The Secret of the Quarry (Detective Story serial)/Part 3

AD any third person been present to observe the meeting of these two young people, he would have seen that Pratt, to whom it was unexpected and a surprise, was outwardly as calm and self-possessed, as if the other had come there to keep an ordinary business appointment. Nesta Mallathorpe, looking very dignified and almost stately in her mourning, was obviously angry.

“Good morning, Miss Mallathorpe,” said Pratt. “You wish to see me? Come into my private office, if you please. I haven't fixed on a clerk yet,” he went on, as he led his visitor through the outer room and to the easy-chair by his desk. “How is Mrs, Mallathorpe to-day? Improving, I hope.”

Nesta made no reply to these remarks or to the question. And, instead of taking the easy-chair which Eldrick had found so comfortable, she went to one which stood against the wall opposite Pratt's desk and seated herself in as upright and rigid a position as the wall behind her.

“I wish to speak to you plainly!” she said, as Pratt, who now regarded her somewhat doubtfully, realizing that he was in for business of a serious nature, sat down at his desk. “I want to ask you a plain question and I expect a plain answer. Why are you blackmailing my mother?”

Pratt shook his head as if he felt more sorrow than anger. He glanced deprecatingly at his visitor. “I think you'll be sorry, on reflection, that you said that, Miss Mallathorpe,” he answered. “You're a little—shall we say upset? A little—shall we say angry? If you were calmer you wouldn't say such things, you wouldn't use such a term as blackmailing. It's—dear me, I dare say you don't know it—it's actionable. If I were that sort of man, Miss Mallathorpe, and you said that before witnesses—I don't know what mightn't happen. However, I am not that sort of man. But don't you say it again, if you please!”

“If you don't answer my question, and at once,” said Nesta, whose cheeks were pale with angry determination, “I shall say it again in a fashion you won't like—not to you, but to the police!”

Pratt smiled a quiet, strange smile, which made his visitor feel a sudden sense of fear. Again he shook his head and deprecatingly. “Oh, no,” he said gently. “That's a bigger mistake than the other, Miss Mallathorpe. The police! Oh, not the police, I think, Miss Mallathorpe. You see, other people than you might go to the police about something else.”

Nesta's anger cooled down under that scarcely veiled threat.

“I shall certainly go to the police authorities,” she said, “unless I get some proper explanation from you. I shall have no option. You are forcing, or have forced, my mother to enter into some strange arrangement with you. Now what is it? I mean to know one way or another!”

“Miss Mallathorpe,” said Pratt, “you're taking the wrong course with me. Now, who advised you to come here and speak to me like this, as if I were a criminal? Mr. Collingwood, no doubt! Or, perhaps, Mr. Robson? Now, if either”

“Neither Mr. Robson nor Mr. Collingwood knows anything about my coming here,” retorted Nesta. “No one knows. I am quite competent to manage my own affairs. If you will not satisfy me, then I shall do what I said.”

“You'll go to the police authorities?” asked Pratt. “Ah! But let us consider things a little, Miss Mallathorpe. Now, to start with, who says there has been any forcing? I know one person who won't say so, and that's your mother herself.”

Nesta felt unable to answer that assertion. And Pratt smiled triumphantly and went on. “She'll tell you—Mrs. Mallathorpe'll tell you—that she's very pleased indeed to have my poor services,” he said. “She's glad to do a kind service to a poor relation. And since I am your mother's relation, Miss Mallathorpe, I'm yours, too.”

“Are you going to tell me anything more than that?” asked Nesta steadily.

Pratt shrugged his shoulders and waved his hands. “What more can I tell?” he asked. “The fact is, there's a business arrangement between me and your mother, and you object to it. Well, I'm sorry, but I've my own interests to consider.”

“Very well,” said Nesta, rising from the straight-backed chair and looking very rigid herself, as she stood up. “You won't tell me anything. So I am going to the police. For, as sure as I am that I see you, there's something wrong, and I'll know what it is.”

Pratt recognized that she had passed beyond the stage of mere anger to one of calm determination. And as she marched toward the door he called her back, as the result of a second's swift thought on his part.

“Miss Mallathorpe,” he said, “oblige me by sitting down again. I'm not in the least afraid of your going to the police. But my experience is that, if one goes to them on errands of this sort, it sets all sorts of things going—scandal and suspicion, and I don't know what. You don't want any scandal.”

Nesta already had a hand on the door. But, after looking at him for a second or two, she turned back and sat down in her old position. Pratt, still seated at his desk, plunged his hands in his trousers pockets, tilted back his chair, and for five minutes stared with knitted brows at his blotting pad. He had carefully reckoned up his own position more than once during the progress of recent events, and, the more carefully he calculated it, the more he felt convinced that he had nothing to fear. He had had to alter his ground in consequence of the death of Harper Mallathorpe, and he had known that he would have to fight Nesta. But he had not anticipated that hostilities would come so soon, or begin with such evident determination on her part.

He looked up at last and saw Nesta regarding him sternly. But Pratt smiled the quiet smile which made her uneasy. “Miss Mallathorpe,” he said, “I was thinking of two things just then—a game at cards and the science of warfare. In both it's a good thing sometimes to let your adversary see what a strong hand you've got. Now then, a question, if you please. Are you and I adversaries?”

“Yes,” answered Nesta unflinchingly. “You're acting like an enemy—you are an enemy!”

“I've hoped that you and I would be friends—good friends,” said Pratt. “If I may say so, I've no feelings of enmity toward you.”

“I've no choice,” replied Nesta bluntly. “I came here to know what you've got to say for yourself. Say it!”

Pratt moved his chair a little nearer to his visitor. “Now,” he said, speaking very quietly and deliberately, “I'll go through what I have to say to you carefully, point by point. I shall ask you to go back a little way. It is now some time since I discovered a secret about your mother, Mrs. Mallathorpe. Ah, you start! It may be with indignation, but I assure you that I'm telling you, and am going to tell you, the absolute truth. I say a secret. No one knows it but myself, not one living soul, except, of course, your mother. I shall not reveal it to you, under any consideration or in any circumstances; but I can tell you this, if that secret were revealed your mother would be ruined for life, and you yourself would suffer in more ways than one.”

Nesta looked at him incredulously and yet she began to feel he was telling her some truth.

Pratt shook his head at the incredulous expression. “It's quite so,” he said. “You'll begin to believe it from other things. Now, it was in connection with this that I paid a visit to Normandale Grange one evening some months ago. Perhaps you never heard of that? I was alone with your mother for some time in the study.”

“I have heard of it,” she answered.

“Very good,” said Pratt. “But you haven't heard that your mother came to see me at my rooms here in Barford, my lodgings, the very next night—on the same business, of course. But she did; I know how she came, too. Secretly, heavily veiled naturally; she didn't want anybody to know. Are you beginning to see something in it, Miss Mallathorpe?”

“Go on with your story,” answered Nesta.

“I go on then to the day before your brother's death,” continued Pratt. “Namely, a certain Friday. Now, if you please, I'll invite you to listen carefully to certain facts which are indisputable, which I can prove easily. On that Friday, the day before your brother's death, Mrs. Mallathorpe was in the shrubbery at Normandale Grange, which is near the north end of the old footbridge. She was approached by Hoskins, an old woodman, who has been on the estate a great many years. You know him well enough. Hoskins told Mrs. Mallathorpe that the footbridge, between the north and south shrubberies, spanning the cut which was made there a long time since so that a nearer road could be made to the stables, was in an extremely dangerous condition—so dangerous, in fact, that in his opinion it would collapse under even a moderate weight. I impress this fact upon you strongly.”

“Well,” said Nesta.

“Hoskins,” Pratt went on, “urged upon Mrs. Mallathorpe the necessity of having the bridge closed at once or barricaded. He pointed out to her from where they stood certain places in the bridge and in the railing on one side of it, which already sagged in such a fashion that he, as a man of experience, knew that planks and railings were literally rotten with damp. Now what did Mrs. Mallathorpe do? She said nothing to Hoskins, except that she'd have the thing seen to. But she immediately procured two short lengths of chain and two padlocks and went back and secured its wicket gates at both ends. I beg you will bear that in mind, too, Miss Mallathorpe.”

“I am bearing everything in mind,” said Nesta resolutely. “Don't be afraid that I shall forget one word that you say.”

“I hear the sneer in your voice,” answered Pratt, as he turned, unlocked a drawer, and drew out some papers. “But I think you will soon learn that to sneer at what I'm telling you is foolish. Mrs. Mallathorpe had a set purpose in locking up those gates, as you will see presently. You will see it from what I am now going to tell you. Oblige me, if you please, by looking at that letter. Do you recognize your mother's handwriting?”

“Yes,” admitted Nesta with apprehension. “That is her writing.”

“Very good,” said Pratt. “Then before I read it to you I'll just tell you what this letter is. It formed, when it was written, an invitation from Mrs. Mallathorpe to me—an invitation to walk innocently into what she knew—knew, mind you—to be a death trap. She meant me to fall through that bridge!”

OR a fell moment of tense silence Nesta and Pratt looked at each other across the letter which he held in his outstretched hand, looked steadily and with a certain amount of stern inquiry. And it was Nesta's eyes which first gave way, beaten by the certainty in Pratt's. She looked aside; her cheeks flamed; she felt as if something were rising in her throat to choke her.

“I can't believe that,” she muttered. “You're mistaken! Oh, utterly mistaken!”

“No mistake,” said Pratt confidently. “I tell you your mother sent me—me—to meet my death at that bridge. Here's the proof in this letter. I'll tell you, first, when I received it, then I'll read you what's in it, and, if you doubt my reading of it, you shall read it yourself. But it won't go out of my hands. And first as to my getting it, for that's important. It reached me by registered post, mind you, on the Saturday morning on which your brother met his death. It was handed in at Normandale village post office for registration late on Friday afternoon. And by whom, do you think?”

“I don't know,” replied Nesta faintly.

“It was handed in for registration by your mother's maid, Esther Mawson,” said Pratt, with a dark look. “I've got her evidence, anyway. And that was all part of a plan—just as a certain something that was inclosed was a part of some plan or plot. And now I'll read you the letter, and you'll bear in mind that I got it by first post that Saturday morning. This is what your mother says:

”

Pratt suddenly paused and, before proceeding, looked hard at his visitor. “Now listen to what follows and bear in mind what your mother knew and had done, at the time she wrote this letter. This is how the letter goes on—let every word fix itself in your mind, Miss Mallathorpe:

Pratt turned to the drawer from which he had taken the letter and took out two small keys, evidently belonging to patent padlocks. He held them up before Nesta.

“There they are!” he said triumphantly. “Been in my possession ever since, and will remain there. Now then, you see what a diabolical scheme it was that was in your mother's mind against me. She meant me to meet with the fate which overtook her own son. She meant me to fall through that bridge. Why? She hoped that I should break my neck, as he did. She wanted to silence me; but she also wanted more, she wanted to take from my dead body, or my unconscious body, the certain something which she was so anxious I should bring with me, which she referred to as 'that document.' She was willing to risk anything—even to murder—to get hold of that. And now you know why I went to Normandale Grange that Saturday; you know now the real reason. I told a deliberate lie at the inquest for your mother's sake—for your sake, if you knew it. Is all this clear to you?”

Nesta could only move her head in silent acquiescence.

“Now I come to what happened that Saturday afternoon,” Pratt said. “I may as well tell you that in my own interest I have carefully collected certain evidence which never came out at the inquest—which, indeed, has nothing to do with the exact matter of the inquest. Now, that Saturday your mother and you had lunch together, your brother, as we see in a moment, being away at your lunch time, a quarter to two. About twenty minutes past two your mother left the house. She went out into the gardens. She left the gardens for the shrubberies. And at twenty-five minutes to three she was seen by one of your gardeners, Featherstone, hiding among the trees at the end of the north shrubbery. What was she doing there, Miss Mallathorpe? She was waiting—waiting until a certain hoped-for accident happened to me! Then she would have come out of her hiding place in the hope of getting that document from my pocket. Do you see how cleverly she'd laid her plans—murderous plans?”

Nesta was making a great effort to be calm. “Will you finish your story, if you please?” she asked.

“In my own way, in my own time,” answered Pratt. “I now come to your brother. On the Friday noon the late Mr. Harper Mallathorpe went to Barford to visit a friend—young Stemthwaite, at the Hollies. He was to stay the night there and was not expected home until Saturday evening. He did stay the night and remained in Barford until noon on Saturday; but he unexpectedly returned to the house at half past two. And, almost as soon as he'd got in, he picked up a gun and strolled out into the gardens and the north shrubbery. And, as you know, he went to the footbridge. You see, Miss Mallathorpe, your mother, clever as she was, had forgotten one detail—the gates of that footbridge were merely low, four-barred things, and there was nothing to prevent an active young man from climbing them. She forgot another thing, too, that warning had not been given at the house that the bridge was dangerous. And, of course, she'd never, never calculated that your brother would return sooner than he was expected, or that, on his return, he'd go where he did. And so But I'll spare you any reference to what happened. Only, you know how it was that Mrs. Mallathorpe was found by her son's body. She'd been waiting about for me. But the fate she'd meant for me was dealt out to him!”

In spite of herself Nesta gave way to a slight cry. “I can't bear any more of that!” she said. “Have you finished?”

“There's not much more to say—now, at any rate,” replied Pratt. “And what I have to say shall be to the point. I'm sorry to have been obliged to say all that I have said. But, you know, you forced me to it. You threatened me. The real truth, Miss Mallathorpe, is just this: you don't understand me at all. You come here—excuse my plain speech—hectoring me and bullying me with talk about the police and blackmail, and I don't know what. It's I who ought to go to the police. I could have your mother arrested and put in the dock on a charge of attempted murder, this very day! I've got all the proofs.”

“I suppose you held that out as a threat to her when you forced her to sign that power of attorney?” observed Nesta.

For the first time since her arrival Pratt looked at his visitor in an unfriendly fashion. His expression changed, and his face flushed a little. “You think that, do you?” he said. “Well you're wrong. I'm not a fool. I held out no such threat. I didn't even tell your mother what I'd found out. I wasn't going to show her my hand all at once, though I've shown you a good deal of it.”

“Not all?” she asked quickly.

“Not all,” answered Pratt, with a meaning glance. “To use more metaphors, I've several cards up my sleeve, Miss Mallathorpe. But you're utterly wrong about the threats. I'll tell you—I don't mind that—how I got the authority you're speaking about. Your mother had promised me that stewardship for life. I'd have been a good steward. But we recognized that your brother's death had altered things; that you, being, as she said, a self-willed young woman—you see how plain I am—would insist on looking after your own affairs. So she gave me another post. I'll discharge the duties honestly.”

“Yes,” said Nesta, “but you've already told me that you'd a hold on my mother before any of these recent events happened, and that you possess some document which she was anxious to get into her hands. So it comes to this: you've a double hold on her, according to your story.”

“Just so,” agreed Pratt. “You're right; I have a double hold.”

Nesta looked at him silently for a while; Pratt looked at her.

“Very well,” she said at last. “How much do you want to be bought out?”

Pratt laughed. 'I thought that would be the end of it,” he remarked. “Yes, I thought so.”

“Name your price,” said Nesta.

“Miss Mallathorpe,” answered Pratt, bending forward and speaking with a new earnestness. “Just listen to me. It's so good. I'm not to be bought out. Your mother tried that game with me before. But I'll suggest something else that you can do.”

Nesta made no answer.

“You can do this,” said Pratt. “To start with, and it'll go a long way, just try to think better of me. I told you you don't understand me. Try to. I'm not a bad lot. I've great ambitions. I'm a hard worker. You'll see that I'll look after your mother's affairs in a fashion that'll commend itself to any firm of auditors and accountants who may look into my accounts every year. Let things be. I'm to be trusted.”

“How can I trust a man who deliberately tells me that he holds a secret and a document over a woman's head?” demanded Nesta. “You've admitted a previous hold on my mother. You say you're in possession of a secret that would ruin her, quite apart from recent events. Is that honest?”

“It was none of my seeking,” retorted Pratt. “I gained the knowledge by accident.”

“You're giving yourself away,” said Nesta. “You've some mental twist or defect which prevents you from seeing things straight.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Pratt, with a queer smile, “it's you who don't see things straight. I'm using my knowledge to protect all of you. Let your mind go back to what I said at first. I said that I'd discovered a secret which, if revealed, would ruin your mother and injure you. So it would, more than ever now. So, you see, in keeping it I'm taking care not only of her interests, but of yours.”

Nesta rose. She realized that there was no more to be said or done.

Before Pratt could move, she had turned swiftly to the door and let herself out, and in another minute she was among the crowds in the street below. For a few minutes she walked in the direction of Robson's offices, but, when she had nearly reached them, she turned and went deliberately to those of Eldrick & Pascoe.

Y the time she had been admitted to Eldrick's private room, Nesta had regained her composure; she had also had time to think, and her present action was the result of, at any rate, a part of her thoughts. She was calm and collected enough when she took the chair which the solicitor drew forward.

“I called on you for two reasons, Mr. Eldrick,” she said. “First to thank you for your kindness and thoughtfulness at the time of my brother's death in sending your clerk to help in making the arrangements.”

“Very glad he was of any assistance, Miss Mallathorpe.”

“But the second reason for my call is that I want to speak to you about him,” said Nesta.

“Yes?” responded Eldrick. He had already formed some idea as to what was in his visitor's mind and he was secretly glad of the opportunity of talking to her. “About Pratt, eh? What about him, Miss Mallathorpe?”

“He was with you for some years, I believe?” she asked.

“A good many years,” assented Eldrick. “He came to us as office boy, and was head clerk when he left us.”

“Then you ought to know him well,” she suggested.

“As to that,” replied Eldrick, “there are some people in this world whom other people never could know well—that's to say, really well. I know Pratt well enough for what he was—our clerk. Privately, I know little about him. He's clever, he has ability, he's a chap who reads a great deal, he's got ambitions, and I should say he is a bit subtle.”

“I believe that you're aware that my mother, for some reason or other unknown to me, has put him in charge of her affairs?” asked Nesta.

“Yes; Mr. Collingwood told me so,” answered Eldrick. “So, too, did your own solicitor, Mr. Robson, who's very angry about it.”

“And you?” she said, putting a direct question. “What do you think? Do, please, tell me.”

“It's difficult to say, Miss Mallathorpe,” replied Eldrick, with a smile and a shake of the head. “If your mother—who, of course, is quite competent to decide for herself—wishes to have somebody to look after her affairs, I don't see what objection can be taken to that procedure. And if she chooses to put Linford Pratt in that position, why not?”

“But why Pratt?' asked Nesta.

Eldrick waved his hands. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Now, you ask me a very different question. But I understand—in fact, I know—that Pratt turns out to be a relative of yours. Perhaps your mother is desirous of benefiting Pratt as a relation.”

“Do you advise anything?” asked Nesta.

“Well, you know, Miss Mallathorpe,” replied Eldick [sic], smiling, “I'm not your legal adviser. What about Mr. Robson?”

“Mr. Robson is so very angry aout all this, with my mother,” said Nesta, “that I don't even want to ask his advice. What I really do want is the advice, counsel of somebody, more as a friend than as a solicitor.”

“Delighted to give you any help I can, either professionally or as a friend,” exclaimed Eldrick. “But let me suggest something. And first of all, is there anything, something, in all this that you haven't told to anybody yet?”

“Yes, much,” she answered, “a great deal.”

“Then,” said Eldrick, “let me advise a certain counsel. Two heads are better than one. Let me ask Mr. Collingwood to come here.”

He was watching his visitor narrowly as he said this, and he saw a faint rise of color in her cheeks. But for the moment she did not answer, and Eldrick saw that she was thinking. “Can I have a few minutes to decide?” asked Nesta.

Eldrick jumped up. “Of course!” he said. “I'll leave you a while and return to you presently.”

Nesta, left alone, gave herself up to deep thought and to a careful reckoning of her position. She was longing to confide in some trustworthy person or persons, for Pratt's revelations had plunged her into a maze of perplexity, and when Eldrick came back she looked at him and nodded. “I should like to talk to you and Mr. Collingwood,” she said quietly.

Collingwood came across to Eldrick's office at once. And to these two Nesta unbossomed herself of every detail that she could remember of her interview with Pratt. She saw the men's faces grow graver and graver and realized that this was a more serious matter than she had thought.

“That's all,” she said in the end. “I don't think I've forgotten anything. And even now I don't know if I've done right to tell you all this. But I don't think I could have faced it alone.”

“My dear Miss Mallathorpe,” said Eldrick earnestly, “you've done the wisest thing. You agree, Collingwood?”

“Yes,” answered Collingwood after a moment's reflection, “I think so.”

“Miss Mallathorpe doesn't quite see our view,” said Eldrick, turning to Nesta. “We mean that Pratt firmly believed, when he told you what he did, that for your mother's sake and your own you would keep his communication a dead secret. You're a wise and sensible young woman. Let him continue to believe that you'll remain silent under fear. And let us meet his secret policy with a secret strategy of our own.”

Again he glanced at Collingwood, and again Collingwood nodded assent.

“Now,” continued Eldrick, “just let us consider matters for a few minutes from the position which has newly arisen. To begin with, Pratt's account of your mother's dealings about the footbridge is a very clever and plausible one.”

Nesta uttered a cry of heartfelt relief.

“I won't ask you to think that he's telling lies, just now,” said Eldrick, with a glance at Collingwood, “but I'll ask you to believe that your mother could put a totally different aspect and complexion on all her actions and words in connection with the entire affair. My impression, of course,” he went on, with something very like a wink at Collingwood, “is that Mrs. Mallathorpe, when she wrote that letter to Pratt, intended to have the bridge mended first thing next morning, and that something prevented that being done, and that when she was seen about the shrubberies in the afternoon she was on her way to meet Pratt before he could reach the dangerous point, so that she could warn him. What do you say, Collingwood?”

“I should say,” answered Collingwood, regarding the solicitor earnestly and speaking with a great gravity of manner, “that that would make an admirable line of defense to any charge which Pratt was wicked enough to prefer.”

“You don't think my mother meant—meant—to” exclaimed Nesta, eagerly turning from one man to the other. “You don't?”

“There is no evidence worth two cents against your mother,” replied Eldrick soothingly. “Put everything that Pratt has said against her clear out of your mind. Now, for the present, Miss Mallathorpe, you are, I suppose, going back home?”

“Yes, at once,” answered Nesta. “I have my car at the Crown Hotel.”

“I should just like to know something,” continued Eldrick again, looking at Collingwood as if for approval. “That is: Mrs. Mallathorpe's present disposition toward affairs in general and Pratt in particular. Miss Mallathorpe, when you reach home, see your mother, She is still, I undestand [sic], an invalid, though evidently able to transact business. Just approach her gently and kindly and tell her that you are a little—shall we say uncomfortable—about certain business arrangements which you hear she has made with Mr. Pratt. Ask her if she won't talk them over with you and give you her full confidence. It's now half past twelve,” continued Eldrick, looking at his watch. “You'll be home before lunch. See your mother early in the afternoon and then telephone briefly the result to me, here, at four o'clock. Then Mr. Collingwood and I will have a consultation.”

He motioned Collingwood to remain where he was and himself saw Nesta down to the street. When he went back to his room he shook his head at the young barrister.

“Collingwood,” he said, “there's some nasty business afoot in all this. And it's all the worse because of the fashion in which Pratt talked to that girl. She's evidently a very good memory; she narrated that conversation clearly and fully. Pratt must be very sure of his hand if he showed her his cards in that way. His very confidence in himself shows what a subtle network he's either made or is making. We must reply to his mine with a counter mine!”

“What do you think of Pratt's charge against Mrs. Mallathorpe?” asked Collingwood.

Eldrick made a wry face. “Looks bad—very, very bad, Collingwood,” he answered. “Act and scheme of a desperate woman, of course, but we mustn't let her daughter think we believe it. Let her stick to the suggestion I made, which, as you remarked, would certainly make a very good line of defense, supposing Pratt ever did accuse her. But now what on earth is this document that's been mentioned—this paper of which Pratt has possession? Has Mrs. Mallathorpe at some time committed forgery, or bigamy, or what is it? One thing's sure, however, we've got to work quietly. Will you come back about four and hear what message Miss Mallathorpe sends me? After that we can consult.”

Collingwood went away to his chambers. He was much occupied just then and had little time to think of anything but the work in hand. But, as he ate his lunch at the club, which he had joined on settling in Barford, he tried to get at some notion of the state of things, and once more his mind reverted to the time of his grandfather's death, and his own suspicions about Pratt at that period. Clearly that was a point to which they must hark back. He himself must make more inquiries about the circumstances of Antony Bartle's last hours. For this affair would not have to rest where it was. It was intolerable that Nesta Mallathorpe should in any way be in Pratt's power. He went back to Eldrick at four o'clock with a suggestion or two in his mind.

At sight of him Eldrick shook his head. “I've had that telephone message from Normandale,” he said, “five minutes ago. Pretty much what I expected, at this juncture, anyway. Mrs. Mallathorpe absolutely declines to talk business with even her daughter at present and earnestly desires that Mr. Linford Pratt may be left alone. There you are!”

“Well?” asked Collingwood after a pause. “What now?”

“We must do what we can, secretly, privately, for the daughter's sake,” said Eldrick. “I confess I don't quite see a beginning, but”

Just then the private door opened, and Pascoe, who always looked half asleep, but was in reality remarkably wide awake, lounged in, nodded to Collingwood, and threw a newspaper in front of his partner. “I say, Eldrick,” he drawled, as he removed the newly lighted cigar from his lips, “there's an advertisement here in that newspaper, which seems to refer to that precious protégé of yours who left you with such scant ceremony. Same name, anyhow.”

Eldrick snatched up the paper, glanced at it, and read a few words aloud. “Information wanted about James Parrawhite, at one time in practice as a lawyer.”

ITH a sharp, confirmatory glance Eldrick looked up at his partner. “That's our Parrawhite, of course,” he said. “Who's after him now?” And he went on to read the rest of the advertisement, murmuring its phraseology half aloud.

“Um! Pascoe, hand over that Law List.

“Halstead and Byner are not lawyers,” announced Eldrick presently. “They must be inquiry agents, or something of that sort. Anyway, I'll write to them, Pascoe, at once.”

Eldrick turned to Collingwood, as the junior partner sauntered out of the room. “Rather odd that Pascoe should draw my attention to that just now,” he remarked. “This man Parrawhite was, in a certain sense, mixed up with Pratt; at least, Pratt and I are the only two people who knew the secret of Parrawhite's disappearance from these offices. That was just about the time of your grandfather's death.”

“Who is this man you're talking of?” Collingwood asked.

“Bad lot—very,” answered Eldrick, shaking his head. “He and I were together at one time with the same people. He'd a perfect mania for gambling on the turf, and he went utterly wrong. I never heard anything of him for years, and then one day he turned up here and begged me to give him a job. I did, but his badness broke out again. One afternoon I left some money lying in this drawer, about two hundred dollars, and we've never seen or heard of Parrawhite since.”

“You mentioned Pratt,” said Collingwood.

“Only Pratt and I knew about this money,” replied Eldrick. “We kept it secret. I didn't want Pascoe to know I'd been so careless. Pascoe didn't like Parrawhite, but he doesn't know his record.”

“You said it was about the time of my grandfather's death?” asked Collingwood.

“It was just about then—between his death and his funeral, I should say,” answered Eldrick. “The two events were associated in my mind, anyway. I'd like to know what it is that these people want Parrawhite for. If it's money that's to come to him, it'll be of no advantage. It'll only go where all the rest's gone.”

Collingwood lost interest in Parrawhite. He sat down and began to tell Eldrick about his own suspicion of Pratt at the time of Antony Bartle's death, and about the paper taken from the “History of Barford.”

“Now,” he went on, “a new idea occurs to me. Suppose that that paper, found by my grandfather in a book which had certainly belonged to the late John Mallathorpe, was something important relating to Mrs, Mallathorpe? Suppose that my grandfather brought it across here to you? Suppose that, finding you out, he showed it to Pratt? As my grandfather died suddenly, with nobody but Pratt there, what was there to prevent Pratt from appropriating that paper if he saw that it would give him a hold over Mrs. Mallathorpe? We know now that he has some document in his possession which does give him a hold. May it not be that of which the boy Naylor told me?”

“Might be,” agreed Eldrick. “But my opinion is, taking things altogether, that the paper Antony Bartle found was the one you yourself discovered later—the list of books. No, I'll tell you what I do think. I believe that the document which Pratt told Miss Mallathorpe he holds, and to which her mother referred, is the letter asking Pratt to meet her, and is probably, most probably, one which he discovered in searching out his relationship to Mrs. Mallathorpe. He's a cute chap and he may have found some document which—well, I'll tell you what it might be—something which would upset the rights of Harper Mallathorpe to his uncle's estates. No other relatives came forward, were heard of, or were discoverable when John Mallathorpe was killed in that chimney accident; but there may be some, there may be one in particular. That's my notion and I intend in the first place to make a personal search of the parish registers from which Pratt got his information. He may have discovered something there which he's keeping to himself.”

When Collingwood had left him Eldrick laid a telegram form on his blotting pad, and, after a brief interval of thought, wrote out a message addressed to the people whose advertisement had attracted Pascoe's attention.

After Eldrick had sent off a clerk with this message to the nearest telegraph office he sat thinking for some time. At the close of this meditation, and after some turning over of a diary which lay on his desk, he picked up pen and paper and drafted an advertisement of his own.

“Fifty dollars reward will be paid to any person who can give reliable and useful information as to James Parrawhite, who until November last was a clerk in the employ of Messrs. Eldrick and Pascoe, solicitors, Barford, and who is believed to have left the town on the evening of November 23d.—Apply to Mr. Charles Eldrick, of the above firm.”

“Worth risking fifty dollars on, anyway,” said Eldrick, “whether these London people will cover it or not. Here,” he went on, turning to a clerk who had just entered the room, “make three copies of that advertisement and take one to each of the three newspaper offices and tell 'em to put it in their personal columns to-night.”

He sat musing for some time. When he at last rose it was with a shake of the head. “I wonder if Pratt told me the truth that morning?” he said to himself.

Before he left his office that evening Eldrick was handed a telegram from Messrs. Halstead & Byner, of St. Martin's Chambers, informing him that their Mr. Byner would travel to Barford by the first express next morning and would call upon him at eleven o'clock.

“Then they have some important news about Parrawhite,” mused Eldrick, as he put the message in his pocket and went off to his club.

Next morning soon after eleven there was shown in to him a smart, well-dressed, alert-looking young man, who, having introduced himself as Mr. Gerald Byner, immediately plunged into business.

“You can tell me something of James Parrawhite, Mr. Eldrick?” he began. “We shall be glad. We've been endeavoring to trace him for some months.”

“It's odd,” replied Eldrick, “but I believe it was by mere accident that my partner saw your advertisement yesterday afternoon. Now, a question or two first. What are you, inquiry agents?”

“Just so, sir, inquiry agents, with a touch of private detective business,” answered Mr. Gerald Byner, with a smile. “We undertake to find people, to watch people, to recover lost property, and so on. In this case we're acting for Messrs. Vickers, Marshall & Hebbleston, attorneys, of Cannon Street. They want James Parrawhite badly.”

“Why?” asked Eldrick.

“Because,” replied Byner, with a dry laugh, “there's about a hundred thousand dollars waiting for him in their hands.”

Eldrick whistled with astonishment.

“Whew!” he said. “A hundred thousand dollars for Parrawhite! My good sir, if that's so, and if, as you say, you've been advertising”

“Advertising in several papers,” interrupted Byner, “dailies, weeklies, monthlies. Never had one reply till your wire.”

“Then Parrawhite must be dead,” said Eldrick, “or in jail under another name.”

“What can you tell me, Mr. Eldrick?” asked the inquiry agent.

Eldrick told all he knew, concealing nothing. Gerald Byner listened silently and eagerly.

“There's something that strikes me at once,” he said. “You say that with him disappeared two or three fifty-dollar notes of yours. Have you the numbers of those notes?”

“I can't say,” replied Eldrick doubtfully. “They were paid in to our head clerk, Pratt, and I think he used to enter such things in a sort of day ledger. I'll get it.”

He at once referred to the book, which he began to turn over. “This may be what you ask about,” he said at last. “Here, under date November 23d, are some letters and figures which obviously refer to bank notes. You can copy them if you like.”

“Another question, Mr. Eldrick,” remarked Byner, as he made a note of the entries. “You say some check forms were abstracted from a book of yours at the same time. Have you ever heard of any of these check forms being made use of?”

“Never,” replied Eldrick.

“No forgery of your name or anything?” suggested the caller.

“No,” said Eldrick. “There's been nothing of that sort.”

“I shall see if I can trace these bank notes,” said Byner.

“Well?” asked Eldrick.

“You know, of course,” continued Byner, “that it doesn't take long for a Bank of England note, once issued, to get back to the bank? You know, too, that it's never issued again? Now, if those notes haven't been presented at the bank, where are they? And if no use has been made of your stolen checks, where are they?”

“Good!” agreed Eldrick. “I see that you ought to do well in your special line of business. Now, are you going to pursue inquiries for Parrawhite here in Barford, after what I've told you?”

“Certainly,” said Byner. “I came down prepared to stop a while. It's highly important,” he added, smiling, “to other people than Parrawhite himself.”

“In what way?” asked Eldrick.

“Why,” replied Byner, “if he's dead, as he may be, this money goes to somebody else—a relation. The relative would be very glad to hear he is dead. But definite news will be welcome in any case. You have the address of the woman he lodged. with, you say? I shall go there first, of course.”

“But now a word, Mr. Byner,” said Eldrick, “I have mentioned Pratt, our late clerk. Well, Pratt has left us and is in business as a sort of estate agent in Barford. I have reasons—most particular reasons—why Pratt should remain in absolute ignorance of your presence in the town. If you should happen to come across him, don't let him know your business.”

“I'm not very likely to do that, Mr. Eldrick,” remarked. Byner quietly.

“Yes, but you don't take my meaning,” said Eldrick eagerly. “I mean this. It's just possible that Pratt may see that advertisement of yours and that he may write to your firm. In that case your partner would send his letter to you. Don't deal with it here. Don't, if you should come across Pratt, even let him know your name.”

“When I'm on a job of this sort,” replied Byner, “I don't let anybody know my name, except people like you. When I register at one of your hotels, presently, I shall be Mr. Black, of London. But if this Pratt wanted to give any information about Parrawhite, he'd give it to you, surely, now that you've advertised?”

“No, he wouldn't,” answered Eldrick, “Why? Because he's told me all he knows, or says he knows, already.”

Mr. Byner smiled. “You said, 'says he knows,'” he remarked. “Do you think he didn't tell you the truth about Parrawhite?”

“I should say it's quite likely he didn't,” answered Eldrick; “but keep me informed of what you find out, and I'll help you all I can while you're here. It may be”

A clerk came into the room and looked at his master. “Mr. George Pickard, of the Green Man, at Whitcliffe, sir,” he said. “Wants to see you about that advertisement in the paper this morning, sir.”

Eldrick looked at Byner and smiled significantly. Then he turned toward the door. “Bring Mr. Pickard in,” he said.

HE clerk presently ushered in a short, thick-set, round-faced man, apparently of thirty to thirty-five years of age, whose chief personal characteristics lay in a pair of the smallest eyes ever set in a human countenance, and a mere apology for a nose.

“Fine morning for the time of year,” said the visitor.

“Take a chair, Mr. Pickard,” replied Eldrick. “Let me see, from the Green Man, at Whitcliffe, I believe?”

“Landlord, sir; had that house many years—seven years come next autumn.”

“Just so; and you want to see me about the advertisement in this morning's paper?” continued Eldrick.

The landlord looked at Eldrick and then at Eldrick's companion. The lawyer understood that look.

“It's all right, Mr. Pickard,” he remarked reassuringly. “This gentleman is here on just the same business. Whatever you say will be treated as confidential; it'll go no further. You've something to tell about my late clerk, James Parrawhite?”

“It's like this here,” he answered. “When I saw that there advertisement in the papers this mornin', says I to my missis, 'I'll away,' I says, 'an' see Lawyer Eldrick about that there, this very day.' 'Cause you see, Mr. Eldrick, there is summat as I can tell about yon man 'at you mention—James Parrawhite. I've said nowt about it to nobody up to now, 'cause it were private business 'atween him and me, as it were; but I lost money over it, and, of course, money is money, gentlemen.”

“Quite so,” agreed Eldrick. “And you shall have your money if you can tell anything useful.”

“I don't know owt about it's bein' useful, sir, nor what use is to be made on it,” said Pickard, “but I can tell you a bit o' truth, and you can do what you like wi' what I tell. But,” he went on, lowering his voice and glancing at the door by which he had just entered, “there's another name 'at'll have to be browt in—privatelike. Name, as it so happens, o' one o' your clerks—t' head clerk, I'm given to understand—Mr. Pratt.”

Eldrick showed no sign of surprise. But he contrived to look significantly at Byner as he turned to the landlord.

“Mr. Pratt has left us,” he said. “Left us three weeks ago. So you needn't be afraid, Mr. Pickard; say anything you like.”

“Oh, I didn't know,” remarked Pickard. “It's not oft that I come down in t' town, and we don't hear much Barford news up our way. Well, it's this here, Mr. Eldrick. You know where my place is, of course?”

Eldrick nodded and turned to Byner. “I'd better explain to you,” he said. “Whitcliffe is an outlying part of the town, well up the hills, a sort of wayside hamlet with a lot of our famous stone quarries in its vicinity. The Green Man, of which our friend here is the landlord, is an old-fashioned tavern by the roadside, where people are rather fond of dropping in on a Sunday, I fancy, eh, Mr. Pickard?”

“You're right, sir,” replied the landlord. “It makes a nice walk out on a Sunday. And it were on a Sunday, too, 'at I got to know this here James Parrawhite, as you want to know summat about. He began coming to my place of a Sunday evenin', d'ye see, gentlemen. He'd walk across t' valley up there to Whitcliffe and stop an hour or two, enjoyin' hisself. Well, now, as you're no doubt well aweer, Mr. Eldrick, he were a reight hand at talkin', were yon Parrawhite. He'd t' gift o' t' gab reight enough and talked well an' all. And, of course, him an' me, we hed bits of conversation at times, 'cause he come to t' house reg'lar, and sometimes o' week nights an' all. An' he tell'd me 'at he'd had a deal o' experience, i' racin' matters. Whether it were true or not, I couldn't say, but”

“True enough,” said Eldrick. “He had.”

“Well, so he said,” continued Pickard, “and he was allus tellin' me 'at he could make a pile o' money on t' turf if he only had capital. An' i' t' end he persuaded me to start what he called investin' money with him i' that way—i' plain language, it meant givin' him money to put on horses 't he said wor goin' to win, d'ye understand?”

“Perfectly,” replied Eldrick. “You gave him various amounts which he was to stake for you.”

“Just so, sir. And at first,” said Pickard, with a shake of the bead, “at first I'd no great reason to grumble. He cert'nly wor a good hand at spottin' a winner. But as time went on I'd the greatest difficulty in gettin' a settlement wi' him, d'ye see. He wor just as good a hand at makin' excuses as he wor at pickin' out winners—better, I think. I nivver knew wheer I wor wi' him. He'd pay up, and then he'd persuade me to go in for another do wi' t' money I'd won, and happen we should lose that time, and then of course, we had to hev' another investment to get back what we'd dropped, and so it went on. But t' end wor this here: last November theer wor about two to three hundred dollars o' mine i' his hands, and I wanted it. I'd a spirit merchant's bill to settle, and I wanted t' money badly for that. I knew Parrawhite had been paid, d'ye see, by t' turf agent 'at he betted wi', and I plagued him to hand t' money over to me. He made one excuse and then another. Howsumever, it come to that very day you're talkin' about i' your” advertisement, Mr. Eldrick—the twenty-third o' November”

“Stop a minute, Mr. Pickard,” interrupted Eldrick. “Now, how do you know for a certainty that the day you're going to talk about was the twenty-third of November?”

The landlord, who had removed his hands from his pockets and was now twiddling a pair of fat thumbs as he talked, chuckled slyly. “For a very good reason,” he answered. “I had to pay that spirit bill I tell'd about just now, on the twenty-fourth, so, of course, it were t' twenty-third. D'ye see?”

“I see,' assented Eldrick. “That'll do. And now what did happen?”

“This here,” replied Pickard. “On that night, t' twenty-third November, Parrawhite come into t' Green Man at about, happen, half past eight. He come into t' little private parlor to me, bold as brass—as, indeed, he allus wor. 'Ye're a nice un!' I says. 'I've written yer three letters durin' t' last week, and ye've nivver answered one o 'em. 'I've come to answer in person,' he says. 'There's nobbut one answer I want, says I. 'Wheer's my money:' 'Now, then, be quiet a bit,' he says. 'You shall have your money before the evening's over,' he says. 'Or, if not, as soon as t' banks is open to-morrow mornin', he says. 'Wheer's it comin' from?' says I. 'Now never you mind,' he says. 'It's safe.' 'I don't believe a word you're sayin',' says I. 'Ye're hevin' me for t' mug, that's about it.' An' I went on so at him 'at i' t' end he tell'd me 'at he wor presently goin' to meet Pratt, an' 'at he could get t' money out o' Pratt, an' as much more as ivver he liked to ax for, 'couse he'd gotten a hold on Pratt and he meant to make t' most on it. Well, I didn't believe that theer and I said so. 'What money has Pratt?' says I. 'Pratt's nowt but a clerk, wi' happen twenty or twenty-five dollars a week.' 'That's all you know,' he says. 'Pratt's become a gold mine, and I'm goin' to dig in it a bit. What's it matter to you,' he says, 'so long as you get your money?' Well, of course, that wor true enough. All 'at I wanted just then were to handle my money. And I telled him so. 'I'll brek thy neck, Parrawhite,' I says, 'if thou doesn't bring me that theer money eyther to-night or t' first thing to-morrow—so now!' 'Don't talk rot!' he says. 'I've told you!” And he had money on him then—'nough to pay for drinks and cigars, anyway, and we had a drink or two and a smoke or two, and then he went out, sayin' he wor goin' to meet Pratt and he'd be back at my place before closin' time wi' either t' cash or what 'ud be as good. An' I waited and waited after closin' time, an' all. But I've nivver seen Parrawhite from that day to this, nor heerd on him neyther!”

Eldrick and Byner looked at each other for a moment. Then the solicitor spoke quietly and with a significance which the agent understood. “Do you want to ask Mr. Pickard any questions?” he said.

Byner nodded and turned to the landlord. “Did Parrawhite tell you where he was going to meet Pratt?” he asked.

“He did,” replied Pickard. “Near Pratt's lodgin' place.”

“Did, or does, Pratt live near you, then?”

“Closish by—happen ten minutes' walk. There's a few house, a sort 0' terrace, on t' edge o' what they call Whitcliffe Moor. Pratt lodged—lodges now, for all I know to the contrary—i' one o' them.”

“Did Parrawhite give you any idea that he was going to the house in which Pratt lodged?”

“No. He were not goin' to t' house. I know he worn't. He tell'd me 'at he'd a good idea what time Pratt 'ud be home, 'cause he knew where he was that evenin' and he were goin' to meet him just afore Pratt got to his place. I know where he'd meet him.”

“Where?” asked Byner. “Tell me exactly. It's important.”

“Pratt 'ud come up fro' t' town b' t' tram,” answered Pickard. “He'd approach this here terrace I tell'd you about by a narrow lane that runs off t' highroad. He'd meet him there, would Parrawhite.”

“Did you ever ask any question of Pratt about Parrawhite?”

“No, never! I'd no wish that Pratt should know owt about my dealin's wi' Parrawhite. When Parrawhite never come back, why, I kep' it all to myself till now.”

“What do you think happened to Parrawhite, Mr. Pickard?” asked Byner.

“I know what I think,” replied Pickard. “I think 'at if he did get any money out o' Pratt—which is what I know nowt about and hevn't much belief in—he went straightaway fro' t' town—vanished! I do know that, he nivver went back to his lodgin's that neet, 'cause I went theer mysen next day to inquire.”

Eldrick pricked up his ears at that. He remembered that he had sent Pratt to make inquiry at Parrawhite's lodgings on the morning whereon the money was missing.

“What time of the day, on the twenty-fourth, was that, Mr. Pickard?” he asked.

“Evenin', sir,” replied the landlord. “They'd nivver seen naught of him since he went out the day before. Oh, he did me, did Parrawhite' Of course, I lost t' money—two hundred and fifty dollars or more.”

Byner gave Eldrick a glance. “I think Mr. Pickard has earned the fifty dollars you offered,” he said.

Eldrick took the hint and pulled out his check book. “Of course, you're to keep all this private—strictly private, Mr. Pickard,” he said as he wrote. “Not a word to a soul.”

“Just as you order, sir,” agreed Pickard. “I'll say nowt to nobody.”

“And perhaps to-morrow, perhaps this afternoon—you'll see me at the Green Man,” remarked Byner. “I shall just drop in, you know. You needn't know me if there's anybody about.”

“All right, sir, I understand,” said Pickard. “Quiet's the word, what? Very good, much obliged to you, gentlemen.”

When the landlord had gone Eldrick motioned Byner to pick up his hat. “Come across the street with me,” he said. “I want to have a consultation with a friend of mine, a lawyer, Mr. Collingwood. For this matter is assuming a very queer aspect, and we can't move too warily nor consider all the features too thoroughly.”

Collingwood listened with deep interest to Eldrick's account of the morning's events. And once again he was struck by the fact that all these various happenings in connection with Pratt, and now with Parrawhite, took place at the time of Antony Bartle's death, and he said so.

“Will you, gentlemen, allow me to suggest something?” said Byner. “Very well, find Parrawhite. He is the likeliest person for Mr. Eldrick to extract the truth from.”

“I am following out something of my own,” said Collingwood, turning to Eldrick. “I shall know more by this time to-morrow. Let us have a conference here, at noon.”

They separated on that understanding, and Byner went out to dispatch a message to his partner in London. That message was in cipher. Translated it read as follows:

HEN Collingwood said that he was following out something of his own, he was thinking of an interesting discovery he had made. It was one which might have no significance in relation to the present perplexities. On the other hand, out of it might come a good deal of illumination. Briefly, it was the history of the famous catastrophe at Mallathorpe's Mill, whereby John Mallathorpe, his manager, and his cashier had lost their lives.

On settling down in Barford, Collingwood had spent a couple of weeks in looking about him for comfortable rooms of a sort that appealed to his love of quiet and retirement. He had found them at last in an old house on the outskirts of the town, a fine old stone house, once a farmstead, set in a large garden and tenanted by a middle-aged couple, who, having far more room than they needed for themselves, had no objection to letting part of it to a business gentleman. Collingwood fell in love with this place as soon as he saw it. He was equally pleased by his landlady, who knew how to cook a good dinner at night. With her Collingwood had soon come to terms. Mrs. Cobcroft, having no children of her own, had adopted a niece, now grown up and a teacher in an adjoining elementary school. There was a strapping, rosy-cheeked servant maid; and, finally, there was Mr. Cobcroft, a mild-mannered, quiet man, who disappeared early in the morning and was sometimes seen by Collingwood returning home in the evening. Lately, with the advancing spring Cobcroft was seen about the garden at the end of the day. Collingwood had so seen him on the evening before the talk with Eldrick and Byner, busied in setting seeds in the flower beds, and he had asked Mrs. Cobcroft if her husband was fond of gardening.

“Lt's a nice change for him, sir,” answered the landlady. “He's kept pretty close at it all day in the office yonder at Mallathorpe mill!”

“So your husband is at Mallathorpe mill, eh?” asked Collingwood.

“Been there, in the office, boy and man, over thirty years, sir,” replied Mrs. Cobcroft.

“Did he see that terrible affair there—was it two years ago?”

The landlady shook her head and let out a weighty sigh. “Aye, I should think he did!” she answered. “And a nice shock it gave him, too! He actually saw that chimney fall. Him and another clerk was looking out o' the office window when it gave way.”

Collingwood said no more then, but he determined to have a talk with Cobcroft. The next evening, seeing him in his garden again, he went out to him and got into conversation, and eventually led it to the subject of Mallathorpe's mill, the new chimney of which could be seen from a corner of the garden.

“Your wife tells me,” observed Collingwood, “that you were present when the old chimney fell at the mill yonder?”

Cobcroft, a quiet, unassuming man, usually of few words, looked along the hillside at the new chimney and nodded his head. A curious, far-away look came into his eyes. “I was, sir,” he said. “And I hope I may never see aught o' that sort again, as long as ever I live. It was one o' those things that a man can never forget.”

“It was a sudden affair?” asked Collingwood.

“It was one o' those affairs,” answered Cobcroft slowly, “that some folk had been expecting for a long time, only nobody had the sense to see that it might happen at some unexpected minute. It was a very old chimney. It looked all right, stood plumb, and all that. But Mr. Mallathorpe got an idea from two or three little things, d'you see, that it wasn't as safe as it ought to be. And he got a couple of those professional steeplejacks to examine it. They made a thorough examination, too, so far as one could tell by what they did. They'd been at the job several days when the accident happened. One of 'em had only just come down when the chimney fell. Mr. Mallathorpe himself, his manager, and his cashier, had just stepped out of the office and crossed the yard to hear what this man had got to say, when down it came! Not the slightest warning at the time. It just collapsed!”

“You saw the actual collapse?” asked Collingwood.

“Aye, didn't I!” exclaimed Cobcroft. “Another man and myself were looking out of the office window, right opposite. It fell in the queerest way, like this,” he went on, holding up his garden rake. “Supposing this shaft was the chimney, standing straight up. As we looked we saw it suddenly bulge out on all sides. It was a square chimney, same size all the way up till you got to the cornice at the top—bulged out, d'you see, just about halfway up, simultaneouslike. Then over it came with a roar that they heard over half the town. Of course, there were some two or three thousands o' tons of stuff in that chimney, and, when the dust had cleared a bit, there it was in one great heap, right across the yard. And it was a good job,” concluded Cobcroft reflectively, “that it fell straight—collapsed on itself, as you might say—for if it had fallen slanting either way, it 'ud ha' smashed right through some o', the sheds, and there'd ha' been a terrible loss of life.”

“Mr. John Mallathorpe was killed on the spot, I believe?” suggested Collingwood.

“Aye, and Gaukrodger and Marshall and the steeplejack that had just come down, and another or two,” said Cobcroft. “They'd no chance, for they were standing in a group at the very foot, talking. They were all killed there and then—instantaneous. Some were struck and injured, and one or two died. Yes, sir, I'm not likely to forget it.”

“A terrible experience,” agreed Collingwood. “It would naturally fix itself on your memory.”

“Aye. My memory's very keen about it,” said Cobcroft. “I remember every detail of that morning. And,” he continued, showing a desire to become reminiscent, “there was something happened that morning, before the accident, that I've oft thought over. It has oft puzzled me. I've never said aught to anybody about it, because us Yorkshiremen we're not given to talking about affairs that don't concern us. Well,” continued Cobcroft, “it isn't what you rightly would call a secret, though I don't think anybody knows aught about it, but myself. It was just this—and it may be there's naught in it but a mere fancy o' mine. That morning, before the accident happened, I was in and out of the private office a good deal, carrying in and out letters and account books, and so on. Mr. John Mallathorpe's private office, you'll understand, sir, opened out of our general office, as it does still. The present manager, Mr. Horsfall, has it, just as it was. Well, now, on one occasion when I went in there to take a ledger back to the safe, Mr. Mallathorpe had his manager and cashier, Gaukrodger and Marshall, in with him. Mr. Mallathorpe, he always used a stand-up desk to write at. He, Gaukrodger, and Marshall were all at this stand-up desk in the window place, signing some papers. At least, Gaukrodger had just signed a paper, and Marshall was taking the pen from him. 'Sign there, Marshall,' says Mr. Mallathorpe. And then he went on, 'Now, we'll sign the other. It's well to have these things in duplicate, in case one gets lost.' And then—well, then, I went out, and—why, that was all.”

“You've some idea in your mind about that,” said Collingwood, who had watched Cobcroft closely as he talked. “What is it?”

Cobcroft smiled and looked round as if to ascertain that they were alone. “Why,” he answered in a low tone, “I'll tell you what I did wonder some time afterward. I dare say you're aware—it was in all the papers—that Mr. Mallathorpe died intestate?”

“Yes,” answered Collingwood, “I know that.”

“I've often wondered,” continued Cobcroft, “if that could ha' been his will that they were signing. But then I reflected a bit on matters. And there were two or three things that made me say naught at all, not a word. Of course, you see, sir, supposing that to have been a will, why, the only two men who could possibly have proved that it was were dead and gone; they were killed with him. And, of course, the young people, the nephew and niece, they came in for everything, so there was an end of it. But I've oft wondered what those papers were.”

“How long was it, after you saw the signing of these papers, that the accident occurred?” asked Collingwood.

“It 'ud be twelve or fifteen minutes, as near as I can recollect,” replied Cobcroft. “A few minutes after I'd left the private office Gaukrodger came out of it alone and stood at the door leading into the yard, looking up at the chimney. The steeplejack was just coming down, and his mate was waiting for him at the bottom. Gaukrodger turned back to the private office and called Mr. Mallathorpe out. All three of 'em, Mallathorpe, Gaukrodger, Marshall, went out and walked across the yard to the chimney foot. They stood there talking a bit, and then down it came!”

Collingwood thought matters over. Supposing that the documents, which Cobcroft spoke of as being in process of execution, were indeed duplicate copies of a will, what could have been done with them in the few minutes which elapsed between the signing and the catastrophe to the chimney? It was scarcely likely that John Mallathorpe would have sent them away by post. If they had been deposited in his own pocket, they would have been found when his clothing was removed and examined.

“You're sure the drawers, safe, and so on in Mr. Mallathorpe's room were thoroughly searched after his death?” he asked.

“I should think they were!” answered Cobcroft laconically. “I helped at that myself. There wasn't as much as an old invoice that was not well fingered and turned over. No, I came to the conclusion that what I'd seen signed was some contract or something, sent off there and then by the lad to post.”

Collingwood made no further remark and asked no more questions; but he thought long and seriously that night and he came to certain conclusions. First, that what Cobcroft had seen signed was John Mallathorpe's will; second, John Mallathorpe had made it himself and had taken the unusual course of making a duplicate copy; third, John Mallathorpe had probably slipped one copy in the “History of Barford,” which was in his private office, when he went out to speak to the steeplejack; fourth, that copy had come into Linford Pratt's hands through Antony Bartle.

And now arose two big questions: What were the terms of that will? And where was the duplicate copy? He was still putting these questions to himself, when noon of the next day came and brought Eldrick and Byner for the promised consultation.