The Secret of the Quarry (Detective Story serial)/Part 1

HE senior clerk to the Barford, England, law firm of Eldrick & Pascoe was Linford Pratt. As a young man earnestly desirous to get on in life by hook or by crook, he had no objection whatever to crookedness, so long as it could be performed in safety and secrecy. During one of his periodical visits to the town reference library he had lighted on a maxim of that other unscrupulous person, Prince Talleyrand, which had pleased him greatly.

“With time and patience,” said Talleyrand, “the mulberry leaf is turned into satin.” This seemed to Linford to be wisdom. Henceforth he regarded himself as a mulberry leaf which his own wit and skill must transfer into satin. He could find the patience, and he had the time, but it would give him great happiness if opportunity came along to help in the work. In everyday language Linford Pratt wanted a chance.

If Pratt had only known it, as he stood in the outer office at Eldrick & Pascoe's at the end of a certain winter afternoon, opportunity was slowly climbing the staircase outside. Pratt was alone; the partners, the other clerks, and the office boy had gone. In another minute Pratt would have gone, too, for he was only looking round before locking up for the night. Then an old man, Antony Bartle, opened the door, pushed in a queer, wrinkled face, and asked in a quavering voice if anybody was in.

“I'm in, Mr. Bartle,” answered Pratt, turning up a gas jet which he had just lowered. “Come in, sir. What can I do for you?”

Antony Bartle came in, sneezing and coughing. He was a very, very old man, feeble and bent, with little that looked alive about him but his bright, alert eyes. Everybody knew him. He was one of the institutions of Barford, as well known as the town hall or the parish church. For fifty years he had kept a secondhand bookshop in Quagg Alley, the narrow passageway which connected Market Street with Beck Street. It was not by any means a common or ordinary secondhand bookshop; its proprietor styled himself an antiquarian bookseller, and he had a reputation in two continents and dealt with millionaire buyers and virtuosos, in both. Eldick & Pascoe—which term included Linford Pratt—knew all about Antony Bartle, being his legal advisers; his will was safely deposited in their keeping, and Pratt had been one of the attesting witnesses.

The old man, having slowly walked into the outer office, leaned against a table, panting a little. Pratt hastened to open an inner door.

“Come into Mr. Eldrick's room, Mr. Bartle,” he said. “There's a nice easy-chair there—come and sit down in it. Those stairs are a bit trying, aren't they? I often wish we were on the ground floor.”

“There's a nasty fog coming on outside,” said Bartle after a fit of coughing. “It gets on my lungs and then it makes my heart bad. Mr. Eldrick in?”

“Gone,” replied Pratt. “All gone, Mr. Bartle, only me here.”

“You'll do,” answered the old bookseller. “You're as good as they are.” He leaned forward from the easy-chair and tapped the clerk's arm with a long, clawlike finger. “I say,” he continued, with a smile that was suggestive of a pleased satisfaction, “I've had a find!”

“Oh!” responded Pratt. “One of your rare books, Mr. Bartle?”

“No,” said Bartle. “No, but I've found something! Not half an hour ago. Came straight here with it. Matter for lawyers, of course.”

“Yes,” said Pratt inquiringly. “And what may it be?”

He was expecting the visitor to produce something, but the old man leaned forward, and dug his fingers once more into the clerk's sleeve.

“I say!” he whispered. “You remember John Mallathorpe and the affair of the mill?”

“Of course I do,” answered Pratt promptly. “Couldn't very well forget it, or him.”

He let his mind go back for the moment to an affair which had provided Barford and the neighborhood with a nine day's sensation. One winter morning, just two years previously, Mr. John Mallathorpe, one of the best-known manufacturers and richest men of the town, had been killed by the falling of his own mill chimney. The condition of the chimney had been doubtful for some time; experts had been examining it for several days. At the moment of the catastrophe, Mallathorpe himself, some of his principal managers, and a couple of professional steeple jacks were gathered at its base, consulting on a report. The great hundred-foot structure above them had collapsed without the slightest warning; Mallathorpe, his principal manager, and his cashier had been killed on the spot; two other bystanders had subsequently died from injuries received. No such accident had occurred in Barford, nor in the surrounding manufacturing district for many years, and there had been much interest in it, for, according to the expert's conclusions, the chimney was in no immediate danger. Other mill owners had begun to examine their chimneys, and for many weeks Barford folk had talked of little else than the danger of living in the shadows of these great masses of masonry.

But there had soon been something else to talk of. It sprang out of the accident, and it was of particular interest to persons who, like Linford Pratt, were of the legal profession. John Mallathorpe, so far as anybody knew or could ascertain, had died intestate. No lawyer in the town had ever made a will for him. No one had ever heard that he had ever made a will for himself. There was no will. Drastic search of his safes, his desks, his drawers revealed nothing, not even a memorandum. No friend of his had ever heard him mention a will. He had always been something of a queer man and a confirmed bachelor. The only relatives he had in the world were his sister-in-law, the widow of his deceased younger brother, and her two children, a son and a daughter. And, as soon as he was dead and it was plain that he had died intestate, they put in their claim to his property.

John Mallathorpe had left a handsome property. He had been making money all his life. His business was a considerable one—he employed two thousand work people. His average annual profits from his mills was reckoned in the twenty thousands. Some years before his death he had bought one of the finest estates in the neighborhood. Normandale Grange, a beautiful old house, was set amidst charming and romantic scenery in a valley, which, though within twelve miles of Barford, might have been in the heart of the Highlands. Therefore it was no small thing that Mrs. Richard Mallathorpe and her two children laid claim to. Up to the time of John Mallathorpe's death they had lived in very humble fashion—lived indeed, on an allowance from their wealthy kinsman—for Richard Mallathorpe had been as much of a waster as his brother had been a money getter. And there was no withstanding their claim, when it was finally decided that John Mallathorpe had died intestate—no withstanding at any rate the claim of the nephew and niece. The nephew had taken all the real estate, and he and his sister had shared the personal property. For some months they and their mother had been safely installed at Normandale Grange and were in full possession of the dead man's wealth and business.

All this flashed through Linford Pratt's mind in a few seconds—he knew all the story. “Of course,” he repeated, looking thoughtfully at the old bookseller, “not the sort of thing one does forget in a hurry, Mr. Bartle. What of it?”

“Well, you know, too, no doubt, that the late Mr. John Mallathorpe was a bit—only a bit—of a book collector—collected books and pamphlets relating to this district?”

“I've heard of it,” answered the clerk.

“He had that collection in his private room at the mill,” continued the old bookseller, “and when the new folks took hold I persuaded them to sell it to me. There wasn't such a lot—maybe a hundred volumes altogether—but I wanted what there was. And, as they were of no interest to them, they sold 'em. That's some months ago. I put all the books in a corner and I never really examined them until this very afternoon. Then, by this afternoon's post, I got a letter from a Barford man, who's now out in America. He wanted to know if I could supply him with a nice copy of Hopkinson's 'History of Barford.' I knew there was one in that Mallathorpe collection, so I got it out and examined it. And in the pocket inside, which holds a map, I found—what d'ye think?”

“Couldn't say,” replied Pratt. He was still thinking of his dinner and an important engagement to follow it.

The old bookseller leaned nearer across the corner of the desk. “I found John Mallathorpe's will!” he whispered. “His—will!”

Linford Pratt jumped out of his chair.

“No!” he said. “No! John Mallathorpe's will! His will?”

“Made the very day on which he died,” answered Bartle, nodding emphatically. “Queer, wasn't it? He might have had some premonition, eh?”

Pratt sat down again. “Where is it?” he asked.

“Here in my pocket,” replied the old bookseller, tapping his rusty coat. “Oh, it's all right, I assure you. All duly made out, signed, and witnessed—everything in order.”

“Let's see it,” said Pratt eagerly.

“Well, I've no objection. I know you, of course,” answered Bartle, “but I'd rather show it first to Mr. Eldrick. Couldn't you telephone up to his house and ask him to run back here?”

“Certainly,” replied Pratt. “He mayn't be there, though. But I can try. You haven't shown it to anybody else?”

“Neither shown it to anybody, nor mentioned it to a soul,” said Bartle. “I tell you it's not much more than half an hour since I found it. It's not a long document. Do you know how it is that it's never come out?” he went on, turning eagerly to Pratt, who had risen again. “It's easily explained. The will's witnessed by those two men who were killed at the same time as John Mallathorpe! So, of course, there was nobody to say that it was in existence. My notion is that he and those two men—Gaukrodger and Marshall, his manager and cashier—had signed it not long before the accident, and that Mallathorpe had popped it into the pocket of that book before going out into the yard, eh? But see if you can get Mr. Eldrick down here, and we'll read it together. And I say, this office seems uncommonly stuffy; can you open the window a bit? I feel oppressed.”

Pratt opened a window which looked out on the street. He glanced at the old man for a moment, and saw that his face, always pallid, was even paler than usual.

“You've been talking too much,” he said. “Rest yourself, Mr. Bartle, while I ring up Mr. Eldrick's house. If he isn't there, I'll try the club. He often turns in there for an hour before going home.”

The telephone bell rang; Eldrick had not yet reached his house. Pratt got on to the club; Eldrick had not been there. He rang off and went back to the private room.

“Can't get hold of him, Mr. Bartle,” he began as he closed the door. “He's not at home and he's not at the club. I say, you might as well let me have a look at”

Pratt suddenly stopped. There was a strange silence in the room; the old man's wheezy breathing was no longer heard. The clerk moved forward quickly and looked round the high back of the chair.

He knew at once what had happened—knew that old Bartle was dead before he laid a finger on the wasted hand, which had dropped helplessly at his side. He had evidently died without a sound or a movement—died as quietly as he would have gone to sleep.

He waited a moment, listening in silence. Then, without hesitation, and with fingers that remained as steady as if nothing had happened, he unbuttoned Antony Bartle's coat and drew a folded paper from its inner pocket.

S quietly and composedly as if he were discharging the most ordinary of his daily duties, Pratt unfolded the document and went close to the solitary gas jet above Eldrick's desk. What he held in his hand was a half sheet of ruled foolscap paper, closely covered with writing, which he at once recognized as that of the late John Mallathorpe.

“Made it himself!” muttered Pratt. “Um! Looks as if he wanted to keep the terms secret. Well”

He read the will through rapidly, but with care, murmuring the phraseology half aloud.

Then followed the date of the instrument and John Mallathorpe's signature. It was witnessed by Henry Gaukrodger, his manager, and Charles Watson Marshall, his cashier.

As the last words left his lips Pratt carefully folded up the will, slipped it into an inner pocket of his coat, and firmly buttoned the coat across his chest. Then, without so much as a glance at the dead man, he left the room and again sought the telephone. When he came out he heard steps coming up the staircase, and, looking over the banisters, he saw the senior partner, Eldrick.

“I hear you've been ringing me up at the club, Pratt,” he said. “What is it?”

Pratt waited until Eldrick had come up to the landing. Then he pointed to the door of the private room and shook his head.

“It's old Mr. Bartle, sir,” he whispered. “He's in your room there—dead!”

“Dead!” exclaimed Eldrick. “Dead!”

Pratt shook his head again. “He came up not so long after you'd gone, sir,” he said. “Everybody had gone but me—I was just going. Wanted to see you about something. I don't know what. He was very tottery when he came in, complained of the stairs and the fog. I took him into your room to sit down in the easy-chair. And he died straight off. Just,” concluded Pratt, “just as if he was going quietly to sleep!”

“You're sure he's dead, not fainting?” asked Eldrick.

“He's dead, sir—quite dead,” replied Pratt. “I've rung up Doctor Melrose—he'll be here in a minute or two—and the police, as well. Will you look at him, sir?”

Eldrick silently motioned his clerk to open the door; together they walked into the room. And Eldrick looked at the quiet figure and worn face and knew that Pratt was right.

“Poor old chap!” he murmured, touching one of the thin hands. “He was a fine man in his time, Pratt—clever man! And he was very, very old, one of the oldest men in Barford. Well, we must wire to his grandson, Mr. Bartle Collingwood. You'll find his address in the book, He's the only relative the old fellow had.”

“Comes in for everything, doesn't he, sir?” asked Pratt, as he took an address book from the desk and picked up a sheaf of telegram forms.

“Every penny,” answered Eldrick. “Nice little fortune, too; a fine thing for a young fellow who's just been called to the bar.”

“He has been called, has he, sir?” asked Pratt.

“Called this term, quite recently, at Gray's Inn,” replied Eldrick, as he sat down. “Very promising, clever young man. Look here! We'd better send two wires, one to his private address and one to his chambers. I say, Pratt, do you think an inquest will be necessary?”

Pratt had not thought of that—he began to think. While he was thinking, the doctor whom he had summoned came in. He looked at the dead man, asked the clerk a few questions, and was apparently satisfied. “I don't think there's any need for an inquest,” he said in reply to Eldrick. “I knew the old man very well, and he was much feebler than he would admit. I have no hesitation in giving a certificate.”

“By the bye,” said Eldrick, as Pratt moved toward the door, “you don't know what—what he came to see me about?”

“Haven't the remotest idea, sir,” answered Pratt readily and glibly. “He died, just as I've told you, before he could tell me anything.”

He went downstairs and out into the street and away to the general post office, only conscious of one thing, only concerned about one thing—that he was now the sole possessor of a great secret.

“You haven't shown it to anybody else?” Pratt had asked.

“Neither shown it to anybody, nor mentioned it to a soul,” Antony Bartle had answered.

So, in all that great town of Barford, he—Linford Pratt—he, alone out of a quarter of a million people, knew—what? The magnitude of what le knew not only amazed but exhilarated him. Of one thing he was already certain—it should be, must be, turned to his own advantage.

It was past eight o'clock before Pratt was able to go home to his lodgings. When the maid had cleared away the dinner things, and he was alone in his sitting room and had lighted his pipe and mixed himself a whisky and water—the only indulgence in such things that he allowed himself within the twenty-four hours—he drew John Mallathorpe's will from his pocket and read it carefully three times. And then he began to think closely and steadily.

First of all the will was a good will. Nothing could upset it. There was nothing to do but to put that will in the hands of the trustees named in it, and then

Pratt thought next of the two trustees. They were well-known men in the town, comparatively young, and of great energy. Their chief interests were educational. That, no doubt, was why John Mallathorpe had appointed them trustees. Wyatt had been plaguing the town for years to start commercial schools; Charlesworth was a devoted champion of technical schools. Pratt knew how the hearts of both would leap if he suddenly told them that enormous funds were at their disposal for the furtherance of their schemes. And he also knew something else—that neither Charlesworth nor Wyatt had the faintest, remotest notion or suspicion that John Mallathorpe had ever made such a will, or they would have moved heaven and earth and pulled down Normandale Grange and Mallathorpe's mill trying to find it.

But the effect—the effect of producing the will now? Pratt, like everybody else, had been deeply interested in the Mallathorpe affair. There was so little doubt that John Mallathorpe had died intestate, such absolute certainty that his only living relatives were his deceased brother's two children and their mother, that the necessary proceedings for putting Harper Mallathorpe and his sister Nesta in possession of the property, real and personal, had been comparatively simple and speedy. But what was it worth?

This was what he wanted to get at: what these young people would lose if he produced the will.

He began to think of three people whom the production of the will would dispossess. Once or twice Pratt had seen Mrs. Mallathorpe in her carriage in the Barford streets. Somebody had pointed her out to him, and had observed sneeringly that folk can soon adapt themselves to circumstances, and that Mrs. Mallathorpe now gave herself all the airs of a duchess, though she had been no more than a hospital nurse before she married Richard Mallathorpe. And Pratt had also seen young Harper Mallathorpe now and then in the town since the good fortune had arrived, and had envied him. He had also thought what a strange thing it was that money went to young fellows who seemed to have no particular endowments of brain or energy. Harper was a very ordinary young man, not overintelligent in appearance, who, Pratt had heard, was often seen lounging about the one or two fashionable hotels of the place. As for the daughter, Pratt did not remember having ever set eyes upon her, but he had heard that, up to the time of John Mallathorpe's death, she had earned her own living as a governess or nurse, or something of the sort.

He turned from thinking of these three people to thoughts about himself. Pratt often thought about himself, and always in one direction—the direction of self-advancement. He was always wanting to get on. He had nobody to help him. He had kept himself since he was seventeen. His father and mother were dead; he had no brothers or sisters, the only relations he had, uncles and aunts, lived, some in London, some in Canada. He was now twenty-eight, earning twenty dollars a week. He had immense confidence in himself, but he had never seen much chance of escaping from drudgery. He had often thought of asking Eldrick & Pascoe to give him his articles, but he had a shrewd idea that his request would be refused. No, it was difficult to get out of a rut. And yet he was a clever fellow, a good-looking fellow, sharp, shrewd, able; and here was a chance, such a chance as scarcely ever comes to a man. He would be a fool if he did not take it and use it to his own best and lasting advantage.

And so he locked up the will in a safe place and went to bed, resolved to take a bold step on the morrow.

HEN Pratt arrived at Eldrick & Pascoe's office at his usual hour of nine next morning, he found the senior partner already there. With him was a young man whom the clerk at once set down+as Mr. Bartle Collingwood. Pratt looked at him with considerable interest and curiosity. Another of the lucky ones, too! For Pratt knew the contents of Antony Bartle's will and that the young man had succeeded to a cool one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, at least, through his grandfather's death.

“Here is Pratt,” said Eldrick, glancing into the outer office as the clerk entered it. “Pratt, come in here. Here is Mr. Bartle Collingwood. He would like you to tell him the facts about Mr. Bartle's death.”

Pratt walked in armed and prepared. He was a clever hand at foreseeing things, and he had realized all along that he would have to answer questions about the event of the previous night.

“There's very little to tell, sir,” he said, with a polite acknowledgment of Collingwood's greeting. “Mr. Bartle came up here just as I was leaving—everybody else had left. He wanted to see Mr. Eldrick—why, he didn't say. He was coughing a good deal when he came in, and he complained of the fog outside, and of the stairs. He said something, just a mere mention, about his heart being bad. I lighted the gas in here and helped him into that chair. He just sat down, laid his head back, and died.”

“Without saying anything further?” asked Collingwood.

“Not a word more, Mr. Collingwood,” answered Pratt. “He—well, it was just as if he dropped off to sleep. Of course, at first I thought he'd fainted; but I soon saw what it was. It so happens that I've seen a death just as sudden as that once before; my landlady's husband died in a very similar fashion, in my presence. There was nothing I could do, Mr. Collingwood, except ring up Mr. Eldrick and the doctor and the police.”

“Mr. Pratt made himself very useful last night in making arrangements,” remarked Eldrick, looking at Collingwood. “As it is, there is very little to do. There will be no need for any inquest; Melrose has given his certificate, so there are only the funeral arrangements. We can help you with the matter, of course. But first you'd no doubt like to go to your grandfather's place and look through his papers? We have his will here, you know, and I've already told you its effect.”

“I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Pratt,” said Collingwood, turning to the clerk. He turned again to Eldrick. “All right,” he went on, “I'll go over to Quagg Alley. By the bye, Mr. Pratt, my grandfather didn't tell you anything of the reason of his call here?”

“Not a word, sir,” replied Pratt. “Merely said he wanted Mr. Eldrick.”

“Had he any legal business in process?” asked Collingwood.

Eldrick and his clerk both shook their heads. No, Mr. Bartle had no business of that sort that they knew of—nothing. But there again Pratt was prepared.

“It might have been about the lease of that property in Horsebridge Lane, sir,” he said, glancing at his principal. “He did mention that, you know, when he was in here a few weeks ago.”

“Just so,” agreed Eldrick. “Well, you'll let me know if we can be of use,” he went on as Collingwood turned away. “Pratt can be at your disposal any time.”

Collingwood thanked him and went off to the shop in Quagg Alley. But he knew the shop and its surroundings well enough, though he had not been in Barford for some time; he also knew Antony Bartle's old housekeeper, Mrs. Clough, a rough-and-ready Yorkshire woman, who had looked after the old man as long as Collingwood could remember. She received him as calmly as if he had merely stepped across the street to inquire after his grandfather's health.

“I thowt ye'd be down here first thing, Mestur Collingwood,” she said, as he walked into the parlor at the back of the shop. “Of course, there's naught to be done except to see after yer grandfather's burying. I don't know if ye were surprised or no when t' lawyers tellygraffed to yer last night? I weren't surprised at all. Mestur Eldrick, he gev orders for t' coffin last night.”

When Collingwood came downstairs Mrs. Clough was talking to a sharp-looking lad, of apparently sixteen or seventeen years, who stood at the door leading into the shop, and who glanced at Collingwood with keen interest and speculation.

“Here's Jabey Naylor wants to know if he's to do aught, Mestur,” said the housekeeper. “Of course, I've telled him 't we can't have the shop open till the burying's over, so I don't know what there is that he can do.”

“Oh, well, let him come into the shop with me,” answered Collingwood. He motioned the lad to follow him out of the parlor. “So you were Mr. Bartle's assistant, eh?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” replied the lad. “I'd been in with him all the afternoon. I was here when he went out, and here when they came to say he'd died at Mr. Eldrick's.”

“Did my grandfather seem at all unwell when he went out?” asked Collingwood,

“No sir. He'd been coughing a bit more than usual, that was all. There was a fog came on about five o'clock, and he said it bothered him.”

“What had he been doing during the afternoon? Anything in particular?”

“Nothing at all particular before half past four or so, sir.”

“Oh?” said Collingwood. “Nothing particular before half past four, eh? Did he do something particular after half past four?”

“There was a post came in just about then, sir,” answered Jabey. “There was an American letter—that's it, sir, just in front of you. Mr. Bartle read it and asked me if we'd got a good clean copy of Hopkinson's 'History of Barford.' I reminded him that there was a copy among the books that had been brought from Mallathorpe's mill some time ago.”

“Books that had belonged to Mr. John Mallathorpe, who was killed?” asked Collingwood, who was fully acquainted with the chimney accident.

“Yes sir. Mr. Bartle bought a lot of books that Mr. Mallathorpe had at the mill—local books. They're there in that corner; they were put there when I fetched them, and he'd never looked over them since, particularly.”

“Well, and this 'History of Barford?' You reminded him of it?”

“I got it out for him, sir. He sat down, where you are sitting, and began to examine it. He said something about it being a nice copy, and we would get it off as soon as we could. That's it, sir. I didn't read it, of course. And then he took some papers out of a pocket that's inside it, and I heard him say, 'Bless my soul, who'd have thought it?'”

Collingwood picked up the book which the boy indicated, a thick, substantially bound volume, inside one cover of which was a linen pocket, wherein were some loose maps and plans of Barford. “These what he took out?” he asked, holding them up.

“Yes sir; but there was another paper, with writing on it—a_biggish sheet of paper, written all over.”

“Did you see what the writing was? Did you see any of it?”

“No sir, only that it was writing. I was dusting those shelves out, over there, when I heard Mr. Bartle say what he did. I just looked round over my shoulder, that was all.”

“Was he reading this paper that you speak of?”

“Yes sir. He was holding it up to the gas, reading it.”

“Do you know what he did with it?”

“Yes sir. He folded it up and put it in his pocket.”

“Did he say any more—make any remarks?”

“No sir. He wrote a letter then.”

“At once?”

“Yes sir, straight off. But he wasn't there more than a minute writing it. Then he sent me to post it at the box at the end of the alley.”

“Did you read the address?”

The lad turned to a book, which stood with others in a rack over the chimney piece, and tapped it with his finger. “Yes sir, because Mr. Bartle gave orders when I first came here that a registry of every letter sent out was to be kept. I've always entered them in this book.”

“And this letter you're talking about—to whom was it addressed?”

“Mrs. Mallathorpe, Normandale Grange, sir.”

“You went and posted it at once?”

“That very minute, sir.”

“Was it soon afterward that Mr. Bartle went out?”

“He went out as soon as I came back, sir.”

“And you never saw him again?”

Jabey shook his head. “Not alive, sir,” he answered. “I saw him when they brought him back.”

“How long had he been out when you heard he was dead?”

“About an hour, sir. Just after six o'clock it was when they told Mrs. Clough and me. He went out at ten minutes past five.”

Collingwood got up. He gave the lad's shoulder a friendly squeeze. “All right,” he said. “Now, you seem a smart, intelligent lad, so don't mention a word to any one of what we've been talking about. You have not mentioned it before, I suppose? Not a word? That's right, don't. Come in again to-morrow morning to see if I want you, Of course, after the funeral I shall want you to be here as usual. I'm going to put a manager into this shop.”

When the boy had gone Collingwood locked up the shop from the house side, put the key in his pocket, and went to the kitchen. “Mrs. Clough,” he said, “I want to see the clothes which my grandfather was wearing when he was brought home last night. Where are they?”

“They're in that little room aside of his bedchamber, Mestur Collingwood,” replied the housekeeper. “I laid 'em all there on the clothespress, just as they were taken off of him by Lawyer Eldrick's orders. He said they hadn't been examined, and weren't to be, till you came. Nobody whatever's touched 'em since.”

Collingwood went upstairs and into the little room, a sort of box room opening out of that in which the old man lay. There were the clothes, and he went through the pockets of every garment. He found such things as keys, a purse, loose money, a memorandum book, a bookseller's catalogue or two, two or three big folded papers covered with writing, such as Jabey Naylor had described.

The mention of that paper had excited Collingwood's curiosity. He was half inclined to go straight back and tell Eldrick what Jabey Naylor had just told him. But he reflected that while Naylor went out to post the letter the old bookseller might have put the paper elsewhere; locked it up in his safe, perhaps. One thing, however, Collingwood could do at once—he could ask Mrs. Mallathorpe if the letter referred to the paper. He was fully acquainted with all the facts of the Mallathorpe history. Old Bartle, knowing they would interest his grandson had sent him the local newspaper accounts of its various episodes. It was only twelve miles to Normandale Grange, and an automobile would carry him there within the hour. He glanced at his watch—just ten o'clock.

An hour later Collingwood found himself standing in a fine old oak-paneled room, the windows of which looked out on a romantic valley, whose thickly wooded sides were still bright with the red and yellow tints of autumn. A door opened, he turned expecting to see Mrs. Mallathorpe. Instead, he found himself looking at a girl, who glanced inquiringly at him, and from him to the card, which he had sent in on his arrival.

T once Collingwood realized that he was in the presence of one of the two fortunate young people who had succeeded so suddenly and, according to popular opinion, so unexpectedly, to John Mallathorpe's wealth. This was evidently Miss Nesta Mallathorpe of whom he had heard, but whom he had never seen. She, however, looked at him as if she knew him and she acknowledged his bow with a smile.

“My mother is out in the grounds with my brother,” she said, motioning Collingwood toward a chair. “Won't you sit down, please? I've sent for her; she will be here in a few minutes.”

As they seated themselves they looked at each other, and she smiled again. “I have seen you before, Mr. Collingwood,” she said. “I knew it must be you when they brought in your card.”

He used his glance of polite inquiry to make a closer inspection of his hostess; He decided that Nesta Mallathorpe was not so much pretty as eminently attractive—a tall, well-developed, warm-colored young woman, whose clear gray eyes and red lips and general bearing indicated the possession of good health and spirits. And he was quite certain that if he had ever met her before he would not have forgotten it.

“Where have you seen me?” he asked, smiling back at her.

“Have you forgotten the mock trial—year before last?” she asked.

Collingwood remembered what she was alluding to. He had taken part, in company with various other law students, in a mock trial, a breach of promise case, for the benefit of a certain London hospital. To him had fallen one of the principal parts, that of counsel for the plaintiff.

“When I saw your name I remembered it at once,” she went on. “I was there because I was a probationer at St. Chad's Hospital at that time.”

“Dear me! So you were at St. Chad's!” he continued, with a reminiscence of the surroundings of the institution they were talking of. “Very different to Normandale.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“And now that you are here?” he asked.

“It's very beautiful,” she answered, “but I sometimes wish I were back at St. Chad's.”

Collingwood realized that this was not the complaint of the well-to-do young woman who finds time hanging heavy. It was rather indicative of a desire for action.

“I understand,” he said. “I think I should feel like that. One wants, I suppose—is it action, movement, what is it?”

“Better call it occupation—that's a plain term,” she answered.

Before Collingwood could think of any suitable reply to this frank and candid statement, the door opened and Mrs. Mallathorpe came in, followed by her son. And the visitor suddenly and immediately realized the force and meaning of Nesta Mallathorpe's last remark. Harper Mallathorpe, a good-looking but not remarkably intelligent appearing young man of about Collingwood's own age, gave him the instant impression of being bored to death. The lack-luster eye, the aimless lounge, the hands thrust into the pockets of his Norfolk jacket, as if they took refuge there from sheer idleness, all these things told their tale.

But there was nothing of aimlessness, idleness, or lack of vigor in Mrs. Mallathorpe. She was a woman of character, energy, of brains. Collingwood saw all that at one glance.

“Mother,” said Nesta, handing Collingwood's card to Mrs. Mallathorpe, “this gentleman is Mr. Bartle Collingwood. He's—aren't you—yes, a lawyer. He wants to see you. Why, I don't know. I have seen Mr. Collingwood before, but he didn't remember me. Now he'll tell you what he wants to see you about.”

“If you'll allow me to explain why I called on you, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” said Collingwood. “I don't suppose you ever heard of me, but you know, at any rate, the name of my grandfather, Mr. Antony Bartle, the bookseller of Barford? My grandfather is dead; he died very suddenly last night.”

Mrs. Mallathorpe and Nesta murmured words of polite sympathy. Harper suddenly spoke, as if mere words were some relief to his obvious boredom.

“I heard that this morning,” he said, turning to his mother. “Hopkins told me; he was in town last night. I meant to tell you.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe, glancing at some letters which stood on a rack above the mantelpiece. “Why, I had a letter from Mr. Bartle this very morning.”

“It is that letter that I have come to see you about,” said Collingwood.

“I only got down here from London at half past eight this morning, and, of course, I have made some inquiries about the circumstances of my grandfather's sudden death. He died very suddenly, indeed, at Mr. Eldrick's office. He had gone there on some business about which nobody knows anything. He died before he could mention it. And according to his shop boy, Jabey Naylor, the last thing he did was to write a letter to you. Now, I have reasons for asking. Would you mind telling me, Mrs. Mallathorpe, what that letter was about?”

Mrs. Mallathorpe moved over to the hearth and took an envelope from the rack. She handed it to Collingwood, indicating that he could open it. Collingwood drew out one of old Bartle's memorandum forms and saw a couple of lines in the familiar handwriting.

, Normandale Grange.


 * If you should drive into town to-morrow, will you kindly give me a call? I want to see you particularly. Respectfully,.

Collingwood handed back the letter. “Have you any idea to what that refers?” he asked.

“Well, I think I have, perhaps,” answered Mrs, Mallathorpe. “Mr. Bartle persuaded us to sell him some books—local books—which my late brother-in-law had at his office in the mill. And since then he has been very anxious to buy more local books which are here in the house. I suppose he wanted to see me about that.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I suppose that's it. You may think it odd that I wanted to know what he'd written about, but as it was certainly the last letter he wrote”

“Oh, I'm quite sure it must have been that!” exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe.

“Well, thank you again, and good-by. I have a car waiting outside there and I have much to do in Barford when I get back.”

The two young people accompanied Collingwood into the hall. Harper suddenly brightened. “I say,” he said, “have a drink before you go. It's a long way in and out. Come into the dining room.”

But Collingwood caught Nesta's eye and he was quick to read a signal in it. “No, thanks awfully!” he answered. “I won't, really. I must get back, I've such a lot of things to attend to. This is a very beautiful place of yours,” he went on, as Harper, whose face had fallen at his visitor's refusal, followed with his sister to where the car waited.

“It's a thousand miles away from anywhere,” said Harper. “Nothing to do here.”

“No hunting, shooting, fishing?” asked Collingwood. “Get tired of 'en? Well, why not make a private golf links in your park? You'd get a fine sporting course round there.”

“That's a good notion, Harper,” observed Nesta with some eagerness. “You could have it laid out this winter.”

“Come and see us again,” said Harper. “Come for the night; we've got a jolly billiard table.”

“Do!” added Nesta heartily.

“Since you're so kind, I will,” replied Collingwood, “but not for a few days, of course.”

He drove off to wonder why he had visited Normandale Grange at all. For Mrs. Mallathorpe's explanation of the letter was doubtless the right one. Collingwood, little as he had seen of Antony Bartle, knew what a veritable sleuthhound the old man was where tare books or engravings were concerned. Yet the sudden exclamation of finding the paper? It all looked as if the old man had found some document, the contents of which related to the Mallathorpe family, and was anxious to communicate its nature to Mrs. Mallathorpe and to his own solicitor as soon as possible.

“But that's probably only my fancy,” he mused as he sped back to Barford. “The real explanation is doubtless that suggested by Mrs. Mallathorpe.”

On his way back to Barford he thought a good deal of the two young people he had just left. There was something of the irony of fate about their situation. There they were, in possession of money and luxury and youth, and already bored because they had nothing to do. He felt what closely approached a contemptuous pity for Harper, but he had no such thoughts about Nesta Mallathorpe. He had seen that she was of a different temperament.

“She'll not stick there idling,” he said.

There was immediate occupation for Collingwood himself when he reached the town. He had changed his mind as to his future plans. He would sell his grandfather's business as soon as he could find a buyer. When he had reached Barford again and had lunched at his hotel, he went to Quagg Alley and shut himself in the shop, where he made a careful inspection of the treasures which old Bartle had raked up from many quarters.

Within ten minutes of beginning his task Collingwood knew that he had gone out to Normandale Grange about a mere nothing. Picking up the “History of Barford,” which Jabey Naylor had spoken of, he was turning over its leaves, when two papers dropped out; one a half sheet of folded foolscap, the other a letter from some correspondent in the United States. Collingwood read the letter first; it was evidently that which Naylor had referred to as having been delivered the previous afternoon. It asked for a good, clean copy of Hopkinson's “History of Barford,” and then went on: “If you should ever come across a copy of what is, I believe, a very rare tract or pamphlet, 'Customs of the Court Leet of the Manor of Barford,' published, I think, about 1720, I should be glad to pay you any price you like to ask for it—in reason.”

Collingwood turned from it to the folded paper. It was headed, “List of Barford Tracts and Pamphlets in my box marked B. P. in the library at N. Grange,” and it was initialed at the foot “J. M.” Then followed the titles of some twenty-five or thirty works, among them was the very tract for which the American correspondent had inquired. And now Collingwood had what he believed to be a clear vision of what had puzzled him. His grandfather having just read the American buyer's request, had found the list of these pamphlets inside the “History of Barford,” and in it the entry of the particular one he wanted, and at once he had written to Mrs. Mallathorpe in the hope of persuading her to sell what his American correspondent desired to buy. Plainly the old man's visit to Eldrick & Pascoe's had nothing to do with the letter to Mrs. Mallathorpe. Nor had he carried the folded paper in his pocket to Eldrick's. When Jabey Naylor went out to post the letter Antony had placed the folded paper and the American letter together in the book and left them there. Quite, quite simple!

But across the street, all unknown to Collingwood, Linford Pratt was thinking a good deal. Collingwood had taken his car from a garage immediately opposite Eldrick & Pascoe's windows. Pratt, whose desk looked on to the street, had seen him drive away soon after ten o'clock and return about half past twelve. Pratt, who knew everybody in the business center of the town, knew the man who had driven Collingwood, and when he went out to his lunch, he asked him where he had been that morning. The man, who knew no reason for secrecy, told him, and Pratt went off to eat his bread and cheese and drink his one glass of ale and to wonder why young Collingwood had been to Normandale Grange. He became slightly anxious and uneasy. He knew that Collingwood must have made some slight examination of old Bartle's papers. Was it, could it be, possible that the old man, before going to Eldrick's, had left some memorandum of his discovery in his desk or in a diary? He had said that he had not shown the will, nor mentioned the will to a soul, but he might—old men were so very fussy about things—he might have set down in his diary that he had found it on such a day, and under such-and-such circumstances.

However, there was one person who could definitely inform him of the reason of Collingwood's visit to Normandale Grange—Mrs. Mallathorpe. He would see her at once and learn if he had any grounds for fear. And so it came about that at eight o'clock that evening Mrs. Mallathorpe, for the second time that day, found herself asked to see a limb of the law.

HEN Pratt's card was taken to her, Mrs. Mallathorpe was alone. Harper and Nesta were playing billiards in a distant part of the big house. Dinner had been over for an hour. Mrs. Mallathorpe, who had known what hard work and plenty of it was in her time, was trifling over the newspapers—rest, comfort, and luxury were no bore to her. She looked at the card doubtfully. Pratt had written a word or two on it: “Private and important business.” Then she glanced at the butler—an elderly man who had been with John Mallathorpe many years be fore the catastrophe occurred.

“Who is he, Dickenson?” she asked. “Do you know him?”

“Clerk at Eldrick & Pascoe's, ma'am,” replied the butler. “I know the young man by sight.”

“Where is he?” inquired Mrs. Mallathorpe.

“In the little room at present, ma'am,” said Dickenson.

“Take him into the study,” commanded Mrs. Mallathorpe. “I'll come to him presently.” She was utterly at a loss to understand Pratt's presence there. Eldrick & Pascoe were not her lawyers, and she had no business of a legal nature in which they could be in any way concerned. But it suddenly struck her that that was the second time she had heard Eldrick's name mentioned that day. Young Mr. Collingwood had said that his grandfather's death had taken place at Eldrick & Pascoe's office. Had this clerk come to see her about that? And, if so, what had she to do with it? Bearing an expression of curiosity, Mrs. Mallathorpe entered the room where Pratt was waiting. She recognized at once that he was a shrewd and sharp person and was the bearer of important news. She quietly acknowledged Pratt's elaborate bow, then motioned him to take a chair at the side of the desk which stood before the fireplace. She herself sat down at the desk, in John Mallathorpe's old armchair. Pratt realized that the real Master of Normandale Grange was there in the self-contained, quiet-looking woman who turned to him in a businesslike fashion.

“You want to see me?” said Mrs. Mallathorpe. “What is it?”

“Business, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” replied Pratt. “As I said on my card—of a private and important sort.”

“To do with me?” she asked.

“With you and with your family,” said Pratt. “And, before we go any further, not a soul knows of it but me.”

Mrs. Mallathorpe took another searching look at her visitor. Pratt was leaning on the corner of the desk, toward her; already he had lowered his tones to the mysterious and confidential note.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said. “Go on.”

Pratt bent a little nearer. “A question or two first, if you please, Mrs. Mallathorpe. And answer them; they're for your own good. Young Mr. Collingwood called on you to-day.”

“Well—and what of it?”

“What did he want?”

Mrs. Mallathorpe hesitated and frowned a little, but Pratt hastened to reassure her. “I'm using no idle words, Mrs. Mallathorpe, when I say it's for your own good. It is. What did he come for?”

He came to ask what there was in a letter which his grandfather wrote to me yesterday afternoon.”

“Antony Bartle had written to you, had he? And what did he say, Mrs. Mallathorpe? For that is important.”

“No more than that he wanted me to call on him to-day, if I happened to be in Barford.”

“Nothing more—not a word? Nothing as to why he wanted to see you?”

“No. I thought that he probably wanted to see me about buying some books of the late Mr. Mallathorpe's.”

“Did you tell Collingwood that?” asked Pratt eagerly.

“Yes—of course.”

“Did it satisfy him?”

Mrs. Mallathorpe frowned again. “Why shouldn't it?” she demanded. “It was the only explanation I could possibly give him. How do I know what the old man really wanted?”

Pratt drew his chair still nearer to the desk.' His voice dropped to a whisper and his eyes grew full of meaning. “I'll tell you what he wanted,” he said, speaking very slowly. “It's what I've come for. Listen! Antony Bartle came to the office soon after five yesterday afternoon. I was alone—everybody else had gone. I took him into Eldrick's room. He told me that in turning over one of the books which he had brought from Mallathorpe mill some short time ago, he had found—what do you think?”

Mrs. Mallathorpe's cheek had flushed at the mention of the books from the mill. Now, at Pratt's question and under his searching eye, she turned very pale, and the clerk saw her fingers tighten on the arms of her chair. “What?” she asked. “What?”

Pratt's voice became little more than audible. But his tense whisper was clear. “John Mallathorpe's will!” he answered.

The woman glanced quickly about her—at the doors, the curtained window.

“Safe enough here,” whispered Pratt. “I made sure of that. Don't be afraid—no one knows but me.”

But Mrs. Mallathorpe seemed to find some difficulty in speaking, and, when she at last got out a word, her voice sounded hoarse. “Impossible!”

“It's a fact!” said Pratt. “Nothing was ever more a fact as you'll see. But let me finish my story. The old man told me how he'd found the will only half an hour before, and he asked me to ring up Eldrick so that we might all read it together. I went to the telephone. When I came back Bartle was dead—just dead. And—I took the will out of his pocket.”

Mrs. Mallathorpe made an involuntary gesture with her right hand. And Pratt smiled craftily and shook his head.

“Much too valuable to carry about, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” he said. “I've got it—all safe—under lock and key. But as I've said, nobody knows of it but myself. Not a living soul! No one has any idea. Not one living soul knows that the will's in existence, except me—and you!”

Mrs. Mallathorpe was regaining her self-possession. She had had a great shock, but the worst of it was over. Already she knew, from Pratt's manner, insidious and suggesting, that the will was of a nature that would dispossess her and hers of their new wealth—the clerk had made that evident by look and tone. So there was nothing for it but to face things, ““What—what does it say?” she asked.

Pratt unbuttoned his overcoat, plunged a hand into an inner pocket, drew out a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and laid it on the desk. “An exact copy,” he said tersely. “Read it for yourself.”

The clerk watched her narrowly as she read.

“The effect of that?” she asked. “What would it be, briefly?”

“Precisely what it says,” answered Pratt. “Couldn't be clearer!”

“We should lose all?” she demanded almost angrily. “All?”

“All except what he says there,” agreed Pratt.

“And that,” she went on, drumming her fingers on the paper, “that would stand?”

“What it's a copy of would stand,” said Pratt. “Oh, yes, don't you make any mistake about it, Mrs. Mallathorpe. Nothing can upset that will. It's as plain as a pikestaff. How it came to be made? Your late brother-in-law evidently wrote his will out—it's all in his own handwriting—and took it down to the mill with him the very day of the chimney accident. Just as evidently he signed it in the presence of his manager, Gaukrodger, and his cashier, Marshall—they signed at the same time, as it says there. Now I take it that, very soon after that, Mr. Mallathorpe went out into his mill yard to have a look at the chimney. Gaukrodger and Marshall went with him. Before he went he popped the will into the book, where old Bartle found it yesterday—such things are easily done. Perhaps he was reading the book, perhaps it lay handy. He slipped the will inside, anyway. And then he was killed—and, what's more, the two witnesses were killed with him. So there wasn't a man left who could tell of that will. But there's half Barford could testify to those three signatures. Mrs. Mallathorpe, there's not a chance for you if I put that will into the hands of the two trustees!”

He leaned back in his chair after that, nodding confidently, watching keenly. After a moment's pause Pratt went on.

“Perhaps you don't understand,” he said. “I mean, you don't know the effect. Those two trustees—Charlesworth and Wyatt—could turn you all clean out of this to-morrow, in a way of speaking. Everything's theirs. They can demand an account of every penny that you've all had out of the estate and the business from the time you took hold. If anything's been saved, put aside, they can demand that. You're entitled to nothing but the three amounts of ten thousand pounds each. Of course, thirty thousand is thirty thousand. It means, at five per cent fifteen hundred pounds a year—if you could get five per cent safely. But I should say your son and daughter are getting about ten thousand dollars a year each, aren't they, Mrs. Mallathorpe? It would be a nice comedown! A small house instead of Normandale Grange, genteel poverty—comparatively speaking—instead of riches. That is, if I hand over the will to Charlesworth and Wyatt.”

Mrs. Mallathorpe slowly turned her eyes on Pratt. And Pratt suddenly felt a little afraid; there was anger in those eyes, anger of a curious sort. It might be against fate, against circumstance. It might not—why should it—be against him personally, but it was there, and it was malign and almost evil, and it made him uncomfortable.

“Where is this will?” she asked.

“Safe! In my keeping,” answered Pratt.

She looked him over, surmisingly. “You'll sell it to me?” she suggested. “You'll hand it over, and let me burn it—destroy it?”

“No,” answered Pratt, “I shall not! I won't sell, but I'll bargain. Let's be plain with each other. You don't want that will to be handed over to the trustees named in it—Charlesworth and Wyatt?”

“Do you think I'm a fool, man?” she flashed out.

“I should be a fool myself if I did,” replied Pratt calmly. “And I'm not a fool. Very well, then you'll square me. You'll buy me, come to terms with me, and nobody shall ever know. I repeat to you, what I've said before, not a soul knows now—no, nor suspects. It's utterly impossible for any one to find out. The testator's dead, the attesting witnesses are dead. No one but you and myself ever need know a word about all this, if you make terms with me, Mrs. Mallathorpe.”

“What do you want?” she asked sullenly. “You forget I've nothing of my own. I didn't come into anything.”

“I've a pretty good notion who's real master here, and at Mallathorpe mill, too,” retorted Pratt. “I should say you're still in full control of your children, Mrs. Mallathorpe, and that you can do pretty well what you like with them.”

“With one of them, perhaps,” she said, still angry and sullen. “But—I tell you, for you may as well know—if my daughter knew of what you've told me, she'd go straight to those trustees and tell. That's a fact that you'd better realize. I can't control her.”

“Oh!” remarked Pratt. “Um! Then we must take care that she doesn't know. Do you know what you want on this estate? You want a steward,” he said. “A steward and estate agent. John Mallathorpe managed everything for himself, but your son can't, and pardon me if I say that you can't, properly. You need a man—you need me. You can persuade your son to that effect. Give me the job of steward here. I'll suggest to you how to do it in such a fashion that it'll arouse no suspicion, and look just like an ordinary—very ordinary—business job, at a salary and on conditions to be arranged, and—you're safe! Safe, Mrs. Mallathorpe—you know what that means!”

Mrs. Mallathorpe suddenly rose from her chair. “I know this,” she said, “I'll discuss nothing, do nothing, till I've seen that will!”

Pratt rose, too, nodding his head as if quite satisfied. He took up the copy, tore it into pieces and carefully dropped them in the glowing fire. “I shall be at my lodgings at any time after five-thirty to-morrow evening,” he answered quietly. “Call there. You have the address, and you can then read the will with your own eyes. I shan't bring it here. The game's in my hands, Mrs. Mallathorpe.”

Within a few minutes he was out in the park again. He knew that the woman he had just left was at his mercy and would accede to his terms.

Pratt lived in a little hamlet of old houses on the very outskirts of Barford, on the edge of a stretch of country honeycombed by stone quarries, some in use, some already worked out. It was a lonely neighborhood, approached from the nearest trolley route by a narrow, high-walled lane. He was halfway along that lane when stealthy footsteps stole to his side and a hand was laid on his arm. Just as stealthily came the voice of one of his fellow clerks at Eldrick & Pascoe's.

“A moment, Pratt. I've been waiting for you. I want a word in private!”

E started when he heard that voice and felt the arresting hand. Pratt knew well enough to whom they belonged—they were those of one James Parrawhite, a little, weedy, dissolute chap who had been in Eldrick & Pascoe's employ for about a year. It had always been a mystery to him and the other clerks that Parrawhite was there at all, and that, being there, he was allowed to remain. He was not a Barford man. Nobody knew anything whatever about him, though his occasional references to it seemed to indicate that he knew London pretty thoroughly. But he was not desirable, and Pratt never desired him less than on this occasion.

“What are you after—coming on a man like that?” demanded Pratt.

“You,” replied Parrawhite. “I knew you'd got to come up this lane, so I waited for you. I've something to say.”

“Get it said, then!” retorted Pratt.

“Not here,” answered Parrawhite. “Come down by the quarries—nobody about there.”

“And suppose I don't?” asked Pratt.

“Then you'll be sorry for yourself to-morrow. That's all.”

Pratt had already realized that this fellow knew something. Parrawhite's manner was not only threatening, but confident. He spoke as a man speaks who has got the whip hand. Vexed and perturbed, Pratt turned off with his companion into a track which lay among the stone quarries. It was a desolate, lonely place for secret work, and Pratt was certain that secret work was at hand.

“Now then!” he said, when they had walked well into this wilderness. “What is it? And no nonsense!”

“You'll get no nonsense from me,” sneered Parrawhite. “I'm not that sort. This is what I want to say: I was in Eldrick's office last night, all the time you were there with old Bartle.”

This swift answer went straight through Pratt's defenses. He was prepared to hear something unpleasant and disconcerting, but not that. And he voiced the first thought that occurred to him. “That's a lie!” he exclaimed. “There was nobody there!”

“No lie,” replied Parrawhite. “I was there. I was behind the curtain of that recess. And, since I know what you did, I don't mind telling you we're in the same boat, my lad! What I was going to do? You thought I'd gone with the others, but I hadn't. I'd merely done what I'd done several times without being found out, slipped in there to wait until you'd gone. Why? Because friend Eldrick, as you know, is culpably careless about leaving loose cash in the unlocked drawer of his desk, culpably careless, too, about never counting it. And a stray bit of change is useful to a man who gets only twenty a week. Understand?”

“So you're a thief?” said Pratt bitterly.

“I'm precisely what you are—a thief!” retorted Parrawhite. “You stole John Mallathorpe's will last night. I heard everything. I heard—the whole business—what the old man said, what you, later, said to Eldrick. I saw old Bartle die, I saw you take the will from his pocket, read it, and put it in your pocket. I know all, except the terms of the will. But I've a pretty good idea of what those terms are. Do you know why? Because I watched you set off to Normandale by the eight-twenty train to-night!”

“Curse you for a dirty sneak!”

Parrawhite laughed and flourished a heavy stick which he carried. “Not a bit of it,” he said almost pleasantly. “I thought you were more of a philosopher. I fancied I'd seen gleams—mere gleams—of philosophy in you, at times. Fortune of war, my boy! Come now, you've seen enough of me to know I'm an adventurer. This is an adventure of the sort I love. Go into it heart and soul, man! Own up! You've found out that the will leaves the property away from the present holders, and you've been to Normandale to bargain? Come now!”

“What then?” demanded Pratt.

“Then, of course, I come in at the bargaining,” answered Parrawhite. “I'm going to have my share. That's a certainty. You'd better take my advice, because you're absolutely in my power. I've nothing to do but to tell Eldrick to-morrow morning”

“Suppose I tell Eldrick to-morrow morning of what you've told me?” interjected Pratt.

“Eldrick will believe me before you,” retorted Parrawhite imperturbably. “I'm a much cleverer, more plausible man than you are, my friend.”

Pratt stood in a little hollow where they had paused, and thought rapidly and angrily. There was no helping it, he would have to tell, and to share. Sullenly, resentfully, he told.

Parrawhite listened in silence, taking in every point. Pratt, knowing that concealment was useless, told the truth about everything, concisely, but omitting nothing.

“All right,” remarked Parrawhite at the end. “Now, then, what terms do you mean to insist on?”

“What's the good of going into that?” asked Pratt. “Now that you've stuck your foot into it, what do my terms matter?”

“Quite right,” agreed Parrawhite. “They don't. What matters is our terms. Now let me suggest, no, insist, what they must be. Cash! Do you know why I insist on that? No? Then I'll tell you. Because this young lawyer chap, Collingwood, has evidently got some suspicion of something.”

“I can't see it,” said Pratt uneasily. “He was only anxious to know what that letter was about.”

“Never mind,” continued Parrawhite. “He had some suspicion, or he wouldn't have gone out there almost as soon as he reached Barford after his grandfather's death. And even if suspicion is put to sleep for a while, it can easily be reawakened. So, cash! We must profit at once, before any future risk arises. But what terms are you thinking of?”

“Stewardship of their estate for life,” muttered Pratt gloomily.

“With the risk of some discovery being made some time, any time!” sneered Parrawhite. “Where are your brains, man. The old fellow, John Mallathorpe, probably made a draft or two of that will before he did his fair copy. He may have left those drafts among his papers.”

“If he did, Mrs. Mallathorpe 'ud find em,” said Pratt stoutly. “I don't believe there's the slightest risk. I've figured everything out. I don't believe there's any danger from Collingwood or from anybody—it's impossible! And if we take cash, now, we're selling for hundreds what we ought to get thousands for.”

“The present is much more important than the future, my friend,” answered Parrawhite. “To me, at any rate. Now, then, this is my proposal. I'll be with you when this lady calls at your place to-morrow evening. We'll offer her the will, to do what she likes with, for fifty thousand dollars. She can find that quickly. When she pays, as she will, we share equally, and then—well, you can go to the deuce! I shall go somewhere else. So that's settled.”

“No,” said Pratt.

Parrawhite turned sharply, and Pratt saw a sinister gleam in his eyes. “Did you say no?” he asked.

“I said no!” replied Pratt. “I'm not going to take twenty-five thousand dollars for a chance that's worth several hundred thousand. Now I come to think of it, you can do your worst, tell what you like to-morrow morning. I shall tell 'em you're what you are—a scoundrel!”

Parrawhite, with a queer cry or rage that might have come from some animal which saw its prey escaping, struck out at him with the heavy stick. The blow missed Pratt's head, but it grazed the tip of his ear, and fell slantingly on his left shoulder. And then his anger, that had been boiling in Pratt ever since the touch on his arm in the dark lane, burst out, and he turned on his assailant, gripped him by the throat, before Parrawhite could move, and, after choking and shaking him until his teeth rattled and his breath came in jerking sobs, flung him violently against the masses of stone by which they had been standing.

“Get up, you wretch, and I'll give you some more!” he said. “I'll teach you to”

He suddenly noticed the curiously still position in which Parrawhite was lying—he was as dead as Antony Bartle. Violent contact of his head with a rock had finished what Pratt had nearly completed with that vicious grip.

He stood up at last, cursing Parrawhite with the deep anger of despair. It was shameful, it was abominable, it was cruel! He felt as if he could cheerfully tear Parrawhite's dead body to pieces. But, even in these thoughts, came others of a more important nature. For there lay a dead man who was not to be put in one's pocket like a will. It was necessary to hide that thing from the light—even that light. Within a few hours morning would break, and, lonely and deserted as that place was nowadays, some one might pass that way. Out of sight with him, then, and quickly.

Pratt was very well acquainted with the spot where he stood, and now his quick mind immediately suggested a safe hiding place for this thing that he could not carry away with him, and dare not leave to the morning sun. Close by was a pit, formerly used for some quarrying purpose, which was filled, always filled, with water. It was evidently of considerable depth; the water in it was black, the mouth was partly obscured by a maze of shrub and bramble. That bit of land was absolutely useless, and therefore neglected, and, as long as rain fell and water drained, that pit would always be filled to its brim.

He remembered something else. Close by where he stood was a heap of old iron, fragments thrown aside when the last of the limestone had been torn out of the quarries. Pratt proceeded to go about his unpleasant task skillfully. He fetched a quantity of this iron, fastened it in the dead man's clothing, drew the body, thus weighted, to the edge of the pit, and prepared to slide it into the black water. Quickly and methodically he removed the contents of Parrawhite's pockets to his own, everything—money, watch, and chain, even a ring which the dead man had been evidently vain of. Then he let the body glide into the water, and after him he sent the heavy stick, carefully fastened to a bar of iron.

Five minutes later the surface of the water in that pit was as calm and unruffled as ever; not a ripple showed that it had been disturbed. Pratt made his way out of the wilderness, swearing that he would never enter it again.