Part 15 (1/2)

”Just so,” a.s.sented Mr. Halfpenny. He took Mr. Tertius away, and when he had once more bestowed him in the coupe brougham, dug him in the ribs.

”Tertius!” he said, with something like a dry chuckle. ”What an extraordinary thing it is that people can go about the world unconscious that other folks are taking a very close and warm interest in them! Now, I'll lay a pound to a penny that Barthorpe hasn't a ghost of a notion that he's already under suspicion. My idea of the affair, sir, is that he has not the mere phantasm of such a thing. And yet, from now, as our friend there observed, Master Barthorpe, sir, will be watched. Shadowed, Tertius, shadowed!”

Barthorpe Herapath certainly had none of the notions of which Mr.

Halfpenny spoke. He spent his afternoon, once having quitted Burchill's flat, in a businesslike fas.h.i.+on. He visited the estate office in Kensington; he went to see the undertaker who had been charged with the funeral arrangements; he called in at the local police-office and saw the inspector and the detective who had first been brought into connection with the case; he made some arrangements with the Coroner's officer about the necessary inevitable inquest. He did all these things in the fas.h.i.+on of a man who has nothing to fear, who is unconscious that other men are already eyeing him with suspicion. And he was quite unaware that when he left his office in Craven Street that evening he was followed by a man who quietly attended him to his bachelor rooms in the Adelphi, who waited patiently until he emerged from them to dine at a neighboring restaurant, who himself dined at the same place, and who eventually tracked him to Maida Vale and watched him enter Calengrove Mansions.

CHAPTER XII

FOR TEN PER CENT

Mr. Frank Burchill welcomed his visitor with easy familiarity--this might have been a mere dropping-in of one friend to another, for the very ordinary purpose of spending a quiet social hour before retiring for the night. There was a bright fire on the hearth, a small smoking-jacket on Burchill's graceful shoulders and fancy slippers on his feet; decanters and gla.s.ses were set out on the table in company with cigars and cigarettes. And by the side of Burchill's easy chair was a pile of newspapers, to which he pointed one of his slim white hands as the two men settled themselves to talk.

”I've been reading all the newspapers I could get hold of,” he observed.

”Brought all the latest editions in with me after dinner. There's little more known, I think, than when you were here this afternoon.”

”There's nothing more known,” replied Barthorpe. ”That is--as far as I'm aware.”

Burchill took a sip at his gla.s.s and regarded Barthorpe thoughtfully over its rim.

”In strict confidence,” he said, ”have you got any idea whatever on the subject?”

”None!” answered Barthorpe. ”None whatever! I've no more idea of who it was that killed my uncle than I have of the name of the horse that'll win the Derby of year after next! That's a fact. There isn't a clue.”

”The police are at work, of course,” suggested Burchill.

”Of course!” replied Barthorpe, with an unconcealed sneer. ”And a lot of good they are. Whoever knew the police to find out anything, except by a lucky accident?”

”Just so,” agreed Burchill. ”But then--accidents, lucky or otherwise, will happen. You can't think of anybody whose interest it was to get your esteemed relative out of the way?”

”n.o.body!” said Barthorpe. ”There may have been somebody. We want to know who the man was who came out of the House with him last night--so far we don't know. It'll all take a lot of finding out. In the meantime----”

”In the meantime, you're much more concerned and interested in the will, eh?” said Burchill.

”I'm much more concerned--being a believer in present necessities--in hearing what you've got to say to me now that you've brought me here,”

answered Barthorpe, coolly. ”What is it?”

”Oh, I've a lot to say,” replied Burchill. ”Quite a lot. But you'll have to let me say it in my own fas.h.i.+on. And to start with, I want to ask you a few questions. About your family history, for instance.”

”I know next to nothing about my family history,” said Barthorpe; ”but if my knowledge is helpful to what we--or I--want to talk about, fire ahead!”

”Good!” responded Burchill. ”Now, just tell me what you know about Mr.

Jacob Herapath, about his brother, your father, and about his sister, who was, of course, Miss Wynne's mother. Briefly--concisely.”

”Not so much,” answered Barthorpe. ”My grandfather was a medical man--pretty well known, I fancy--at Granchester, in Yorks.h.i.+re; I, of course, never knew or saw him. He had three children. The eldest was Jacob, who came to his end last night. Jacob left Granchester for London, eventually began speculating in real estate, and became--what he was. The second was Richard, my father. He went out to Canada as a lad, and did there pretty much what Jacob did here in London----”

”With the same results?” interjected Burchill.

Barthorpe made a wry face.