway reeled against the woodwork before a force driving through them, and suddenly there stood disclosed to Sheila's astonished gaze the figure of Peter Graham, a little heated and dishevelled, but happy and at ease.

'Where are you shoving to?' exclaimed an infuriated solicitor's clerk.

'Into the court,' said Peter, all too audibly. 'Sorry I disturbed you. Where's Mr. Hosking?' The man made no answer but a growl, but Hosking was beckoning to Peter. He made room for him on the bench between Harlech and himself. The three heads went together. It was clear that something was about to happen. Peter, who could never talk in whispers was heard to say, 'Yes, I've got them here; they're in cold storage outside.'

'My lord,'—Mr. Harlech, K.C., was on his feet; he was observed to hitch his silk gown up on his shoulder—'I have two material witnesses for the defence. They have only just arrived and their proof has not been taken. May I ask your lordship to adjourn the case for fifteen minutes?'

The judge consulted his clerk. 'Yes, we will call on another case in the meantime, Mr. Harlech.' A shop-breaker took Michael's place in the dock, and Peter left the court without a word to the friends who had been so anxiously awaiting him.

'What's it all mean?' asked Dorothy. 'Who are the witnesses?'

'We must wait and see,' cried Mrs. Evans, almost speechless with joy. 'I told you that we must not lose all hope.' But Sheila said nothing.

Those fifteen minutes seemed interminable. The judge had disposed of the shop-breaker, and, understanding from the usher that the defence were almost ready to continue, he left the Bench for his private room, and conversation in the court-room became general. Suddenly it was hushed; a lane was forming in the gangway; Harlech and his junior, followed by Hosking, were seen making their way to their seats. Peter Graham went straight to the seats occupied by his friends, and halted before Sheila. Mrs. Evans made room for him to sit beside them. 'What have you been doing?' she said.

'We're not allowed to talk in court,' said Peter.

Messages had been sent to the judge and to Culloch. 'Silence in court,' shouted the usher; the judge took his seat. It was a very modest preface to the drama that was to follow.

Thesiger rose and called 'Sarah Wilkins'. A pleasant-looking woman came into court and was sworn. In reply to Thesiger she said that she was a widow, that her maiden name was Naburn, and that her brother had been employed at Broad Clyst. The brown paper wrapper was handed to her and she was asked in whose handwriting the address was written.

'It's mine, sir.'

'Will you tell the jury how you came to write this address?'

'Yes, sir. My brother used to drop in to see me at my little place in Plymouth. One day—it was about three weeks ago—he came in and said that the man that was going to let that public-house to him that he was going to take was waiting for him down the road and he had to get a parcel off to the Captain.'

'Captain Elliot, you mean?'

'Yes, sir, we always call him "the Captain." He'd got the parcel all tied up ready, but he hadn't time to go round to the post office, and he asked me to address it for him and be sure to send it off the same evening or he'd catch it from the Captain, and he left me a shilling to pay for the stamps.'

'So you addressed it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And that's your handwriting?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you didn't know what was in the parcel?'

'No, sir; it was all tied up.' Thesiger sat down and Mr. Culloch rose menacingly.

'You don't live in a very reputable kind of street, Mrs. Wilkins.'

'Well, sir, it's cheap, and I take people as I find them. I don't bother about what my neighbours do.'

'What made you come forward and give evidence about that parcel?'

'Well, sir, that gentleman'—she pointed her finger at Peter—'came to me and showed me that paper and asked me whether my brother wrote it. When I told him that it was me that wrote it, he asked me to come along and say so to the judge. That's why I came.'

'And your brother told you to address it to the Captain?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then why did you write "Mr. Elliot, Esq."? You don't address officers in the army like that.'

'I beg your pardon, sir, but that's the proper way to address them. An officer's a gentleman, that's why you put "Esquire." When you talk to them you call them "Captain" but when you write to them you put "Esquire."'

'One lives and learns, Mr. Culloch,' said the judge.

'As your lordship pleases,' said Culloch, sitting down. When the laughter had subsided 'Edward Naburn' was called. He looked to the life what he had been—a soldier who had served eighteen years in India. In the court there was a silence that could be felt. After the preliminary questions, Thesiger held up the flask and had it put into Naburn's hand.

'Is that yours?'

'Yes, sir, that's my flask.'

'Did you tell your sister to send it to anyone?'

'Yes, sir, to address it and send it to my master, Captain Elliot.'

'What was inside it?'

'I don't know, sir, except that it was some white powder that he told me to call for in Plymouth.'

'Who gave you the white powder?'

'A man in Pier Street, sir—Number ten it was; he looked like a foreigner. He had the stuff all ready for me when I called.'

'And he put the powder in the flask for you?'

'No, sir, he gave it me in a paper packet, but as I wasn't going back for a day or two, and I was going to send it by post, I turned the powder into my flask.'

'How long have you been in the Captain's service?'

'Ever since I came back from India two years ago and came to see him. He took me into his service then.'

'You were going to buy a public-house in Saltash. Where was the money coming from?'

'From Captain Elliot.'

'Do you mean it was wages?'

Mr. Culloch intervened. 'Are you going to cross-examine your own witness, Mr. Thesiger?'

'I'm going to elicit the truth for the information of the court. May I go on, my lord?'

The judge nodded.

'What was this money, Naburn?'

'Must I answer that question, my lord?' asked the witness, turning to the judge.

'You must.'

'Well, it was for keeping my mouth shut about him.' He pointed to the prisoner.

The court shivered with excitement. 'Do you mean about Michael Elliot?'

'That's not his name. His name's Clark His father was the first husband of Mrs. Elliot. She married the Captain when the boy was a baby and she lived only six months after her second marriage.'

'And Captain Elliot pretended that the prisoner was his own son?'

'Yes, sir, because he knew that there was money coming to him from his aunt, and he meant to get a share of it.'

CHAPTER XXIV.

THESIGER resumed his seat, and since such a witness could not be allowed to go unchallenged, Culloch rose.

'Your orders, you say, were to return with that parcel at once.'

'Yes, sir.'

'How long were you away?'

'Two and a half days, sir.'

'What were you doing all that time?'

'I went to Saltash to look over the little public-house I was going to take when the Captain paid me what he promised.'

'Did he pay you?'

'He hasn't paid me yet, sir.'

'I suppose you don't mind that now? You hope to get the money from some one else?'

'No, sir.'

'Then why have you come here to-day to reveal a secret which you say you were to be paid to keep?'

'Well, sir, it was this way. I went to the inquest, not suspecting anything, and the first thing I hear is that my flask was found in Mr. Michael's cupboard with a lot of poison in it. I thought that they'd trace it to me and arrest me for murder. I didn't know what to do. So I went off on my motor-bike and lay low down in Cornwall. It wasn't till that gentleman found me and told me just how matters stood—that they'd charged Mr. Michael with a crime that he'd never committed—that I said I would come forward and tell the whole truth.'

'You didn't mind blackmailing Captain Elliot?'

'I don't call it blackmail, sir. I never asked him for a penny. He volunteered it all, and if he liked to pay me for doing nothing that was his affair.'

There were no further questions and the court adjourned for luncheon.

Nothing was said to Peter on the way to the hotel. It was not until the door was shut behind the waiter that he was called upon to give an account of his wanderings.

'Where have you been all this time, Mr. Graham?' asked Mrs. Evans.

'In Cornwall. In the filthiest streets in Saltash, dressed like nothing on earth, feeding in sailors' pubs on stuff that turned my stomach—mostly shrimps—looking for Naburn. I spent days on the job. I found the pub that he had been in treaty for; I heard that he'd been there. I believe I must have seen him—only when a gentleman's servant has grown a ten-days' beard and dressed himself in a sailor's jersey and high boots you wouldn't know him from a Bolshie propagandist. At last I ran him to ground through his motor-bike. It wouldn't take the hill in Saltash, and a hairy sailor on a motor-bike seemed incongruous, somehow. I stepped up to him to lend a hand. He was surly and said he didn't want any help. That didn't sound like a Cornish fisherman, and he hadn't got the right accent. So I called him "Naburn" and he turned green through his tan. I led him into the nearest pub for a corpse-reviver and then he found his tongue. But I had to frighten him out of his sea-boots first.'

'How?'

'Oh, by drawing fancy pictures of the Day of Judgment and what they give you for being accessory before the fact when they catch you. I don't think that he would have talked even then, but a county bobby happened to stroll past and I called him in. It was only to offer him a drink, but Naburn thought that it was to give him in charge.'

'Why didn't you write?' asked Sheila severely.

'Because, if I had, you couldn't have left Dorothy in suspense; it might have got round to the servants and thence to Captain Elliot, and the fat would have been in the fire. Besides, until late last night I wasn't sure that I could bring my man to the scratch. That's why.'

'If only Michael had known all that we know now!' sighed Mrs. Evans.

'I think that he will tell everything this afternoon,' said Peter. Hosking was to see him during the adjournment, and from what Naburn told me about the way in which Elliot treated the boy when he was a youngster, I don't fancy that his story will lose anything in the telling.'

'Did he ill-treat him?' asked Dorothy, with round eyes.

'According to Naburn, he used to thrash him within an inch of his life, and Naburn had to intervene. He treated Michael's mother abominably too. If Michael had known that the man was only his stepfather he would never have tried to shield him.'

The door opened to admit Hosking, who saluted the company. 'It's all right,' he said; 'he's going into the box as soon as the court reassembles. He'll be worth hearing. Isn't it time we started? This judge is a stickler for punctuality.' The party hurried off.

They were just in time. The judge had taken his seat: Harlech was on his feet. 'My lord,' he said, 'the prisoner now desires to give evidence.'

The door at the side of the dock was opened, and Michael, with a warder at his heels, walked through the crowded court to the witness-box. There was a subtle change in his demeanour. No longer buoyed by the sense of the sacrifice of self, he had now a grim duty to perform, and his face had taken on a look of stern determination. He was sworn.

'You declined to give evidence yesterday. Will you tell the court why you have changed your mind?'

'Yesterday I was under the impression that Captain Elliot was my father. I knew that I could not give evidence without incriminating him. Now that I know that he is not my father, it becomes my duty to tell the court everything that I know. Shall I go on?'

'Yes,' said the judge: 'tell the jury every thing.'

'My aunt was like a mother to me. We never had any differences that I can remember except once, and that was on the night before she was taken ill. I had told her that I wanted to do something which has nothing whatever to do with this case. She disapproved of it and said that if I did it she would disinherit me. Next morning she was taken ill. The doctor was sent for and her medicine came. It was kept in the little dressing-room, which opened out of her bedroom. Next day I was passing along the corridor; the door of the dressing-room was ajar. In the looking-glass I caught the reflection of the man I supposed then to be my father. He had a small medicine glass in one hand and in the other a white metal flask. I saw him shake some white powder out of the flask into the glass and pour in some of my aunt's medicine from the bottle. He was in the act of emptying the glass back into the bottle when I threw the door wide open and asked him what he was doing. He told me to mind my own business and muttered something about the powder being an unfailing Indian remedy for the heart. I didn't believe him. All my life I have been afraid of him because of his violent temper, but this time I had the courage to assert myself. I snatched the medicine glass from him and flung it far out of the window. After that, I myself took charge of the medicine bottles, administered the medicine myself, and locked up the bottles in the cupboard in my bedroom. My aunt grew worse, and when she died and the doctors spoke of a post-mortem, I refused to allow it because I dreaded the discovery of poison which might be traced to the man I thought was my father. Somehow he must have got to my cupboard. That was why I refused to answer some of the coroner's questions and declined to go into the witness-box in this court.'

'Did you say anything to Captain Elliot after your aunt's death?'

'I did. I spoke to him only once after that dreadful morning. I went to the door of his room and said, "They intend to hold a post-mortem and you know better than I what they'll find." "What do you mean?" he shouted at me. "You know perfectly well what I mean, but I can't give my own father away, and so I shall say nothing. They can do their worst."'

'What did he say to that?'

'I didn't give him a chance to speak. I shut the door and went up to my own room.'

'The parcel containing the flask came addressed to you and you opened it?'

'I did and I realized at once that it was not intended for me, but must be for Captain Elliot. I knew from old experience how furious he would be when I had opened his parcel, so I ran upstairs with it, tied it up again and put it in his room.'

'Did you know what it contained?'

'No. I never suspected anything wrong until I saw my stepfather pouring powder out of the flask into the medicine.'

'And you conceived it to be your duty to keep this vital knowledge to yourself because it concerned your father?'

'Well, of course,' said Michael.

Thesiger sat down. The counsel for the Crown were conversing in low tones with the representative of the Director of Public Prosecutions. The judge spoke.

'Do you propose to cross-examine this witness, Mr. Culloch, or would you prefer that I should put the case to the jury?'

Culloch was too old a bird to mistake the suggestion thus conveyed to him. It meant that the judge had made up his mind.

'As your lordship pleases,' he replied.

The judge turned to the jury. 'You have had to listen to a very remarkable case—a case resting on circumstantial evidence alone, and a strong case as far as circumstantial evidence goes. I cannot remember any instance, in an experience of many years, of evidence for the defence brought forward dramatically at the eleventh hour, which has so entirely changed the complexion of the circumstantial evidence on which the prosecution relied.' He went on to review the evidence in detail, and continued, 'It is for you to say whether this new evidence has convinced you; whether you are satisfied that an innocent man would be content to allow himself to be condemned for wilful murder out of a sense of duty to shield the man whom he believed to be his father. He has an explanation for all the adverse evidence adduced against him. It is for you to say whether you believe his explanations. If you do you have only one duty to discharge—to record a verdict of "Not guilty." Gentlemen, consider your verdict.'

While the judge was speaking Culloch had made a signal to the chief constable, who leaned over the table to speak to him. They seemed to be consulting on some grave matter, for after a few words the chief constable hurried out of court.

The jury did not leave the box. The foreman swung round in his seat; messages were passed to him from his fellow-jurymen in the back row. He stood up, and in reply to the formal question, he said, 'Not guilty.'

There was a shrill cry from the back row of the gallery. 'Three cheers for Mr. Michael!'

'Silence there!' shouted the scandalized usher.

'Turn that man out!' A door banged.

'Who was that?' asked the clerk of assize of the police inspector.

'It was only the footman from Broad Clyst.' This information was conveyed to the judge, who smiled indulgently.

After directing that the prisoner be discharged the judge left the bench. Press-men were hurrying out to the telegraph office; Michael stepped from the dock to find his friends about him and a hundred hands stretched out in congratulation. There was a lump in his throat.

'Let's get out of this,' said Peter. 'We'll ask the clerk to give us the run of the judge's private door.'

It was well that they did so and that a friendly police sergeant was able to let them out into a back street, for a huge crowd had collected in the square to give Michael a public ovation. As they went by devious ways to the Queen's Hotel, where Sir Daniel had cars waiting for them, Peter said, 'Did you see the chief constable go out? He'll be too late.'

'Too late for what?' asked Sheila.

'He was going to lay Captain Elliot by the heels. The man's either bolted already or he's anticipated the hangman; you'll see.'

At that moment a newsboy passed them, shouting, 'Suicide of well-known army officer. Shot himself in Exeter Hotel!' Peter stopped him, bought the paper, glanced at it, and crumpled it up.

'What is it?' asked Sheila.

'What I thought. Don't let us spoil these first moments for that young couple ahead by telling them. They'll hear it soon enough. After all, it was the best solution. That man was no loss to the world. Think of Michael sacrificing himself for a creature like that!'

'I think that Michael was a saint,' said Mrs. Evans.

'Do you? I think that he was a fool—with a prefix not to be used before ladies. Think of the trouble he might have saved us all, and think of my poor digestion—ruined by shrimps in Saltash.'

CHAPTER XXV.

THE servants had returned hungry. They were wondering what cheer Mrs. Woolston had provided for them. They found the sibyl brooding over the table laid for the evening meal. The younger servants ran to her with the news.

'I knew it,' she said. 'I didn't want anyone to tell me that Mr. Michael was free.'

'Well, then, Mrs. Woolston,' said Robert. 'Let me tell you something that you didn't know—something after your own heart—another death—the Captain's gone and shot himself.'

'It's Fate,' said the sibyl solemnly.

'It was that magpie you saw,' said Robert.

It was no time for tragic subjects. Judd appeared with a tray of glasses and a bottle of old port. 'Mr. Michael told me that I was to bring out a bottle of the best wine in the cellar, so that we could drink his health in style. It's 1840 port.'

'Hooray!' shouted Robert.

'You'll say that once too often, young man—giving three cheers before the judge. I saw the police inspector going up after you. If he'd caught you before you were chucked out they'd have arrested you for contempt of court.'

'That's all right. The old bird on the bench—meaning the judge, Miss Dawkins—was very near cheering himself.'

The glasses were filled and circulated. Judd took his place at the foot of the table and raised his glass. 'Here's long life and health to Mr. Michael, the Squire of Broad Clyst.'

Echoing the toast, they emptied their glasses. The sibyl wiped away a tear. Toasts of any kind, or perhaps the liquor that went with them, always had this effect upon her.

'Ellen's a dark horse, Mrs. Woolston,' said Robert. 'Do you know, she kept the most important bit of evidence of the lot up her sleeve. She never told any of us that that metal flask belonged to Naburn.'

'The metal flask belonged to Naburn?' exclaimed the sibyl, thunderstruck. 'Did he commit the murder, then?'

Ellen was in tears again.

'No, Mrs. Woolston,' said Judd. 'And you, Robert, let bygones be bygones on a happy evening like tills.'

'You know,' said Robert confidentially, 'I'm sure my brother always thought it was the Captain, but he wouldn't mention no names.'

Dawkins related the events of the trial to Mrs. Woolston while Judd was refilling the glasses.

'I've one more toast to give—Miss Sheila Carey. God bless her!'

Theirs not to reason why. They murmured the name and drank. Only Mrs. Woolston appeared to be puzzled. 'Is Mr. Michael going to marry her, then? I thought it was Miss Wilson. Miss Carey's a fine-looking girl though, only the change seems sudden-like to me.'

'Who talked of marrying?' said Judd, scandalized. 'You can drink people's health without making them marry.'

At that moment the subject of the toast was in an agony lest her sister, who was relating to Peter Graham how the lost will was found again, should betray to that young man any suspicion of the part she had played in it. Michael and Dorothy were listening.

'So Arthur Manderson was actually owner of Broad Clyst for several days,' said Michael. 'Who found the will?'

'He found it himself in the card-table.'

'In that chippendale card-table that used to be upstairs? Who could have put it in that? Not Aunt Frances; she could never open it. She had to send for Dawkins or me whenever she wanted to play.'

Sheila felt that Peter's eyes as well as her sister's were on her. She broke the thread. 'Who first thought of auditing the accounts, Peter? Was it you?'

'No. Give the devil his due—it was Hosking.'

'I wonder what made him think of it.'

'He revealed his mental processes after he had been to see Endicott. "I can't swallow that yarn of Naburn about the legacy that Captain Elliot is arranging for him. I believe that it's hush money," he said. Elliot couldn't afford to pay hush money out of his own pocket. He must have stolen it from some one. He collected Miss Marjoribanks's rents. Q.E.D. Did Manderson take it well when he found that will, Mrs. Evans?'

'Very well, indeed. Didn't you think so, Sheila?'

There was no time for a reply. The door opened and Arthur Manderson himself was announced. 'We were talking of angels,' murmured Peter Graham.

'Come and sit here,' said Mrs. Evans, making room for him on the divan beside her. 'How nice of you to come when you must be overwhelmed with work.'

'I couldn't go back to town without saying good-bye, and I am leaving early to-morrow. I've had a worrying time with that lawyer, Mr. Endicott, about that silly business of the will. He wanted me to stand up for what he called my legal rights and contest the validity of the second will on the ground that Cousin Frances meant to revoke it. He was terribly disappointed when I told him that I'd do nothing of the sort, and that if he tried to prove the will made in my favour I should make over the property as a free gift to Michael and refuse to pay his costs.'

'Are you serious?'

'Of course I am, but don't think that I deserve any credit. The fact is, I'm not cut out for the life of a country gentleman—it would bore me stiff; and as to litigation in a probate action, my blood runs cold at the mere thought of it.'

'But I can't let you do this,' exclaimed Michael, who had turned round to listen.

'You have no choice, my dear boy. You'll take the property and I'll take my legacy under the second will, and we'll let these lawyer fellows go hang.'

The door opened and Peggy, attired in a pink dressing-gown, fresh from her bath, dashed into the room. She stopped and surveyed the company; then made straight for Michael and held up her face to be kissed.

'I'm glad you're back, Michael. Now you can make the doll's chair for Margaret.' She became conscious of her social duties. 'While you've been away, Michael, I've got a new friend—Cousin Peter. Look! You don't know him.'

'Yes, I do,' said Michael. 'He's my good friend, too.' There was a light of gratitude in his eyes as they followed Peggy's finger.

'Auntie Sheila and I like him awfully much. Don't we, Auntie Sheila?'

'Do you like me awfully much?' murmured Peter in a tone that only Sheila could hear.

'At times,' she replied in the same tone.

THE END

Roy Glashan's Library
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