Timeworn Town (Munsey's Magazine, 1923)/Part 5

RENT glanced from the new witness, a quiet, reserved-looking man of middle age, to Simon Crood. There was a dark scowl on the prisoner's heavy features, and, Brent fancied, a look of apprehension. Once more Simon beckoned to his solicitor, and exchanged a few whispered words with him across the front of the dock, before turning to the witness. And to him Brent also turned, with an instinctive feeling that perhaps he held a key to those mysteries which had not yet been produced.

He gave his name as Matthew James Nettleton, member of the Society of Accountants and Auditors.

“Mr. Nettleton,” said Meeking, “you are borough accountant of Hathelsborough, are you not?”

The witness folded his hands on the ledge of the box and shook his head.

“No!” he answered. “Was!”

“Was? What do you mean?”

“I have resigned my appointment.”

“When?”

“Yesterday—at six o'clock last evening, to be precise.”

“May I ask why?”

“You may, sir. I resigned because I knew the inquiry just held by the inspector of the Local Government Board to be an absolute farce—because I know that the financial affairs of the borough are rotten ripe—because I utterly refuse to be a cat's-paw in the hands of the town trustees any longer. Those are my reasons.”

Tansley dug his elbow into Brent's ribs as an irrepressible murmur of surprise broke out all around the court. Brent was watching the men in the dock. Krevin Crood smiled cynically, and the smile developed into a short, sharp laugh. Simon's flabby face turned a dull red, and presently he lifted his big silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

Meeking waited a moment, letting the witness's outburst have its full effect. Then, amid a dead silence, he leaned toward the box.

“Why didn't you say all that at the recent inquiry?” he asked.

“Because it wouldn't have been a scrap of good,” retorted the witness. “Those affairs are all cut and dried. My only course was to do what I did last night—resign—and to give evidence now.”

Meeking twisted his gown together and looked at the magistrates. He ran his eye carefully along the row of faces, and finally let it settle again on his witness.

“Tell their worships, in your own fashion, your considered opinion as to the state of the borough finances,” he said. “Your opinion based on your experience.”

“They are, as I said just now, absolutely rotten,” declared Nettleton. “It is seven years since I came to this place as borough accountant. I found that, under an ancient charter, the whole of the financial business of the borough was in the hands of a small body known as the town trustees, three only in number. It is marvelous that such a body should be allowed to exist in these days. The town trustees are responsible to nobody. They elect themselves. That is to say, if one dies, the surviving two elect his successor. They are not bound to render accounts to any one. The town council, of which they are a permanent committee, only knows what they choose to tell. This has gone on for at least three centuries. It may have served some good purpose at some period, under men of strict probity, but in my opinion, based on such experience as I have been able to command, it has of late years led to nothing but secret peculation, jobbery, and knavery. As regards my own position, I have never at any time been permitted to see any accounts other than those placed before me by the town trustees. My belief is that no one but themselves actually knows what the financial condition of the town really is. I am of impression that this borough, as a borough, is bankrupt!”

There now arose a murmur in court which the chairman and officials found it difficult to suppress; but curiosity prevailed over excitement, and the silence was deep enough when Meeking got in his next question:

“You affirm all this in face of the recent inquiry?”

“I do—and strongly. The accounts shown at the recent inquiry were all carefully manipulated and arranged by the town trustees. I had nothing to do with them. They were prepared by the town trustees—chiefly, I imagine, by Mallett and Coppinger, with Crood's approval and consent. They were never shown to me. In short, my position has been this—I have had certain accounts placed before me by the town trustees, with the curt intimation that my sole duty was to see that the merely arithmetical features were correct, and to sign them as accountant.”

“Could you not have made a statement to this effect at the inquiry?”

“I could not.”

“Why?”

“Because I could not have produced the books and papers. All the books and papers to which I have ever had access are merely such things as rate books and so on—the sort of things that can't be concealed. The really important books and papers, showing the actual state of things, are in the possession of Mallett and Coppinger, who, with Crood, have never allowed anybody to see them. If I could have had those things brought before the inspector, I could have proved something; but I couldn't bring them before the court of inquiry. You can bring them before this court.”

“How?” demanded Meeking.

“Because, I take it, they bear a very sinister relation to the murder of the late mayor,” replied the witness. “He was as well aware as I am that things are all wrong.”

“You know that?”

“I know that he did his best, from such material as he could get at, to find out what the true state of things was. He worked hard at examining such accounts as were available. To my knowledge, he did his best to get at the secret accounts kept by the town trustees. He failed, and they defied him. Yet, just before his murder, he was getting at facts in a fashion which was not only unpleasant but highly dangerous to them, and they were fully aware of it.”

“Can you give us an example of any of these facts—these discoveries?”

“Yes, I can give you one in particular. Wallingford was slowly but surely getting at a knowledge of the system of secret payment which has gone on in this place for a long time, under the rule of the town trustees. He had found out the truth, for instance, as regards Krevin Crood. Krevin Crood was supposed to be paid a pension of one hundred and fifty pounds a year. In reality he was paid three hundred pounds a year. Wallingford ascertained this beyond all doubt, and that it had gone on ever since Krevin Crood's retirement from his official position. There are other men in the borough, hangers-on and supporters of the town trustees, who benefit by public money in the shape of pensions, grants, or doles. In every case the actual amount paid is much more than the amount set down in such accounts as are shown. Wallingford meant to sweep all this jobbery clean away.”

“How?”

“By getting the financial affairs of the town into the full and absolute control of the mayor and the town council. He wanted to abolish the town trustees as a body. If he had succeeded in his aims, he would have done away with all the abuses which they not only kept up, but encouraged.”

“Then, if Wallingford's reforms had been carried out, Krevin Crood would have lost one hundred and fifty pounds a year?”

“He would have lost three hundred pounds a year. Wallingford's scheme included the utter abolition of all these pensions and doles, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“And the town trustees—Crood, Mallett, Coppinger—were fully acquainted with his intentions and those of his party?”

The witness shrugged his shoulders.

“That's well known,” he answered. “They were frightened of him and his schemes to the last degree. They knew what it meant.”

“What did it mean?”

Nettleton glanced at Simon Crood, and smiled.

“Just what it has come to, at last,” he said. “Exposure and disgrace!”

“Well!” said Meeking, when a murmur of excited feeling had once more run around the court. “A more particular question, Mr. Nettleton. Did the late mayor ever come to your office in the course of his investigations?”

“He did, frequently. Not that I had much to show him; but he carefully examined all the books and papers of which I was in possession.”

“Did he make notes?”

“Notes and memoranda—yes. At considerable length, sometimes.”

“What in?”

“In a thickish memorandum book, with a stout cover of red leather, which he always carried in his pocket.”

“Could you identify that book if you saw it?”

“Certainly! Besides, you would find it full of his notes and figures.”

“That will do for the present, Mr. Nettleton—unless my friend here wants to examine you. No? Then I will recall Superintendent Hawthwaite for a moment. Superintendent, you have just heard of a certain pocketbook which belonged to the late mayor. Was it found on his dead body, or on his desk, or anywhere, after the murder? No? Not after the most careful and thorough search? Completely disappeared? Very good! Now let us have Louisa Speck.”

A smartly dressed, self-possessed young woman came forward. Tansley, nudging Brent, whispered that this was Mallett's parlor maid, and that things were getting deuced interesting.

the appearance of Louisa Speck in the witness box came as something more than an intense surprise to at any rate two particular persons in that court was evident at once to Brent's watchful eye. Mrs. Mallett, a close observer of what was going on, started as her parlor maid's name was called, and, lifting her eyeglass, surveyed the girl with a wondering stare of prolonged inspection. In the dock, Krevin Crood also let a start of astonishment escape him. He, too, stared at Louisa Speck, and a frown showed itself between his eyebrows, as if he were endeavoring to explain her presence to himself.

Suddenly the frown cleared, and Krevin indulged his fancies with a sharp laugh. Then, turning to Simon, he made some whispered observation. Simon nodded sullenly, as if he comprehended; and from that point forward he kept his small eyes firmly fixed on the witness.

Tansley, too, noticed these things, and bent toward his companion with a meaning glance.

“This young woman knows something,” he muttered; “and those two chaps in the dock know what it is!”

The young woman upon whom all eyes were fixed was perhaps the most self-possessed person present. She answered the preliminary questions as coolly as if she had been giving evidence in murder cases as a regular thing. Louisa Speck—twenty-six years of age—been in the employ of Mrs. Mallett, of the Bank House, for three years—still in that employment, as far as she knew. What did she mean by that? Well, that Mrs. Mallett had left the house some days before, and that since yesterday afternoon Mr. Mallett had not been there. Accordingly, neither she nor the other servants knew exactly how things stood.

“Just so,” observed Meeking. “Somewhat uncertain, eh? Very well!”

He paused for a moment, glanced at his papers, and suddenly leaned forward toward the witness box with a sharp, direct look at its occupant.

“Now, then!” he said. “When did you first hear of the murder of the late mayor, Mr. Wallingford?”

Louisa Speck's answer came promptly.

“The night it happened.”

“What time? And who told you of it?”

“About nine o'clock. Robertshaw, the policeman, told me. I was at the front door, looking out on the Market Square, and he was going past.”

“I see! So you remember that evening very well?”

“Quite well.”

“Do you remember the previous evening equally well?”

“Yes.”

“Were you at the Bank House that evening—the evening before the murder?”

“I was.”

“What was going on there that evening? Anything that makes you particularly remember it?”

“Yes.”

“What, now?”

“Well, Mrs. Mallett went away that day to visit her sister, Mrs. Coppinger, for a day or two. About noon, Mr. Mallett told me and cook that he wanted to have some gentlemen to dinner that evening, and we were to prepare accordingly.”

“I see! Sort of special dinner, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Did the gentlemen come?”

“Yes.”

“Who were they?”

“Mr. Coppinger and Alderman Crood.”

“What time was that?”

“Between six and half past.”

“What happened after their arrival?”

“They went into the morning room with Mr. Mallett. I took some brown sherry in there, and glasses. Soon after that, Mr. Mallett went out. I was just inside the dining room as he crossed the hall. He told me there would very likely be another gentleman to dinner, and I must lay an other cover. He went out, then, and was away about ten minutes. Then he came back with Mr. Krevin Crood.”

“Came back with Mr. Krevin Crood! Did you see them come in together?”

“I let them in.”

“Did you hear anything said as they entered?”

“Yes—I heard Mr. Krevin Crood say that he wasn't dressed for dinner parties. Mr. Mallett then told me to take Mr. Krevin upstairs and get him anything he wanted.”

“Did you take Mr. Krevin upstairs?”

“Yes—I took him up to Mr. Mallett's dressing room. I showed him the hot water arrangement, got him clean towels, and asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted a clean shirt, a collar, and a handkerchief.”

“A handkerchief?”

“Yes—a handkerchief.”

“Did you get him these things?”

“I showed him where to get them. I opened the drawers in which Mr. Mallett's shirts, collars, and handkerchiefs are kept, so that he could help himself. Then I asked him if there was anything more I could get him. He said there was nothing but a clothes brush. I got him that, and left him.”

“When did you see him next?”

“About twenty minutes after, when he came downstairs and went into the morning room to the other gentlemen.”

“Was he smartened up then?”

“He was smart enough—smarter than the others, I should say.”

“Had he taken one of Mr. Mallett's shirts?”

“Yes—one of his very best white ones.”

“Very good! Now, then, talking about shirts, who looks after the laundry affairs at the Bank House?”

“I do.”

“You send the linen to the laundry?”

“Yes.”

“And receive it and put it away when it comes back?”

“Yes.”

“When does it go, and when does it return?”

“It goes on Monday morning and comes home on Saturday afternoon.”

“Do you put the linen away on Saturday afternoon?”

“Not finally. It goes into a hot cupboard, to air. Then on Monday, some time, I sort it out and put it away in the proper place.”

“I see! Do you remember sorting it out and putting away the different articles in their proper places on the Monday before this little dinner party?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Did you notice the presence of any article which didn't belong to the Mallett family?”

“Yes—at least, I was doubtful.”

“Doubtful, eh? Well, what was it?”

“A gentleman's handkerchief.”

“You say you weren't sure that it was Mr. Mallett's?”

“I wasn't sure that it wasn't, but I didn't think it was.”

“Why were you uncertain?”

“Well, this wasn't like Mr. Mallett's handkerchiefs. He has dozens of them, nearly all fancy ones, with colored borders. This was a very fine cambric handkerchief—I'd never seen one like it before. Still, I wasn't certain that it wasn't Mr. Mallett's, after all.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes, when Mr. Mallett was away for the day, he'd buy a spare handkerchief. He has a lot of odd handkerchiefs that he's brought home in his pockets. I thought this might have been got that way.”

“You didn't mention its presence to anybody?”

“No—I didn't think of it.”

“Well, what did you do with the handkerchief about which you were doubtful?”

“I laid it on top of one of several piles of handkerchiefs that were in Mr. Mallett's handkerchief drawer in the dressing room.”

“Why did you put it on top?”

“In case any inquiry should be made about it from Marriner's Laundry.”

“Was any inquiry made?”

“No.”

“Was the drawer you have just spoken of the drawer that you pulled open for Mr. Krevin Crood?”

“Yes.”

“Was the handkerchief there then?”

“Yes, it was there.”

“You saw it?”

“I saw it.”

“Have you ever seen it since?”

“Never.”

“Do you know if Mr. Krevin Crood took it out of the drawer?”

“No.”

“Did you see it in his possession that evening?”

“No, I didn't; but it wasn't in the drawer next morning.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Positive. I went into Mr. Mallett's dressing room very early next morning, and I noticed that Mr. Krevin had left the drawers half open. The handkerchief drawer stuck a little, and I pulled it right out before pushing it in. I noticed then that the handkerchief had gone.”

“Did you conclude that Mr. Krevin had taken it?”

“No—I don't think so. I didn't conclude anything. If I thought anything, it would be that Mr. Mallett had taken it. Mr. Mallett would think nothing of taking half a dozen handkerchiefs a day.”

“The handkerchief was there when you opened the drawer for Mr. Krevin that evening, and it wasn't there when you looked into the drawer the next morning, early—that so?”

“Yes, that's so.”

“Very well! Now, then, about this little dinner. Mr. Mallett had three guests—Mr. Simon Crood, Mr. Krevin Crood, Mr, Coppinger? Nobody else?”

“No—no one else.”

“Was it a nice dinner?”

“It was a very good dinner.”

“Wine?”

“There were several sorts of wine.”

“What time was dinner?”

“About a quarter past seven.”

“And what time did the gentlemen rise from table?”

“They didn't rise from table. When dinner was over, Mr. Mallett decanted some very special port that he has in the wine cellar, and they settled down to it around the dinner table, talking.”

“I see! Did you hear any of the conversation at the table?”

“No, I didn't. I carried two decanters of the port into the dining room for Mr. Mallett, and got out port glasses from the sideboard. After that I never went into the room again.”

“Until what hour did Mr. Mallett's guests remain with him?”

“Well, Alderman Crood and Mr. Krevin Crood left at about a quarter to eleven. They went away together. Mr. Coppinger stopped till about half past eleven.”

Meeking paused at this point, put his hand underneath the papers which lay in front of him, and produced a cardboard box. From this, after slowly undoing various wrappings, he took the fragment of stained and charred handkerchief which had been found in the mayor's parlor, and passed it across to the witness.

“Take that in your hand and look at it carefully,” he said. “Now, do you recognize that as part of the handkerchief to which I have been referring?”

“It's the same sort of stuff,” replied Louisa. “I should say it was part of that handkerchief. It's just like it.”

“Same material—an unusual material?”

“I think it is the same handkerchief. It's an unusually broad hem—I noticed that at the time.”

“To the best of your belief, is that the handkerchief you've been talking about?”

“Yes,” declared Louisa Speck, this time without hesitation. “It is.”

Meeking sat down and glanced at Simon Crood's solicitor. Stedman promptly accepted the challenge, and, rising, threw some scornful meaning into his first question to the witness.

“Who got you to tell all this tale?” he asked satirically. “Who got at you?”

Louisa Speck bridled.

“Nobody got at me!” she retorted. “What do you mean by such a question?”

“You don't mean to tell their worships that you haven't been induced to come forward and tell all this?” suggested Stedman incredulously. “Come, now! Who helped you to refresh your memory, and to put all this together?”

“Nobody helped me,” replied Louisa Speck, with rising indignation. “Do you think I'm not capable of doing things on my own? I can use my eyes and ears as well as you can, and perhaps better!”

“Answer my question,” said Stedman, as a laugh rose against him. “Who got you to go to the police?”

“Nobody got me to go to the police. I went to the police on my own account. I read the newspaper about what took place at the inquest—the last inquest, I mean—and as soon as I heard about the handkerchief, I knew very well that that was the one I'd noticed in our laundry, and so I went to see Mr. Hawthwaite. Mr. Hawthwaite has known what I had to tell you for a good while now.”

Stedman was taken aback; but he put a definite question.

“On your oath, did you see that handkerchief in Mr. Krevin Crood's possession the night that he was at Mr. Mallett's?” he asked.

“I've already told him I never did,” retorted Louisa Speck, pointing at Meeking. “I didn't see him with it; but I'm very certain he got it.”

Stedman waved the witness away, and Meeking proceeded to put in the depositions taken before the coroner in regard to the finding of the fragment of handkerchief and its ownership. He called evidence to show that the piece just produced was that which had been picked up from the hearth in the mayor's parlor on the evening of the murder, soon after the finding of the dead man, and to prove that it had remained in the custody of the police ever since. The fragment went the round of the bench of magistrates, and Tansley whispered to Brent that if Meeking could prove that Krevin Crood had taken that handkerchief out of a drawer in Mallett's dressing room, and had thrown it away on the following evening in the mayor's parlor, Krevin's neck was in danger.

“But there's a link missing yet,” he murmured. “How did Krevin get at Wallingford? They've got to prove that! However, Meeking's evidently well primed, and knows what he's after. What's coming next?”

What came next was the glancing of the barrister's eye toward a venerable, gray-bearded man who sat in the front row of spectators, leaning on a gold-headed cane. He rose as Meeking looked at him, and came slowly forward—a curious figure in those somber surroundings.

a certain amount of whispering and nodding that went on around him, Brent gathered that this ancient gentleman was not unknown to many of those present. Tansley was turning to him, ready, as always, with information.

“That's old Dr. Septimus Pellery,” he whispered. “Tremendous big pot on antiquarianism, archæology, and that sort of stuff. Used to live here in Hathelsborough, years ago, when I was a youngster. I should have thought he was dead, long since. Wonder where they unearthed him, and what he's here for? No end of a swell in his own line, anyhow.”

Meeking seemed determined to impress on the court the character and extent of Dr. Pellery's qualifications as an expert in archæological matters. Addressing him in an almost reverential manner, he proceeded to enumerate the witness's distinctions.

“Dr. Pellery, you are, I believe, a fellow of the Society of Antiquaries?”

“I have that honor.”

“And a member of more than one archæological society?”

“I am.”

“And a corresponding member of various foreign societies of a similar sort?”

“For many years.”

“You are also, I think, a D. C. L. of the university of Oxford?”

“Yes.”

“And the author of many books and articles on your pet subject—archæology?”

“That is so.”

“Am I right, Dr. Pellery, in believing that you are thoroughly well acquainted with the archæology, antiquities, and ancient architecture of this town?”

“Quite right. I lived here for several years—ten or eleven years.”

“That was—when?”

“It is about twenty years since I left this place.”

“You made a close study of it while you were resident here?”

“A very close study. Hathelsborough, from my point of view, is one of the most interesting towns in England. While I lived here, I accumulated a mass of notes respecting its history and antiquities, with the idea of writing a monograph on the borough; but I have never made use of the material.”

“Let us hope that you will still do so, Dr. Pellery,” said Meeking, with a suave smile and a polite bow.

But Dr. Pellery shook his head and stroked his long beard. A cynical smile played around his wrinkled eyes.

“No—I don't think I ever shall,” he said. “Indeed, I'm sure I shan't.”

“May I ask why?”

“You may. The reason is that there aren't twenty people in Hathelsborough who would buy such a book. Hathelsborough people don't care twopence about the history of their old town. All they care about is money. This case is a proof!”

“I think we'll get back to the case,” said Meeking, amid a ripple of laughter. “Well, we may consider you as the greatest living expert on Hathelsborough, Dr. Pellery, and eminently fitted to give us some very important evidence. Do you know the ancient church of St. Laurence, at the back of this Moot Hall?”

“Aye, as well as I know my own face in the glass,” answered Dr. Pellery, with a short laugh. “I know practically every stone of it.”

“It is, I believe, a very old church?”

“It is the oldest church, not only in Hathelsborough, which is saying a good deal, but in all this part of the county,” replied the witness with emphasis. “St. Hathelswide, the parish church, is old, but St. Laurence antedates it by at least five hundred years. The greater part of St. Laurence, as it now stands, was complete in the eighth century. St. Hathelswide was built in the thirteenth.”

Meeking produced a large chart, evidently made for the occasion, and had it set up on the table, in full view of the bench and the witness box.

“From this plan, Dr. Pellery, it appears that the west tower, a square tower, of St. Laurence immediately faces the back of the Moot Hall. Between the outer wall of the tower and the outer wall of the Moot Hall there is a sort of connecting wall—”

“Not a sort of,” interrupted Dr. Pellery. “It is a connecting wall, thirty-six feet long, ten feet high, and eight feet in width, forming an arch over the street beneath—the narrow street called St. Laurence Lane.”

“It is an uncommon feature, that wall?” suggested Meeking.

“Comparatively, yes. I know of other places where ancient buildings are so joined. But there are few examples.”

“Well, I want to ask you a very important question about that connecting wall. Is there a secret way through that wall from St. Laurence's tower to the Moot Hall?”

Dr. Pellery drew himself up, stroked his beard, and glanced around the court. Then he gave Meeking an emphatic nod.

“There is. I discovered it myself, years ago. I have always thought that I was the only living person who knew of it.”

Meeking let this answer soak in to the mentality of his hearers. Then he said quietly:

“Will you tell us all about your discovery, Dr. Pellery?”

“Enough for your purpose,” replied the witness. “You have there, I believe, a sectional drawing of the tower. Give it to me. Now,” he continued, holding up a sheet of stout paper, and illustrating his remarks with the tip of his forefinger, “I will show you what I mean. The tower of St. Laurence is eighty feet in height. It is divided into three sections. The lower section, the most considerable of the three, forms a western porch to the church itself, which is entered from it by a Norman arch. Above this is the middle section; above that the upper section, wherein are three ancient bells. The middle and upper sections are reached from the lower by a newel stair, set in the southwest angle of the tower. The middle section has for many centuries been a beamed and paneled chamber, from which the bells are rung, and wherein are stored a good many old things belonging to the church—chiefly in ancient chests. During the years that I lived in Hathelsborough I spent a great deal of time in this chamber. Mr. Goodbody, then vicar of St. Laurence, allowed me to examine anything I found stored there. It was among the muniments and registers of St. Laurence, indeed, that I found a great deal of valuable information about the history of the town. Well, I have just said that this chamber, this middle section of the tower, is paneled. It is paneled from the oak flooring to within two feet of the oak beams in its ceiling, and the paneling, though it is probably four hundred years old, is still in an excellent state of preservation.

“Now, about the middle of the last year that I spent in this town, I began to be puzzled about the connecting wall between the tower of St. Laurence and the Moot Hall. I saw no reason for building an arch at that point. Certainly it had not been built as a support, for the masonry of the tower and of the hall is unusually solid. I got the idea that that wall had originally been built as a means of communication between tower and hall; that it was hollow, and that at each extremity there was a secret means of entrance and exit. I knew from experience that this sort of thing was common in Hathelsborough. The older part of the town is a veritable rabbit warren. There is scarcely a house in the Market Place, for instance, in which there is not a double staircase, the inner one being very cleverly concealed. I know of several secret ways and passages, entered on one side of a street, and terminating far off on another. There is an underground way beneath the Market Place, which is entered at the barbican in the castle, and which terminates in St. Faith's Chapel in St. Hathelswide's Church. There is another, also underground, from St. Matthias's Hospital to the God's House in Cripple Lane. As I say, the old town is honeycombed; so there would be, of course, nothing unusual or remarkable in the presence of a secret passage between the tower of St. Laurence and the Moot Hall. The only thing was that there was no record of any such passage through the connecting wall. No one had ever heard of it, and there were no signs of entrance to it either in the tower or in the Moot Hall. However, I discovered it, by careful and patient investigation of the paneling in the chamber I have mentioned. The paneling is divided, on each wall of the chamber, into seven compartments. The fourth compartment on the outer wall slides back, and gives access to a passage cut through the arch across St. Laurence Lane and so to the Moot Hall.”

“There's one man here who knows all this!” whispered Tansley in Brent's ear. “Look at Krevin Crood!”

Krevin was smiling. There was something unusually cynical in his smile, but to Brent it conveyed more than cynical amusement. There was in it the suggestion of assurance. Krevin, decided Brent, had something up his sleeve.

But the other people present were still intent on the old antiquary. Having finished his explanation, he looked at the chart that Meeking had placed before him, and seemed satisfied with what he had said. Meeking, however, wanted more.

“To the Moot Hall!” he repeated. “Well, Dr. Pellery, and where does this passage emerge in the Moot Hall?”

“Just so,” said Dr. Pellery. “That, of course, is important. Well, the wall or arch between the tower of St. Laurence and the Moot Hall, on reaching the outer wall of the latter, is continued from that outer wall along the right-hand side of the corridor off which the extremely ancient chamber known as the mayor's parlor is situated. If close examination is made of that wall, you will find that it is eight feet thick; but it is not a solid wall. The secret passage I have mentioned runs through it, to a point halfway along the length of the mayor's parlor; and access to the mayor's parlor is had by a secret door in the paneling of that chamber—just as in the case of the chamber in the church tower.”

“You investigated all this yourself, Dr. Pellery?”

“Discovered and investigated it.”

“And kept the secret to yourself?”

“I did. I saw no reason for communicating it to any one.”

“However, as you discovered it, it was not impossible that others should make the same discovery?”

“It is very evident that somebody has discovered it!” replied the witness, with emphasis.

“Now, you say that it is about twenty years since you made this discovery. Have you been in the tower of St. Laurence since?”

“Yes. Superintendent Hawthwaite has been in communication with me—privately—about this matter for some little time. I came to Hathelsborough yesterday, and in the afternoon he and I visited the tower, and I showed him the secret way and the doors in the paneling. We passed from the tower into the mayor's parlor—as you or any one may, just now, if you know the secret of the sliding panels.”

“Is it what you would call a difficult secret?”

“Not a bit of it, once you have hit on the exact spot at which to exert a pressure. The panels are then moved back quite easily.”

“Your evidence, then, Dr. Pellery, comes to this—there is a secret passage through the apparently solid arch in St. Laurence Lane, which leads direct from the middle chamber in the tower of St. Laurence to the mayor's parlor in the Moot Hall. Is that correct?”

Dr. Pellery made an old-fashioned bow.

“That is absolutely correct.”

“I am sure the court is greatly obliged to you, sir,” said Meeking, responding to the old man's courtesy.

He looked around, and, seeing that Stedman made no sign, glanced at the policeman who stood by the witness box.

“Call Stephen Spizey!” he commanded. Spizey moved ponderously into the box, in all the glory of his time-honored livery. He looked very big, and very consequential, and unusually glum. Meeking, who was not a Hathelsborough man, glanced quizzingly at Spizey's grandeur and at the cocked hat which the town crier placed on the ledge before him.

“Er—you're some sort of a corporation official, aren't you, Spizey?” he suggested.

“Apparitor to his worshipful the mayor of Hathelsborough,” responded Spizey, in his richest tones. “Mace bearer to his worship, town crier, bellman, steward of the pound, steward of High Cross and Low Cross, summoner of Thursday Market, convener of Saturday Market, receiver of dues and customs—”

“You appear to be a good deal of a pluralist!” interrupted Meeking. “Are you caretaker of St. Laurence's church?”

“I am.”

“Do you live in a cottage at the corner of St. Laurence's churchyard?”

“I do.”

“Do you remember the evening on which Mr. Wallingford was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“At seven o'clock of that evening were you in your cottage?”

“I was.”

“Did Mr. Krevin Crood come to your cottage door about seven o'clock, and ask you for the keys of St. Laurence?”

“He did.”

“Did he say why he wanted to go into the church?”

“Yes—to write out a hinscription for a London gent as wanted it.”

“Did you give him the keys?”

“I did.”

“Did you see him go into the church?”

“Yes, and L heard him lock himself inside it.”

“Did he eventually bring the keys back?”

“Not to me—to my missis.”

Meeking waved Spizey's magnificence aside, and called for Mrs. Spizey. Mrs. Spizey, too, readily remembered the evening under discussion, and said so, with a sniff which seemed to indicate decided disapproval of her memories. respecting it.

“What were you doing that evening, Mrs. Spizey?” asked Meeking.

“Which for the most part of it, sir, I was a washing of that very floor as you're a standing on, sir, me being cleaner to the Moot Hall. That 'ud be from six to eight.”

“Then you went home, I suppose?”

“I did, sir, and very thankful to!”

“Was your husband at home?”

“He were not, sir. Which Spizey had gone out to have his glass, sir, as is his custom.”

“Did Mr. Krevin Crood come to you with the keys of the church?”

“He did, sir. Which the clock had just struck eight. And remarked, sir, that the light was failing, and that his eyes wasn't as strong as they had been. Pleasant like, sir.”

“I see! Had Mr. Krevin Crood any papers in his hand?”

“He had papers in his hand, sir, or under his arm.”

“And that was just after eight o'clock?”

“The clocks had just struck it, sir.”

Meeking nodded his dismissal of Mrs. Spizey. It was plain that he was getting near the end of his case, and his manner became sharp and almost abrupt.

“Call Detective Sergeant Welton,” he said. “Welton, were you present when Superintendent Hawthwaite arrested the prisoner Krevin Crood, and afterward when the other prisoner, Simon Crood, was taken into custody?”

“I was, sir.”

“Did you afterward, on Superintendent Hawthwaite's instructions, search Krevin lodgings and Simon Crood's house?”

“I did, sir.”

“Tell their worships what you found.”

“I first made a search at the rooms occupied by Krevin Crood, in Little Bailey Gate. I there found, in an old writing case kept in his bedroom, a quantity of papers and documents in the handwriting of the late mayor, Mr. Wallingford. I handed these over to Superintendent Hawthwaite. I now produce them. There are fifty-six separate papers in all. I have gone through them carefully. All relate to the financial affairs of the borough. Several are stained with blood.”

There was a shiver of horror among the women present as the witness handed over a sheaf of various-sized papers, indicating where the stains lay. But the even-toned, matter-of-fact, coldly official voice went on.

“Later, I made a search of the prisoner Simon Crood's house at the Tannery. In a desk, in a room which he uses as a private office, I discovered more papers and documents similar to those that I had found at Krevin Crood's lodgings. I produce these. There are seventeen separate papers. All are in the handwriting of the late Mr. Wallingford. I also found, in a drawer in Simon Crood's bedroom, a memorandum book, bound in red leather, the greater part of which is filled with notes and figures made by the late mayor. I produce this, too. I also identify it as a book which the late mayor was in the habit of carrying about with him. I have frequently seen him make use of it.”

While every neck was craned forward to catch a glimpse of the memorandum book, Tansley suddenly saw Krevin Crood making signals to him from the dock. He drew Brent's attention to the fact, and then went down into the well of the court and over to Krevin.

Brent watched them curiously. It seemed to him that Krevin was asking Tansley's advice, and that Tansley was dissuading Krevin from adopting some particular course. They conversed for some minutes, while the magistrates were examining the memorandum book and the papers. Simon Crood joined in, and seemed to agree with Tansley; but suddenly Krevin turned away from both with a decisive gesture, and advanced to the front of the dock.

“Your worships!” he exclaimed in a loud, compelling tone. “I have had quite enough of this farce! I desire to make a full and important statement!”

the admonitions of the presiding magistrate, and the stern voices of sundry officials posted here and there about the court, a hubbub of excited comment and murmur broke out on Krevin Crood's dramatic announcement. Nor was the excitement confined to the public benches and galleries. Around the solicitors' table there ensued a putting together of heads and an exchange of whisperings. Even on the bench itself, crowded to its full extent, some of the magistrates so far forgot their judicial position as to bend toward one another with muttered words and knowing looks.

Suddenly, from somewhere in the background, a strident voice made its tones heard above the commotion:

“He knows! Let him tell what he knows! Let's hear all about it!”

“Silence!” commanded the chairman. “If this goes on, I shall have the court cleared. Any further interruption—” He interrupted himself, glancing dubiously at Krevin. “I think you would be well advised to—”

“I want no advice!” retorted Krevin. Simon had been at his elbow, anxious and pleading, for the last minute. He, it was very evident, was sorely concerned by Krevin's determination to speak. “I claim my right to have my say, and I shall have it. This has gone on long enough, and I don't propose to have it go on any longer. I had nothing to do with the murder of Wallingford, but I know who had, and I'm not going to keep the knowledge to myself, now that things have come to this pass. You'd better listen to a plain and straightforward tale, instead of to bits of a story here and bits of a story there!”

The chairman turned to those of his brother magistrates who were sitting nearest to him on the bench. After a whispered consultation with them and with the clerk, he nodded, not overgraciously, at the defiant figure in the dock.

“We will hear your statement,” he said. “You had better go into the witness box and make it on oath.”

Krevin moved across to the witness box with alacrity, and went through the usual formalities as only a practiced hand could. He smiled cynically as he folded his fingers together on the ledge of the box and faced the excited listeners.

“As there's no one to ask me any questions—at this stage, anyhow—I'd better tell my story in my own fashion,” he said. “To save time and needless explanations, let me begin by saying that as far as it went, all the evidence your worships have heard, from the police, from Louisa Speck, from Dr. Pellery, from Spizey and his wife, from everybody, I think, is substantially correct—entirely correct, I might say, for I don't remember anything that I could contradict. The whole point is—what does it lead up to? In the opinion of the police, to identifying me with the actual murder of John Wallingford, and my brother there with being accessory to the crime. The police, as usual, are absolutely and entirely at fault. I did not kill Wallingford, and accordingly my brother could not be an accessory to what I did not do and never had the remotest intention of doing. Now you shall hear how circumstantial evidence, brought to a certain point, is of no value whatever if it can't be carried past that point. Hawthwaite has got his evidence to a certain point, and now he's up against a blank wall. He doesn't know what lies behind that blank wall. I do, and I'm the only person in this world who does.

“Now listen to a plain, truthful, unvarnished account of the real facts. On the evening of the day before Wallingford's murder, between half past six and seven o'clock, I was in the big saloon at Bull's Snug. Mallett came in, evidently in search of somebody. It turned out that I was the person he was looking for. He told me that his wife was away, and that he was giving a little dinner party to my brother Simon and to Coppinger. They were already at his house, and he and they were anxious that I should join them. Now I knew quite enough of my brother Simon, and of Coppinger, and of Mallett himself, to know that if they wanted my company it was with some ulterior motive; and, being a straightforward man, I said so there and then. Mallett admitted it. They had, he said, a matter of business to propose to me. I had no objection, and I went with him. What the girl Louisa Speck has told you about what happened after I entered the Bank House is quite correct. She took me up into Mallett's dressing room, showed me where I could get what I wanted, and left me to make my toilet. I helped myself to clean linen, and I have no doubt whatever that the handkerchief which I took from one of the drawers that the girl opened for me was the handkerchief of Dr. Wellesley's of which we have heard so much in this case.

“Having made my toilet, I went downstairs and joined my host and his other guests. We had a glass or two of Mallett's excellent sherry, and in due course we dined—dined very well indeed. When dinner was over, Mallett got up some of his old port, and we settled down to our business talk. I very quickly discovered why I had been brought into it. What we may call the war between Wallingford, as leader of the reform party, and the town trustees, as representatives of the old system, had come to a definite stage, and Mallett, Coppinger, and my brother Simon realized that it was high time to open negotiations with the enemy. They wanted, in short, to come to terms, and they were anxious that I, as a lawyer, as a man thoroughly acquainted with the affairs of the borough, and as a former official of high standing, should act as intermediary, or ambassador, or go-between, whatever you like to call it, in the matter at issue between them and Wallingford. Of course, I was willing.

“Mallett acted as chief spokesman in putting matters plainly before me. He said that Wallingford, since his election as mayor of Hathelsborough, had found out a lot—a great deal more than they wished him to know. He had accumulated facts, figures, statistics; he had.contrived to possess himself of a vast amount of information, and he was steadily and persistently accumulating more. There was no doubt whatever, said Mallett, as to what were the intentions of Wallingford and his party—though up to then Wallingford's party did not know all that Wallingford knew. There was to be a clean sweep of everything that existed under the town trustee system. The town trustees themselves were to go. All pensions were to be done away with. All secret payments and transactions were to be unearthed and prohibited for the future. The entire financial business of the town was to be placed in the care of the elected officials. In short, everything was to be turned upside down, and the good old days were to cease. That was what was to happen if Wallingford went triumphantly on his way.

“But it was the belief of Mallett, and of Coppinger, and of my brother Simon, that Wallingford's way could be barred. How? Well, all three believed that Wallingford could be bought off. They believed that Wallingford had his price; that he could be got at; that he could be squared. All three of them are men who believe that every man has his price. I believe that myself, and I'm not ashamed of voicing my belief. Every man can be bought, if you can only agree on a price with him. Now, the town trustees knew that Wallingford had ambitions. They knew what some of his ambitions were, and of one in particular. They proposed to buy him in that way, and they commissioned me to see him privately, and to offer him certain terms.

“The terms were these—if Wallingford would drop his investigations, and remain quiet for the remaining period of his mayoralty, the town trustees would agree to the making and carrying out of certain minor reforms, which should be engineered by and credited to Wallingford, in order to save his face with his party. Moreover, they would guarantee to Wallingford a big increase in his practice as a solicitor, and they would promise him their united support when a vacancy arose in the Parliamentary representation of Hathelsborough—which vacancy, they knew, would occur within the year, as the sitting member had intimated his intention of resigning. This last was the big card I was to play. We all knew that Wallingford was extremely desirous of Parliamentary honors, and that he was very well aware that with the town trustees on his side he would win handsomely, whoever was brought against him. I was to play that card for all it was worth. Not a man of us doubted that Wallingford would be tempted by the bait, and would swallow it.”

Brent leaped to his feet and flung a scornful exclamation across the court.

“Then not a man of you knew him!” he cried. “He would have flung your bribe back into the dirty hands that offered it to him!”

Krevin Crood smiled more cynically than ever.

“That's all you know, young man,” he retorted. “You'll know more when you're my age. Well,” he continued, turning his back on Brent and again facing the bench, “that was the situation. I was to act as ambassador, and, if I succeeded in my embassy, I was to be well paid for my labor.”

“By the town trustees?” inquired the chairman.

“By the town trustees, certainly,” replied Krevin. “Who else would pay me? As my principals—”

“I think you will have to tell us what fee, or payment, you were to have,” interrupted the chairman. “If—”

“Oh, as the whole thing has come to nothing, I don't mind telling that,” said Krevin. “I shall never get it now, so why not talk of it? I was to have a thousand pounds.”

“As a reward for inducing the mayor to withhold from the public certain information which he had acquired as regards the unsatisfactory condition of the borough finances?” asked the chairman.

“Ye-es, if you put it that way,” assented Krevin. “You might put it another way, as regards the mayor. He was just to let things slide.”

“Go on, if you please,” said the chairman dryly. “We understand.”

“Well,” continued Krevin cheerfully, “we settled my mission over Mallett's port. The next thing was for me to carry it out. It was necessary to do this immediately, for we knew that Wallingford had carried his investigations to such an advanced stage that he might make their results public at any moment. Now, I did not want any one to know of my meeting with him. I wanted it to be absolutely secret, and I knew how to bring that about. Wallingford spent nearly every evening alone in the mayor's parlor. I knew how to reach the mayor's parlor unobserved. The secret of which Dr. Pellery has just told you was also known to me, for I discovered the passage between the tower of St. Laurence and the Moot Hall many years ago; and I determined to get at Wallingford by way of that passage.

“About seven o'clock of the evening on which Wallingford was murdered, I called at Spizey's cottage in St. Laurence's churchyard, and got the keys of the church from him, on the excuse that I wanted to copy an inscription. I locked myself into the church and went up to the chamber in the tower. I spent some little time there, considering the details of my plan of campaign, before going along the secret passage. It would be about half past seven, perhaps a little later, when at last I slipped open the panel and crossed over to the Moot Hall. The panel at the other end of the passage, which admits to the mayor's parlor, is the fifth one on the left-hand side of that room. I undid it very cautiously and silently. There was then no one in the parlor. All was silent. I looked through the crack of the panel. There was no one in the place at all. Incidentally, I may mention that when I thus took an observation of the parlor, I noticed that on an old oak chest, standing by the wainscoting, and immediately behind the mayor's chair and desk, lay the rapier which was produced at the inquest, and with which, undoubtedly, he was killed.

“Suddenly the handle of the door into the corridor was turned, and I heard Wallingford's voice. I slipped the panel back till it was nearly closed, and stood with my ear against it, listening. Wallingford was not alone. He had a woman with him. From their first exchange of words I made out that he had met her in the corridor just outside the door of the mayor's parlor, and that they were quarreling, and both in high temper. I—”

“Stop!” exclaimed the chairman, lifting his hand, as an excited murmur began to run round the court. “Silence! If there is any interruption—” He turned to Krevin. “You say that you heard Mr. Wallingford come into the mayor's parlor, and that he was accompanied by a woman, with whom he was having high words. Did you see this woman?”

“No—I saw neither her nor Wallingford. I only heard their voices.”

“Did you recognize her voice as that of any woman you knew?”

“I did, unmistakably. I knew quite well who she was.”

“Who was she, then?”

Krevin shook his head.

“For the moment, wait!” he replied. “Let me tell my tale in my own way. To resume, I say that they—she and Wallingford—were having high words. I could tell, for instance, that he was in a temper which I should call furious. I overheard all that was said. As they entered the room, he asked how she had got there. She replied that she had watched Mrs. Bunning out of her house, from among the bushes in St. Laurence's churchyard, and had then slipped in at Bunning's back door, being absolutely determined to see him, Wallingford. He answered that she would get no good by waylaying him; he had found her out and was done with her; she was an impostor, an adventuress; she had come to the end of her tether. She then demanded some letters—her letters. There were excited words about this from each, and it was not easy to catch all that was said. At times they were both speaking together; but she got in a clear demand at last—was he or was he not going to hand those letters over? He said no, he was not. They were going to remain in his possession as a hold over her. She was a danger to the community, with her plottings and underhand ways, and he intended to show certain of those letters to others. There was more excited wrangling over this. I heard Dr. Wellesley's name mentioned, then Mallett's. I also heard some reference, of which I couldn't make head or tail, to money and documents. In the midst of all this Wallingford suddenly told her to go. He had had enough of it, he said, and had his work to attend to. Once more she demanded the letters, and he answered with a very peremptory negative. I heard a sound as of his chair being pulled up to his desk, followed by a brief silence. Then, all of a sudden, I heard another sound, half cry, half groan, and a sort of dull thud, as if something had fallen. A moment later, as I was wondering what had happened, and what to do, I heard the door which opens into the corridor close very gently. At that I pushed back the panel and looked into the mayor's parlor.”

It seemed to Brent that every soul in the place, from the gray-haired chairman on the bench to the stolid-faced official by the witness box, was holding his breath, and that every eye was fastened on Krevin Crood with an irresistible fascination. There was a terrible silence in the court as Krevin paused, terminated by an involuntary sigh of relief as he made signs of speaking again.

In that instant, Brent saw Mrs. Elstrick, the tall, gaunt woman of whom he had heard at least one mysterious piece of news from Hawthwaite, quietly slip out of her place near the outer door and vanish. He saw, too, that no one but himself saw her go, so absorbed were all others in what was coming.

“When I saw—what I did see,” continued Krevin, in a low, concentrated tone, “I went in. The mayor was lying across his desk, still, quiet. I touched his shoulder, and got blood on my fingers. I knew then what had happened—the woman had snatched up the rapier and run him through. I pulled out my handkerchief—the handkerchief I had taken from Mallett's drawer—wiped my hand, and threw the handkerchief in the fire. Then I took up a mass of papers and a memorandum book which Wallingford had laid down, and went away by the passage. That is the plain truth. I should never have told it if I hadn't been arrested. I care nothing at all that Wallingford was killed by this woman—not I! I shouldn't have cared if she had gone scot-free; but if it's going to be my neck or hers, well, I prefer it to be hers. And there you are!”

“Once again,” said the chairman, “who was this woman?”

Krevin Crood might have been answering the most casual of casual questions.

“Who was she?” he replied. “Why, Mrs. Saumarez!”

was out of his seat near the door, out of the court itself, out of the Moot Hall, and in the Market Place before he realized what he was doing. It was a brilliant summer day, and just then the town clocks were striking the noontide. He stood for a second staring about him, as if blinded and dazed by the strong sunlight; but it was not the sunlight that confused him, though he stood there blinking under it.

Presently his brain cleared, and he turned and ran swiftly down Rivergate, the narrow street that led to the low-lying outer edge of the town. Rivergate was always quiet; just then it was deserted. As Brent got halfway down it, he saw at its foot a motor car, drawn up by the curb, and evidently waiting for somebody. The somebody was Mrs. Elstrick, who was hastening toward the car. In another second she had sprung in, and the machine had sped away in the direction of the open country.

Brent let it go, without another glance in its direction.

He turned at the foot of Rivergate into Farthing Lane, the long, winding, tree-bordered alley that ran along the edge of the town past the outer fringe of houses—the alley wherein Hawthwaite had witnessed the nocturnal meeting between Mrs. Elstrick and Krevin Crood. Brent remembered that as he hastened along, running between the trees on one side and the high walls of the gardens on the other; but he gave no further thought to the recollection. His brain was not yet fully recovered from the shock of Krevin Crood's last words, and it was obsessed by a single idea—that of gaining the garden entrance of the Abbey House and confronting the woman whom Krevin had formally denounced as the murderer of Wallingford.

As he hurried along, he found himself saying certain words over and over again, and still again:

“I'm not going to see a woman hang! I'm not going to see a woman hang! I'm —not—going—to—”

Behind this suddenly aroused quixotic sentiment, he was sick with horror. He knew that what Krevin Crood had told at last was true. He knew, too, that it would never have come out if Krevin himself had not been in danger. A feeling of almost physical nausea came over him as he re. membered the callous, brutal cynicism of Krevin's last words:

“If it's going to be my neck or hers, I prefer it to be hers!”

A woman—yet a murderess—the murderess of his cousin, whose death he had vowed to avenge. Of course it was so. Brent saw many things now. The anxiety to get the letters—the dread of publicity expressed to Peppermore—the mystery spread over many things and actions—now this affair with Mallett—there was no reason to doubt Krevin Crood's accusation. The fragments of the puzzle had been pieced together.

As he ran along the lane, and as his mental faculties regained their normality, Brent himself did some piecing together. Every word of Krevin Crood's statement had bitten itself into his intelligence. Now he could reconstruct. He visualized the mayor's parlor on that fateful evening. An angry, disillusioned, nerve-racked man, sore and restive under the fancy—or, rather, the realization—of deceit, saying bitter and contemptuous words; a desperate, defeated woman, cornered like a rat; and close to her hand the rapier, lying on the old chest where its purchaser had carelessly flung it. A maddened thing, man or woman, would snatch that up, and—

“Blind, uncontrollable impulse!” muttered Brent. “She struck at him, at him—and then it was all over. Intentional, no! Yet—the law! But, by God, I won't have a hand in hanging a woman! Time?”

He knew the exact location of the door in the garden wall of the Abbey House, and presently he ran up to it, panting from his swift dash along the lane. Not five minutes had elapsed since his slip out of the excited court; but every second of the coming minutes was precious.

The door was locked. The garden wall was eight feet high, and so built that on all the expanse of its smoothed surface there was no foothold, no projection for fingers to cling to; but Brent was in that frame of mind which makes light of obstacles. He drew back into the lane, ran, gathered himself for an upward spring at the coping of the wall, leaped, grasped it, struggled, drew up his weight with a mighty effort, threw a leg over, and dropped, gasping and panting, into the shaded garden.

It was quiet there—peaceful as a glade set deep in the heart of a silent wood. Brent lay for a few seconds where he had dropped. Then, with a great effort to get his breath, he rose and went quickly up the laureled walks toward the house. A moment more, and he was abreast of the kitchen and its open door, and in the presence of print-gowned, white-aproned women who first exclaimed and then stared at the sudden sight of him.

“Mrs. Saumarez?” said Brent, frightened at the sound of his own voice. “In?”

The cook, a fat, comfortable woman, turned on him from a clear fire.

“The mistress has not come in yet, sir,” she said. “She went out very early this morning on her bicycle, and we haven't seen her since. I expect she'll be back for lunch.”

Brent glanced at the open window of the room in which he had first encountered Mrs. Saumarez, and to which he had brought the casket and its contents.

“Can I go in there and sit down?” he asked. “I want to see Mrs. Saumarez.”

“Certainly, sir,” answered the cook and the parlor maid in chorus. “She can't be long, surely.”

Brent went farther along and stepped into the room. Not long? He knew very well that that room would never see its late occupant again. She was gone, of course.

The room looked much the same as when he had last seen it, except that now there were great masses of summer flowers on all sides. He glanced around, and his observant eye was quick to notice one detail. Beneath the writing table a big waste-basket was filled to its edges with torn papers.

He moved nearer, speculating on what it was that had been destroyed. Suddenly, behind the basket, he noticed, flung away, crumpled, on the floor, the buff envelope of a telegram.

Picking this up, he expected to find it empty, but the message was inside. He drew out and smoothed the flimsy sheet, and read its contents. They were comprised in four words:



Of course, that was from Mallett. Brent glanced at the postmarks. The telegram had been sent from Clothford at seven o'clock the previous evening, and received at Hathelsborough before eight. It was an appointment, without doubt.

Brent knew Lingmore Crossroads. He had been there on a pleasure jaunt with Queenie. It was a point on a main road whence you could go north or south, east or west, with great facility. Doubtless Mrs. Saumarez, arriving there early in the morning, would find Mallett and a swift automobile awaiting her. Well—

A sudden ringing at the front doorbell, a sudden loud knocking on the same door, made Brent crush envelope and telegram in his hand and thrust the crumpled ball of paper into his pocket. A second later he heard voices at the door—heavy steps in the hall—Hawthwaite's voice.

“No,” said the parlor maid, evidently answering some question; “but Mr. Brent's in the study. The mistress—”

Hawthwaite, with one of his plain-clothes men, came striding in, saw Brent, and closed the door, shutting out the parlor maid.

“Gone?” he asked sharply.

“Out for a bicycle ride, they say,” answered Brent, purposely affecting unconcern. “Went out early this morning, I understand.”

“What did you come here for?” demanded Hawthwaite.

“To ask her, personally, if what Krevin Crood said is true,” replied Brent.

Hawthwaite laughed.

“Do you think she'd have admitted it, Mr. Brent?” he said. “I don't!”

“I think she would,” answered Brent. “But—”

“Well?” inquired Hawthwaite.

“I don't suppose I shall ever have the chance of putting such a question to her,” added Brent. “She's—off!”

Hawthwaite looked round.

“Um!” he remarked. “Well, it only means another hue and cry. She and Mallett, of course! There's one thing in our favor—she doesn't know that Krevin Crood knew anything about it.”

“Are you sure of that?” suggested Brent.

“Quite sure enough,” affirmed Hawthwaite. “She hasn't an idea that anybody knows. So—we shall get her!”

“What about Krevin Crood, and Simon?” asked Brent.

“Adjourned,” said the superintendent. “There's no doubt Krevin has told the true story at last; but he and Simon are still in custody, and probably will be until to-morrow. We want to know a bit more yet; but I'll tell you what, Mr. Brent—this morning's work has broken up the old system. The town trustees and the ancient régime, as they call it—gone! Smashed, Mr. Brent!”

“What are you going to do—about this?” interrupted Brent, glancing around the room.

“Set the wires to work,” answered Hawthwaite carelessly. “Unless she and Mallett have laid their plans with extraordinary cleverness, they can't get out of the country. A noticeable pair, too! Went out very early this morning, cycling, did she? I must have a talk with the servants. And that companion, now—Mrs. Elstrick—where's she got to? I noticed her in court.”

“Left, sir, just before Krevin Crood finished,” said Hawthwaite's companion. “I saw her slip out.”

“Aye, well!” observed Hawthwaite. “I don't know that that matters. If any of them can get through the meshes of our net—Mr. Brent!”

“Well?” asked Brent.

“We've got at the truth at last—about your cousin,” continued Hawthwaite, with a significant look. “It's been a case of one thing leading to another, and two things running side by side. If we hadn't cornered Krevin Crood, we'd never have had his revelations about the town trustees, Talk about your Local Government Board inquiry—why, five minutes of Krevin's tongue work did more than half a dozen inquiries! I tell you, sir, the old system's dead. The Crood gang was smashed to pieces in that court this morning. Somehow, it's that that interests me most, Mr. Brent. But—business!” He turned to the plain-clothes man, and nodded toward the door. “Fetch those servants in here,” he said. “They've got to know.”

Brent went away then, carrying certain secrets with him. He put them away in a mental vault and sealed them down. Let Hawthwaite do his own work—he would give the police no help.

He foresaw his own future work. Wallingford, dead though he was, had won his victory, and in his death had slain the old wicked system. Now there was building and reconstruction to be done, and it was Brent's job to do it.

He saw far ahead as he trod the sunlit streets of the old town. He would marry Queenie, and they would settle into the slow-moving life of Hathelsborough. He and men who thought with him would slowly build up a new healthy state of things on the ruins of the old.

So thinking, he turned mechanically toward Mrs. Appleyard's house, in search of Queenie.

Queenie, said Mrs. Appleyard, was in the garden behind the house. Brent went through the hall, and out into the garden's shade. There he found Queenie. She sat in a summerhouse, and she was shelling peas for dinner.