The Lost Mr. Linthwaite Part 2

 

CHAPTER XX

THE FEMININE INSTINCT

Brixey's look of inquiry showed Gaffkin that he did not wholly comprehend this suggestion, and he leaned across the table, tapping the papers which still lay there.

"You don't quite see what I mean," he said. "I mean this. Bring the money question right to the front, at once—to-morrow. Raise the question, publicly, as to the rights of Mrs. Byfield and her son in the Byfield estate. If that wouldn't pretty quickly solve the mystery about Mr. Linthwaite, then I don't know, at present, what would."

"How can we raise it?" asked Brixey. "We aren't concerned."

Gaffkin jerked his thumb towards a wall of the sitting-room behind which, as they both knew, lay Brackett's private parlour.

"There's somebody in there, or generally in there, who can," he said significantly. "Miss Georgina Byfield. She could raise a hornets' nest round the whole matter very quickly if she liked."

"How?" demanded Brixey.

"Well," replied Gaffkin, "roughly speaking, in this way. If my theory is correct as to Mrs. Byfield's marriages, the girl in the next room is certainly the rightful owner of the estate of the late Martin Byfield. Therefore, through legal channels, she can apply to the court for an order which would prevent Mrs. Byfield, as admimstratix, from doing anything with the assets of the estate until the whole affair has been gone into and decided.

"She'd have to prove, of course, that Mrs. Byfield is really the wife of Cradock Melsome, that her marriage to him has never been dissolved, that he's still alive, and that, accordingly, Mrs. Byfield is not and never was Mrs. Byfield, legally."

"We couldn't prove all that straight off," objected Brixey.

"No," assented Gaffkin, "but I think there's sufficient prima facie evidence in what we know from these papers and this book to warrant an application to the court. A smart solicitor would put the matter in shape and get such an_application made at once, in time to stop the handing over of his share to Fanshawe Byfield on Tuesday, when he comes of age.

"Only, if would have to be done at once—immediately. If Miss Georgina Byfield would give her consent, I'd engage to run up to town to-night and find a man who'd take it in hand and make an application to the court first thing to-morrow morning."

"That, means," said Brixey, slowly and thoughtfully, "that we should have to tell her all about it?"

"She's' an Intelligent young woman," answered Gaffkin, "Above the average, from what I've seen of her. It wouldn't take long to explain matters."

Brixey reflected for a while in silence.

"How would that help me to find my uncle?" he asked.

"It would force the other side to show its hand," replied Gaffkin. "My own notion is that if Mr. Linthwaite has been put away somewhere, as you feel sure he has, it’s because they want to keep him out of the way until Fanshawe Byfield has come into legal possession of his fortune, which will happen, automatically, by his coming-of-age on Tuesday.

"Now, if my theory about Mrs. Byfield's marriages is a good one, she would have to reveal the truth, and the additional truth about Mr. Linthwaite would necessarily come out.

"Money, Mr. Brixey, is at the bottom of all this—that money, the Byfield money; and when the secret about the money is solved, all the rest will be solved."

"I don't know, if she's the sort of girl who'd like all that publicity," remarked Brixey, after another thoughtful pause.

"It's the quickest and surest way that I can see," said Gaffkin.

"And supposing your theory's all wrong?" suggested Brixey.

"No harm' done," answered Gaffkin. "You often hear of questions being raised as to this sort of thing, especially in the case of intestates' estates. Put into a nutshell, it's this.

"We say that, legally, the woman calling herself Mrs. Martin Byfield is not Mrs. Martin Byfield at all, but is Mrs. Cradock Melsome, and therefore not entitled to administer Martin Byfield's estate nor to benefit in it.

"She'd have to prove the contrary. And, in my opinion, in whatever proceedings, even in their initial stages, resulted, Mr. Linthwaite would have to emerge. But any proceedings would have to originate from this young lady. If I'm right, she's next of kin."

Brixey, after thinking in silence for several minutes, got up and made for the door.

"I'll get her to come here, and well tell her," he said.

He went round by the deserted bar parlour to the private sitting-room which opened out of it. The door was slightly open; he looked in. Brackett, comfortably seated in his favourite easy chair, with a large silk handkerchief spread over head and face, was indulging in a Sunday afternoon nap.

In the old-fashioned window-seat, which looked out on the garden behind, Georgina Byfield was disposed in equal comfort, reading a novel. She glanced towards the door as Brixey put his head inside, and, laying aside her book, tiptoed out to him, with a warning glance in the old landlord's direction. Brixey motioned her into the bar parlour behind him.

"Can you give me ten minutes?" Brixey asked. "I want you to hear something that Gaffkin has to say. Something that's to be kept to ourselves, if you please, for the present, not to be mentioned to Mr. Brackett, for instance—just yet, anyway."

Georgina nodded in silence and followed him into his room, where he seated her at one end of the table, with Gaffkin and himself on either side of her.

"Mr. Gaffkin," said Brixey, indicating the papers and the book, "has made a discovery at Mr. Linthwaite's rooms in London which may affect you.

"Don't be alarmed!" he continued, as Georgina started in surprise."There's nothing really alarming in it. But, if Mr. Gaffkin’s right, this discovery does concern you, and it may help me to find my uncle. Now, in confidence, just let Gaffkin tell the whole story and explain the whole thing. Then we want to hear what you have to say."

Georgina sat quietly by, a model of attentive patience, while Gaffkin, for the second time that afternoon, unfolded his story and explained all its multifarious details. And Brixey, who knew if all, watched her carefully as she watched Gaffkin.

She showed no particular emotion or interest at any part of the story; her whole attitude and the expression of her eyes and lips denoted nothing but keen and almost cold attention. She might, indeed, thought Brixey, have been a judge, impartial and observant, listening to the opening address of counsel.

The theoretical revelations which had startled him did not seem to startle her; the suggestions which, if proved, would secure a complete reversal of her fortunes, seemed to arouse no excitement in her. But as the unfolding went on, her face grew graver and graver, and Brixey saw that she was putting facts together and weighing evidence, and bringing her instincts of feminine intuition and logic to bear.

But to what end he could not tell; her face, taking it altogether, was as sphinx-like at the end as at the beginning.

"So that's all!" concluded Gaffkin at last. "I've explained every things that I've already told Mr. Brixey. You understand it, Miss Byfield?

"Very well, then, as I've said to Mr. Brixey, if you like to move in the matter, on the evidence that these papers and so on seem to afford, then, in my opinion, there'll be some revelations. How do you feel about it?" he asked, glancing at Georgina with a professional curiosity. "There's a great deal to play for, you know!"

Georgina had for some minutes been slowly twisting an old-fashioned ring—a man's ring—round and round her finger, keeping her eyes steadily on it. Another minute or two passed before she looked up from this.

Then she looked straight at Gaffkin and from him to Brixey.

"No!" she said. "That's final. No!"

The two men looked at each other; then Brixey turned to Georgina.

"That means—what?" he asked.

"It means that I won't do anything against Mrs. Byfield and Fanshawe," she answered. "Supposing all that Mr. Gaffkin thinks is true—and perhaps I've reasons, and good reasons, for thinking it may be—I'm not going to do a thing in the way you suggest.

"I've no reason to like Mrs. Byfield, and as for Fanshawe, I've scarcely ever spoken to him since we were children. But Mrs. Byfield was a very good wife to my Uncle Martin—I do know that-and Fanshawe is his son, and—and—if there are any flaws in the affair, well——"

She paused for a moment and then, as both men watched her, went on swiftly.

"I should think it a great shame if she were done out of her rights, and if Fanshawe were done out of his," she said, showing some spirit at last. "It would he abominable! I'll have nothing to do with it—nothing!"

Brixey smacked the table.

"By Gad, you're right!" he exclaimed. "Good! You're right, all through. It would be just that—abominable! Gaffkin—that's clean off!"

Gaffkin smiled and shook his head.

"Sentiment, you know, Miss Byfield!" he said. "Sentiment, Mr. Brixey. But, of course, if Miss Byfield feels like that——"

"I do," said Georgina, and made for the door. Brixey followed her out. In the hall she paused and looked at him. "Don't go on with that!" she said. "I'd rather scrub floors all my life than try to turn those two out!"

"I shan't do anything," Brixey hastened to say. "No, indeed! I—the fact is, I feel as you do about it. I agree with you. It would be a shame. But, I say, there’s my uncle to consider, you know."

"Mayn't it be that your uncle's disappearance has nothing to do with Mrs. Byfield?" suggested Georgina. "If all that Mr. Gaffkin says is true, Mr. Mesham is a pretty bad lot. Doesn't it seem as if he might be the real culprit in all this—he and perhaps others?"

"It's a queer mix-up altogether," said Brixey perplexedly. And when Georgina left him he went back to Gaffkin and shook his head. "That won't do," he said. "You see—she'll have nothing to do with that line!"

"It may be taken up, all the same, though," observed Gaffkin. "My own opinion is that whoever takes it up it'll come out. I'd stake my professional opinion on this—there's something in it."

That evening, Gaffkin having gone out for a solitary stroll, Brixey remembered that he had promised to call again on Mr. Semmerby, and so went round to the old solicitor's house. And there, in Semmerby's parlour, evidently interrupted in a confidential talk with him, he found young Fanshawe Byfield.

CHAPTER XXI

UNEXPECTED

If it had not been that the old lawyer had called out to him as he waited in the hall, bidding him heartily to come straight in, Brixey would have retired on seeing Fanshawe, who on his entrance glanced at him awkwardly, and, as he thought, a little shamefacedly.

But Semmerby waved him to a chair, and indicating his other caller, said, with a sly glance at Brixey, that he believed he'd met Mr. Fanshawe Byfield before.

"We've met," assented Brixey laconically.

Fanshawe's boyish lace flushed, and his manner grew more awkward.

"Look here!" he said, suddenly turning to the new-comer. "I—I dare say you thought I was beastly rude—insolent, perhaps—when you came to our place the other night. But if you'll believe me, I was decidedly upset about my mother. She's been ill all this week, and——"

"Don’t say another word!" interrupted Brixey. "No ill-feeling on my part, I assure you. If I'd known, I wouldn't have troubled you at all. I'm sorry I did. I'm sorry, too, to hear about Mrs. Byfield. I hope——"

"There's something Fanshawe can tell you," broke in the old lawyer. "We were talking of it when you came. Say it, Fanshawe!"

"It's only this," said Fanshawe. "I can assure Mr. Brixey of this—I know he's suspected, naturally I suppose, that my mother's something to do with his uncle's disappearance. Well, as I say, I can assure him of this—positively assure him—my mother has never seen nor heard of Mr. Linthwaite, or Herbert, as she calls him, since he walked out of the Priory grounds talking to Kit Mesham last Tuesday. She knows nothing."

"I'll accept that frankly," answered Brixey. "I'd begun to believe it myself. But you've mentioned that man Mesham. I shouldn't believe him if he said the same."

Fanshawe and the old lawyer exchanged glances, and Semmerby nodded.

"I think you might tell Mr. Brixey what you've just told me," he said.

"Well," responded Fanshawe, turning to Brixey, "I'd a row with Kit Mesham this afternoon—happened to meet him. I told him straight out that in my opinion it was all due to some of his confounded tricks that there was all this bother, and that suspicion had been thrown, somehow, on my mother.

"And I wanted to know why the deuce he couldn't say what he did know, and—well, I said I'd a jolly good mind to take sides in finding out what he was up to, for I'll swear he's up to something.

"But you know what he is—at least Mr. Semmerby does—full of brag and bounce. And he said at last that if I wanted to know where Mr. John Linthwaite was, he was in Paris, on business that was his own concern, and that Selchester folk had nothing to do with."

"He said that, definitely, did he?" asked Brixey.

"Definitely," replied Fanshawe. "And, of course, I asked him how he knew. To which he said that was his business, and nobody else's."

The old lawyer got out of his chair and laid hold of his hat and gloves, which lay on a side table.

"Well," he said, "I must be off to church. I'm a churchwarden, and I've certain duties. I think," he added, as he went out with his callers, "I think you two young men might talk a bit. I'm sure Mr. Fanshawe Byfield would tell you anything he could that would help you in your search."

Brixey nodded, and he and Fanshawe walked slowly down the street together in the direction of the "Mitre."

"Mr. Semmerby's right," said Fanshawe, "I would tell you anything But I don't know a thing. I never saw your uncle here, and I know my mother has neither heard of nor seen him since Tuesday morning. So what can I tell? But I believe that chap Kit Mesham knows a lot!"

"You'd do me a service if you'd answer a question or two," said Brixey. "They're of real moment, or I wouldn't ask 'em."

"Answer any question you like!" responded Fanshawe with alacrity. "Anything! What is it?"

"Can you remember what you were doing with yourself last Tuesday and Wednesday evenings?" asked Brixey. "Where you spent them, and so on?"

"Can I!" exclaimed Fanshawe, with a laugh. "Can't I just! I dined with Sam Merridew, the solicitor, on Tuesday night. He'd a sort of bachelor party; three of us beside himself. We were playing bridge from nine o'clock till two in the morning—I dropped a good bit. That's where I was on Tuesday night."

"All the time—didn't go home for anything," asked Brixey.

"Go home? No!" answered Fanshawe. "Merridew lives outside the town—up Waterdale way. I was at his house every minute from seven o'clock till we broke up at two next morning."

"Where were you Wednesday night?" inquired Brixey.

"Wednesday night I dined at home with my mother," replied Fanshawe. "Seven o'clock's our time. Quarter to eight I went out—to the club. And I was at the club from then onwards till about ten minutes to twelve."

"Thank you," said Brixey, who now knew that the mysterious stranger mentioned by Mrs. Iddison had been taken to the Byfield house in Fanshawe's absence. "I can't tell you why just now, but you've given me some valuable information. Now I'll ask you another question. Has your mother been much upset during the last few days?"

Fanshawe groaned dismally.

"Upset?" he said. "I believe you! She's been awfully upset, and it's upsetting me. She's never been exactly well since my father died—nervous and so on—and she's a weak heart, and—well, she has been thoroughly wrong since last Tuesday. I think that sudden meeting with your uncle upset her, though she's never said so.

"You see, I’ll tell you where it is!" he went on in a sudden boyish burst of confidence. "She has nobody much to talk to, my mother—no women, anyway. She hasn't been one to make friends, and she has no particular woman friend in the place. I wish she had."

Brixey suddenly laid a hand on his companion's arm. At their first meeting he had set down Fanshawe Byfield as an arrogant, bullying, unlicked young cub.

Now, though he still thought him raw and inclined to bluster and perhaps to brag, he was discovering something human in him.

"Look here!" he said. "Don't think me officious or interfering. I'm a stranger to you, and to this town; but naturally I've learnt a bit since I've been here. If your mother wants a woman's sympathy and company, hasn't it struck you that you've got a cousin in there?" He pointed to the "Mitre," close to which they had by that time approached.

"Now, I say, don't think me interfering, but why don't you walk in and ask your cousin Georgina to go and see your mother? Hang it all, my lad, blood's thicker than water!"

Fanshawe started. His mouth opened, and his fair-complexioned cheeks flushed deeply. After a minute's hard stare at his companion he nodded his head two or three times in emphatic fashion.

"By Gad, so so I will," he said. "Good tip! I'm obliged to you. You see, there's been a coldness—I don’t know why, I never understood it—but, well, as you say, blood is thicker than water. Where can I find my cousin?"

"Come in!" commanded Brixey, He led Fanshawe into the hotel and down the hall to his own private sitting-room and installed him there while he went to find Georgina. She, evidently bent on church attendance, was coming down the stairs, prayer-book in hand.

"I've another sort of pious mission for you," said Brixey, drawing her aside. "Don't be startled. Fanshawe Byfield's here. He wants you to go with him to see his mother. Go!"

Georgina flushed as surprisedly as Fanshawe had, but she instantly turned in the direction to which Brixey pointed, flinging an inquiring glance at him.

"Your doing?" she asked.

"Well, perhaps a bit of suggestion on my part," admitted Brixey. "Well meant, I assure you. This lad’s in trouble. And from what he says, so is his mother. Do 'em a good turn."

Georgina walked into the little parlour, where Fanshawe was leaning against the table. She held out a hand.

"Well, Fanshawe," she said, with a ready acceptance of the situation, for which Brixey unfeignedly admired her. "How are you?"

Fanshawe vigorously shook the offered hand.

"Hallo, Georgie!" he exclaimed with unusual enthusiasm. "Glad to see you! I say, come and see my mother, will you? There's a good girl! She's not at all well. Come and talk to her!"

"To be sure—just now," responded Georgina. Then she turned to Brixey, who was lingering at the door. "Bring Mr. Brixey with you, Fanshawe," she added. "He'll talk to you while I talk to your mother."

Ten minutes later Brixey found himself following the two cousins into a room at the Minories wherein lamps had not yet been lighted. Bright and warm as the day had been, there was a fire on the hearth, and by it in a low chair sat Mrs. Byfield, evidently deep in thought.

She started as the three entered the room, and Brixey saw that since he had last seer her her face had changed. She looked like a woman in great trouble. Fanshawe went straight to her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Mother," he said, "you've seen Mr. Brixey before. He and I met just now at Semmerby's. I've told him you know nothing about his uncle and he believes it. And look here—here's Georgina come to see you. It'll do you good to talk to her."

Mrs. Byfield looked slowly and searchingly at Brixey and Georgina, Suddenly she pointed the girl to a chair at her side, and then turned to her son.

"Fanshawe," she said, in a curiously quiet, monotonous voice, "take Mr. Brixey to the dining-room and entertain him. I would like to speak to Georgina alone!"

CHAPTER XXII

WHAT HAD MRS. BYFIELD TOLD?

Fanshawe took Brixey away to another part of the big house, and into a long, low-ceilinged room, the French windows of which opened out on a walled garden. He lighted a lamp, produced a box of cigars, and set a decanter, a siphon, and glasses on the table.

"Have a drink," he said hospitably.

"Well, a mere spot, then," assented Brixey. "Interesting old house this of yours," he went on, when he had helped himself to a cigar and mixed a very weak whisky and soda.

"And that looks like a delightful old garden you've got outside. I like those walled gardens that one finds in towns like these—something appealing about them."

"Like to see it?" asked Fanshawe, obviously relieved that his guest suggested something to do. "One or two fine old trees in it. Come and look round while it's still light."

Brixey followed Fanshawe out. He had been intending to suggest an exploration of the garden as soon as he saw that the room opened on it. He wanted to see for himself how it lay in relation to the dressmaker's house at the back.

Once outside in the twilight he looked curiously about him. The garden was a square, set in high old brick walls, and plentifully filled with hardy shrubs and trees. From a miniature lawn in the middle rose a cedar of considerable size. Fanshawe pointed to it with obvious pride.

"Only cedar tree in all Selchester," he said. "Don't know how old it is, but it's done well in its time, what? There are a lot of rare shrubs about here. My father used to bring cuttings from the south of France and try to grow them. Some grew and flourished, and some didn't."

Brixey strolled round the paths, looking about him, until they came to a doorway set in the wall.

"Old part of the town, this, evidently," he observed casually. "What lies behind this garden?"

Fanshawe opened the door and revealed a narrow lane.

"This is Friargate," he said. "Runs from the main street—yonder at the end—to the foot of the Priory grounds, across the Minories there. All old houses and places, there.

"That's St. Fridolin's Church along there. That place opposite is a brewery. Ramshackle property, most of it—ought to be pulled down."

"That would spoil the effect," remarked Brixey. He took a rapid glance round, and identified the house which the dressmaker had described to him as her own. "These old red-brick places would rejoice an artist—you get such colour effects out of them."

"Dare say!" said Fanshawe indifferently. "But, by George, they're full of rats! I had two of my fox-terriers in there at the brewery one day last week. We killed over fifty rats in two hours—swarms with 'em. You don't want to buy a really good dog, do you?"

"Not that I know of," answered Brixey. "Got one to sell?"

"No, but Nat Lee, the caretaker at the Priory ruins, has," replied Fanshawe. "A real good 'un, too—an Airedale terrier. Top-hole as a house-dog, or anything of that sort. If you want a house-dog, I can recommend him."

"My house is a set of chambers in the Temple," said Brixey. "I wouldn't condemn a dog to it. Nowhere to run about."

"Well, this chap's a good 'un," repeated Fanshawe, "I strolled up to Lee's on purpose to look at him the other night, and I soon got proof of his value!"

"Oh?" said Brixey. "How, then?"

"I've a key into the Priory grounds," answered Fanshawe. "All yearly subscribers have, so that you can get in when you like. I let myself in the other night, latish, and walked up to Lee's house, and this Airedale was on the steps.

"Hanged if he'd let me pass him! I had to stand there and yell for Nat Lee. A real good 'un, my boy, and I'd buy him if we hadn't half a dozen already, one sort or another. Come and see 'em?"

He led Brixey (whose chief interest in his host's story had lain in the explanation which it afforded of Fanshawe's visit to the Priory on the previous night) to another part of the garden, where half a dozen dogs were confined in a wire enclosure,

Here Brixey spent the better part of an hour, listening to dog talk in which his young host was an adept. And all the while he was wondering what was going on in that twilight-filled room where they had left Mrs. Byfield and Georgina alone.

For Brixey had watched the elder woman's face carefully during the moment in which he had seen her, and he felt instinctively that she had made up her mind to tell Georgina something. No doubt it was being told—and here he was, gazing ruminatively at Fanshawe's dogs.

There was a horse or two in a stable to be looked at when the dogs had been duly criticised, and altogether it was nearly nine o'clock when he and Fanshawe walked into the house again. Fanshawe, who had been loquacious enough in his kennels and stable, suddenly became quiet, and glanced uneasily at the door.

"They're having a long jaw, those two," he said at last. "I hope my mother isn't getting upset. I wish I knew what it is that's bothering her, for that there is something, I'm certain."

Just then Georgina came into the room, closed the door behind her, and, going up to Fanshawe, laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Fanshawe," she said quietly, "I've had a long talk with your mother, and now I've something to tell you as the result of it. You'll be a good boy and do exactly what she wants, won't you?"

Fanshawe turned an astonished face on his cousin.

"Something out of the common?" he asked.

"Not exactly," replied Georgina. "She wants to go to London by the first train to-morrow morning. She wants you to go with her. And I've promised to go, too. We're all three going together. The train's eight-twenty, isn't it?

"Now, will you telephone to Stillwick’s, at once, ordering a car for eight o'clock? I shall meet you at the station. And Fanshawe, don't bother your mother to-night about her reasons for going to London. She'll tell you in good time. Don't ask her any questions to-night."

"Oh, all right," assented Fanshawe. "If it'll do her any good to go—it's not to a doctor, is it?" he added anxiously.

"No, not to a doctor," replied Georgina "She'll be better when she's been to London. I'm going now," she concluded, glancing at Brixey. "Are you coming? Now, Fanshawe, remember all the arrangements. You'11 find me at the station."

Once outside the house Brixey and Georgina walked away in silence, for a time. At last she turned to him with a movement which suggested confidence.

"You won't expect me to tell you anything to-night?" she said. "What I've talked about with Mrs. Byfield must be absolutely private—yet."

"I've no right to expect anything, of course," answered Brixey. "I only hope that you've done her some good. She looked ill enough when we went in."

"I can tell you this," said Georgina. "I'm perfectly certain that Mrs. Byfield knows nothing whatever about Mr. Linthwaite's disappearance. She told me to tell you that from the time he left her, going away with Mr. Mesham, last Tuesday morning, she has never heard of or seen him."

"I took her son's assurance on that point," said Brixey. "I believe her. And that narrows things. Mesham is the man I'm going for!"

And how to get at him! That was the problem which worried Brixey. How to put a hand—the law's hand—on this man, and stay his evil course.

He was worrying about it when he went to sleep that Sunday night, and still worrying about it when he hurried downstairs next morning, in time to go with Georgina Byfield to the station. That was a bit of suddenly-conceived politeness on his part; but before the morning was out he was thinking what a piece of luck there had been in it.

Mrs. Byfield and Fanshawe were already on the platform when Georgina and Brixey walked into the station. Brixey saw at once that there was a curious but unmistakable look of relief on Mrs. Byfield's face. She looked as one looks who has been trying to decide on some eventful course, and has at last made decision, for good or ill.

And again he wondered what it was that she had told Georgina during their conversation of the previous evening. Whatever it might be, he quickly discovered that as yet Fanshawe knew nothing about it.

"I haven't the remotest notion what we're going to town for!" said Fanshawe, as he stood talking to Brixey apart from, the two women. "But, I say, my mother would be obliged if you would do something for her. It's nothing much.

"Would you mind calling in at old Semmerby's office some time this morning, and telling him that we've gone to London and shan't be back for a few days, and that to-morrow's business—he'll know what that means—must stand over until we return?"

"Certainly," replied Brixey, "I'll call on him at ten o'clock."

The express came in just then, and he helped Fanshawe to find a first-class compartment and to get his companions into it with their light luggage, Fanshawe stood at the door when the three had got in.

"Hope to find you here when we get back" he said heartily, leaning out to Brixey. "I say, that was a rare good tip of yours, getting me into touch with Georgina last night. She's done my mother a heap of good already, and—hallo—look there! Behind you!"

Brixey twisted sharply round as Fanshawe, suddenly grinning, nodded at something behind him. And as he turned the express moved away, and Fanshawe called out a word or two about somebody looking jolly well surprised or sold.

Then Brixey saw who the somebody was. Mesham had just walked into the station, had caught sight of Fanshawe and of Mrs. Byfield and of Georgina, and now, oblivious of all else, he was staring after the departing train with startled eyes and a thoroughly crestfallen look.

CHAPTER XXIII

WARNING

It needed no particular exercise of observation on Brixey's part to convince him that Mesham was completely taken aback by what he had just seen. He remained standing just within the entrance to the platform, his eyes fixed on the disappearing train, his mouth open with surprise.

He was so oblivious of all else but what he was staring at that he did not even see Brixey, who stood only a few yards in front of him. But Brixey saw and watched him, and was quick to understand. Mesham's whole air was that of a man from whom something had been snatched in which he was keeping jealous guard.

There was anger in his look, but it was not so markedly evident as a bewildered surprise. He looked, in short, decided Brixey, precisely as Fanshawe had said—sold. And Brixey began to wonder why.

Mesham drew a long breath at last, and his gaze shifted from the train, now rounding the curve outside the station, to nearer objects. He suddenly caught sight of Brixey, and his cheeks flushed angrily.

Brixey returned his glance with a stare of cool, premeditated insolence, and when Mesham, with a scowl, turned away and walked up the platform to the bookstall, he deliberately followed. He was going to force himself upon Mesham whenever he could.

The London morning newspapers had just come in, and the bookstall boys were busily sorting and folding them. The manager, standing near, was turning over a copy of the Sentinel, and as Mesham went up, he looked up and smiled at him meaningly.

"Have a Sentinel this morning, Mr. Mesham?" he asked, holding up the paper. "There's your name in it, sir—and a good lot more. Working up a nice bit of copy out of this affair, aren't they?"

"Give me a Daily Express," he growled. "Do you think I want to read a damned rag like that? What the devil do I care what they say in the Sentinel?—all empty sensationalism!"

"There's a whole column of it, anyhow," said the manager, "and whoever's written it seems to know what he's writing about. He's not afraid of mentioning names, either!"

Brixey pushed himself in between Mesham and another customer and looked at the manager.

"Has he mentioned the name of one Charles Melsome yet?" he asked in a loud voice.

The manager took this for a casual and innocent inquiry, and not knowing his questioner from Adam, turned the Sentinel over again, and ran his eye down a well-leaded column, freely adorned with cross headings.

"Melsome, sir, Melsome?" he said. "I don’t see that name. Perhaps you’ll look for yourself, sir. Thank you."

Brixey laid down a penny and picked up the paper, purposely keeping his eyes on it. He felt Melsham move quietly away; a moment later, looking up, he saw him leaving the station. At the door of the booking-office he turned and glanced back in Brixey's direction. Brixey caught his eye and grinned maliciously at him.

"That’s to let you know that I know, my boy!" muttered Brixey. "Now go away and be very, very frightened!"

Mesham went off up the street, and Brixey followed leisurely at a distance, saw him presently meet a man with whom, after the exchange of a word or two, he turned down a quiet alley that led towards the Cathedral close.

They a were some distance along it when Brixey came up to its mouth, and he then could see no more of Mesham’s companion than that he was a medium-sized man, who wore a somewhat loud-patterned Norfolk jacket. He had his back to Brixey, and while he and Mesham talked, standing by a blank wall half-way down the place into which they had retreated. Mesham was evidently so engrossed in what he was saying that he never looked in Brixey’s direction.

And Brixey, highly gratified that he had given Mesham something to think about, and perhaps to talk about, went on to the "Mitre," and found Gaffkin and breakfast waiting for him.

"Brackett wants to see us together, after breakfast," remarked Gaffkin as they sat down. "He met me outside just now. He's very mysterious about something or other—some secret.

"Well, I’m thinking of going for Mesham. Can't you suggest some means of giving him infinite worry and annoyance, Gaffkin, without our breaking the law? I want, somehow, to goad that chap until he's fairly desperate!

"By the by, I’ve had one little passage with him this morning," he added, and went on to tell Gaffkin of what had happened at the station. "I’d give a lot to know why Mesham looked so fearfully done when he saw Fanshawe Byfield and his mother sailing off before his eyes," he concluded. "I never saw a man who so represented absolute disappointment of a queer sort."

Gaffkin had listened to all this with quiet attention.

"Aye!" he remarked meditatively. "It may be, Mr. Brixey, that in whatever plot or scheme or conspiracy it is that Mesham has in hand, for it’s certain he has one, the Byfields, mother and son, were to play a part—probably an unwilling part. And so, when he saw them being removed—eh?"

"Do you know what I think, Gaffkin?" exclaimed Brixey. "I think that chap ought to be watched. I think that we ought to concentrate on him—him! And I propose to give ourselves up to dogging his every footstep—following him wherever he goes.

"If he visits the 'Cavalier,' so will we, or one of us; if he leaves the, town, we must certainly be after him. If we can only make things so hot for him as to force his hand——"

"We don't know yet what old Brackett has to tell us," said Gaffkin. "Better hear his story."

They found Brackett at the end of the stable-yard, inspecting his horses, and it was in a quiet corner of his harness-room that he told them his news.

"I was going to mention this last night," said Brackett, "but I was a bit busy and upset about Miss going off to London. Of course, it's quite right that she should go, under the circumstances, though what they are, I'm sure I've no idea—and I hadn't a chance of seeing you gentlemen.

"Well, it's this way—there's a few of us here in Selchester who have a little private club of our own—a few of the tradesmen and a few retired men, and two or three like myself-—we have some very nice rooms over Walkerman's shop. Sunday night, gentlemen, is our best night for meeting—always a good number on Sunday night.

"I was there last night for an hour or two, as usual, and, of course, the talk ran a good deal on the disappearance of your uncle, Mr. Brixey—naturally, it's the topic of the town, just now. And as you'd expect, if there was one theory put out, there were a dozen!"

"Any of 'em any good?" asked Brixey.

"Some of 'em were pretty far-fetched," replied Brackett, with a laugh. "One man has an idea that Mr. Linthwaite will be found to be an absconding trustee. Another is certain that it's an elopement. The favourite notion, of course, is that the first police theory was right, and that the poor gentleman was murdered. But all this is neither here nor there, as regards what I'm going to tell you.

"You know, gentlemen," he went on, with a knowing wink, "there are men who keep close in company—quiet, reserved sort of men, who aren't going to say all they think or tell all they know, when there's what you might call a general, promiscuous talk going on in such places as club smoking-rooms.

"We've such men in our little club, and two in particular—Mr. Willett, the bookseller, and Mr. Archington, the wine and spirit merchant, I dare say you've noticed their places in the town?"

"I've seen them," assented Brixey.

"Very quiet, close men, both," continued the old landlord. "Not the sort to express opinions readily. Those of our members that I've just referred to were what one understands as ready talkers—you know.

"Now Mr. Willett and Mr. Archington, they're the sort that sits quiet, and smokes its pipe or cigar, and takes all in, and gives little out—eh? Well, last night these two were there in the corner that they generally get together in, and they heard all that was said without saying much themselves, as usual

"But just before I was leaving Mr. Willett beckoned me to them, and they made room for me between their chairs. 'Brackett,' says Mr. Willett, 'there's been a good deal of talk-to-night about the disappearance of this Mr. Linthwaite. Now, you've got the gentleman's nephew at your house, haven't you?' 'Since Thursday evening,' says I, 'and very anxious about his uncle he is.'

"'Well,' says Willett, 'talk and gossip about one's fellow-townsfolk is not to my taste, nor to Mr. Archington's either, but you can take the young gentleman a message from both of us. Tell him,' he says, with a look at Archington, 'that if he likes to call on us to-morrow morning, we'll tell him something that may be a bit of help.'

"‘I will indeed!' says I, 'and glad he'll be to have it.' 'Well,' says Archington, 'it's to be strictly private, Brackett, and it mayn't be any help at all. But we both think there's something in it.’"

"I'll go and see them now," said Brixey. He motioned Gaffkin out into the yard. "While I'm gone," he said, "take a walk round and see if Mesham's about the town. And if he is, let him see, openly, that you're shadowing him. Do it boldly. Thrust it before his very eyes!"

CHAPTER XXIV

THE BANK-NOTES

As Brixey walked out of the courtyard of the "Mitre" he caught sight of old Mr. Semmerby, who, on the opposite side of the way, was trotting along beneath the overhanging trees of the Cathedral close, evidently bound for his office, and he ran across the street and joined him.

"I've a message for you which I ought to have delivered half an hour ago," he said, with a glance at the clock on the Market Cross. "I'm afraid I'd forgotten all about it till I chanced to see you. From Mrs. Byfield. She asked me to let you know that she and her son have gone up to town and won't be back for a few days. That's all."

The old lawyer paused and stared hard at Brixey for a moment. That he was intensely surprised Brixey saw at once.

"Oh, and she said—at least, Fanshawe said—that to-morrow's business must stand over, and that you'd know what that means," he added. "I'd forgotten that bit."

Semmerby shook his head and stared at Brixey harder than ever.

"Mrs. Byfield and Fanshawe gone to London—for a few days?" he exclaimed. "When?"

"First train this morning," replied Brixey. "I saw them off."

"You saw them off?" said Semmerby, almost incredulously, "You!"

"The fact is," remarked Brixey, "after Fanshawe and I left you, he grew a bit confidential about his mother. Said she was ill, and wanted somebody to talk to. I took the liberty of suggesting his cousin, and it ended by his taking Miss Byfield up there. I went with them.

"Miss Byfield had a long talk with Mrs. Byfield. I haven't the remotest notion of what it was all about; neither had Fanshawe. But it ended, anyway, as I say—they all three went off to town this morning."

"All three!" exclaimed Semmerby. "What, has the girl gone with them?"

"Just so," answered Brixey.

Semmerby gave him another odd look and turned away.

"I haven't the slightest notion of what it means," he said over his shoulder as he moved off. But he paused and looked back. "Have you heard any news about your own business?" he asked. "Your uncle?"

"Not a thing!" said Brixey.

The old lawyer nodded, shook his head, and went off, evidently bewildered, and Brixey, reflecting that this was, after all, not his own immediate job, went along the streets to find the men he wanted to see.

He knew both the places of which Brackett had spoken. Willett’s shop in Chantry Passage was one of those establishments peculiar to ancient English towns—a storehouse of old books, old pictures, old prints, and similar antiquities.

Brixey had already looked in at its queer old windows more than once, and had promised himself a closer examination of the contents of windows and shop when he had more time at his disposal. He walked in to find Willett, a quiet, reserved-looking, elderly man, opening his letters at a desk which stood in the corner of a dark old room filled from floor to ceiling with every conceivable size of volume, from great folios to duodecimos.

Brixey, who had an innate love of books, regretted at once that he had just then something else than books to think of.

The bookseller glanced knowingly at his caller, and took off his spectacles as he came forward with a smile.

"Mr. Brixey, I think?" he said.

"Mr. Willett, I believe," responded Brixey, And seeing they were alone, he added, "Mr. Brackett tells me you can perhaps give, me a bit of information?"

Willett smiled again and tapped Brixey on the shoulder.

"Strictly between ourselves," he said, in a half-whisper. "You know what things are in a little place like this. It doesn’t do to talk about anybody. But I suppose most of your investigations about this gentleman who’s missing are under the rose, eh?"

"Pretty much so," agreed Brixey. "It’s a first-class sort of mystery, anyhow, Mr. Willett."

"I believe you!" Said the bookseller. He opened a door, at the back of the shop, and remarking to some person within that he was going out for half an hour, put on his hat and motioned Brixey to follow him.

"We'll step round to Mr. Archington’s," he said, as they walked down the passage. "Talk there more quietly."

Arlington’s establishment, a wine and spirit vaults, stood at the corner of one of the four main streets of Selchester. It was one of those places divided into a good many rooms—private bars, public bars, a counting-house, and so on. One flank of it ran down a side alley, and into this the bookseller turned, to slip into a side door which opened, on a long narrow passage running to the rear of the building.

At a door at the end Willett knocked, and receiving a command to enter, ushered his companion into a little office, snugly and comfortably furnished, and evidently sacred to the proprietor, another quiet-looking, elderly man, who, at the sight of his visitors, nodded comprehendingly, and motioned the bookseller to shut the door behind him.

"This is Mr. Brixey," said Willett. "Come for a bit of quiet talk. I haven't told him anything yet. But he understands that whatever is said is between the three of us."

"Aye!" responded Archington, with a nod to the stranger. "Just so. To be sure! Mr. Linthwaite's nephew, I understand, sir? Just so. Queer business, Mr. Brixey—uncommonly so. You haven't heard anything as to your uncle's whereabouts?"

"No!" replied Brixey. "I'd be only too glad to!"

Archington, who was warming his back at a cheery fire, stood for a moment thoughtfully rubbing his chin. Then he pointed his visitors to two chairs which flanked the hearthrug, and turning to a sideboard, produced a bottle of sherry and silently filled three glasses, after which he took down a box of cigars from the mantelpiece and handed it round. He lighted a cigar himself, sipped thoughtfully from his glass and looked at Willett.

"Better tell your tale first," said Willett.

"Whatever either of you tell me," remarked Brixey, "I shall take in strict confidence. At the same time, if it's anything that will lead to my finding Mr. Linthwaite, you wouldn't object to coming forward if necessary?"

Archington, who had dropped into an easy chair, glanced at the bookseller.

"I don't think there'll be any need for any coming forward," he said. "I think we can put you on to something that'll solve matters. That's my opinion, anyway, and I think it's Willett's."

"Mine, certainly!" said Willett. "We can tell you of a fact—two facts—on which you can work. Go on, Archington."

"Well," said the wine merchant, turning to Brixey. "It's this—Willett and myself, from certain facts, believe that your uncle's locked up! If you want to know where—somewhere in those ruins at the old Priory.

"If you want to know who his gaolers are—the actual ones—-Nat Lee and his daughter. But—there'll be somebody behind them. They're only turnkeys, as it were. And, in the case of the daughter, not very dependable."

"You've grounds for this supposition?" suggested Brixey.

"Good ones!" answered Archington. "Now, as to mine. First, last Wednesday noon, I was in my order office alone—the man who's usually there had gone out to his dinner. In came that girl of Lee's—Debbie, as they call her. I hadn't seen much of her since she came home from London, but I knew her well enough, because for a while, before she went to that milliner's place in town, she was parlourmaid at my house; of course, she's smartened up a lot since then, though she was always a forward young minx.

"Well, she came up to the counter as large as life. 'Mr. Archington,' she says, 'I want to buy some claret, I've not been well, and the doctor says I'm anæmic and I ought to drink some good claret, so I want to try if it'll do any good.' Well, of course, I showed her a wine list, and pointed out a very good claret at three shillings a bottle. I also recommended some Burgundy that I have at the same price.

"But, no. Neither was good enough for my lady! 'While I'm at it,' she says, 'I'll have the best.' And before I could say more she put her finger on the price list against one of the best wines I have—some very fine Château Laffite——"

Brixey started and whistled, and the other two men glanced at each other significantly.

"At six-and-six a bottle," continued Archington, "‘I'll have half a dozen of that,' she said. 'You'll send them up for me, Mr. Archington?' and she pulled out a purse and handed me a five-pound note.

"Well of course, it wasn't my affair if Debbie Lee liked to buy claret at six-and-six a bottle, and I gave her the change, and promised to send the wine up at once. But I never believed it was for her, for I never saw a young woman look less anæmic in my life. And, to cut matters, short, I put that fiver safely away."

Archington glanced at Willett as he came to an end of his story, and the bookseller nudged Brixey's elbow.

"I've got a five-pound note from the same quarter, too," he said, "And I got it about the same time—last Wednesday. This same young woman came into my shop just before one o'clock. I did just know her for it's not so long since that I bought some old prints from her father.

"She'd a scrap of paper in her hand. 'Mr. Willett,' she says, as candidly as you please, 'there's a lady that I know in London who's interested in these old places like Selchester, an invalid lady that's nothing to do but read, and she's asked me if I can buy her any of the books on this list? Have you any of them?!' 'What are they?' I asked.

"She gave me the scrap of paper then. It was part of a page evidently torn out of some second-hand bookseller’s catalogue—some bookseller who specialises in topography and local history. There were several items relating to Selchester, and some of them were ticked off in pencil.

"‘Yes,' I said, 'I've some of these, but as you see, they're pretty expensive.' 'Oh, it doesn't matter!' she says. 'She's a wealthy lady—one of the customers where I worked in London—and she's sent me a five-pound note to lay out.' So I showed her what I had—Blenkinridge's 'History of Selchester' in two volumes, and Dean Dewberry’s 'Annals and Collections of Selchester Cathedral,' and Raycastle's 'Chartulary of Selchester Priory,' and one or two small things—they came to well over four pounds.

"She gave me a five-pound note. I have it in my pocket-book now. I offered to pack the books for her and to send them by parcel post, but she carried them off.

"Now," concluded Willett, "I believed the young woman's story at the time, but when I heard of Mr. Linthwaite’s disappearance; and that he was a well-known antiquary, and that he'd been seen about the Priory grounds last Tuesday morning, I—well, I began to think. And on Sunday Mr. Archington and I compared notes, and there you are!"

"What does Mr. Brixey think?" asked Archington, slyly.

Brixey, who seemed to have relaxed into a brown study suddenly woke up.

"Let me see those five-pound notes," he demanded. "That’s the first thing!"

CHAPTER XXV

THE BANK CONFIRMS

The bookseller produced an old-fashioned pocket-book, and, after a little searching among its contents, extracted a five-pound note, new, crisp and crackling. Archington at the same moment unlocked a drawer, and took another from beneath some papers. In silence they handed the notes to Brixey, who glanced straight at the numbers.

"X 61 23784," he muttered. "X 61 23785. A moment—I’ll write those numbers down. Thank you, gentlemen," he continued, as he produced a notebook and pencil.

"That's the first direct clue I've had! You've hit the target without a doubt! I'm about as sure as I can be that this is not the first time I've handled these two notes."

"You yourself?" asked Archington.

"I, myself!" affirmed Brixey. "My uncle and I bank at the same bank—the Amalgamated Counties, in Fleet Street. A week since last Saturday I cashed a cheque for him there. I took a hundred pounds of it in five-pound notes, all of which he'd have on him when he left town. If these are not two of them, I shall be much surprised. But I'll know definitely before the day's out."

"And if they are?" asked Willett.

"I want to have your advice on that matter," said Brixey "Now, you said, Mr. Archington, that your impression is that my uncle is locked up in the old Priory. Do you think that possible? Possible, I mean, that a man could be locked up there for several days without it leaking out? Do you mean to say that it's a place in which it's possible to imprison in that way?"

Archington pointed to the bookseller.

"Willett knows more about that than I do," he answered. "I'm not as familiar with our old places as he is."

"Well, it is possible," said Willett as Brixey turned to him. "Unless you've been all over those ruins, Mr. Brixey, you'd be astonished in what a good state of preservation they are, and what a lot of room there is in them. Two or three resolute and determined people, bent on doing it, could keep a man prisoner there for as long as they liked.

"There's the old tower, for instance. The base of that is Lee's dwelling-house, put in repair some years ago, when the museum was started, for the caretaker to live in. Above it there are several rooms and places, all in good architectural repair, with strong doors, and so on.

"In one of them a lot of corporation records and things are stored, but it's very rarely that that room is visited. And there are rooms above that. Yes, I certainly think a man might be locked up there, and nobody the wiser."

"But, think!" objected Brixey. "Those Priory grounds are visited all day long! Do you mean to say that a man so imprisoned couldn't attract attention from the windows, couldn't shout to those below?"

"There are rooms in that tower, sir," answered Willett, "in which the windows are so small and set so high in the walls above the flooring that a man couldn't get at them."

"What about lights at night in these rooms, or in one of them?" suggested Brixey. "Wouldn’t that attract attention?"

"Do you think the gaolers would allow lights?" asked Willett dryly.

"No! Besides, there are one or two places in there that don't touch the outer walls—inner rooms. That's one of the most massive towers in England."

"Your theory, of course," Brixey concluded as he rose, "is that Mr. Linthwaite is being kept there a prisoner until—what?"

"Ah, that's it!" said Archington, with a laugh. "Until—what? Well, I should say, until something's taken place that his presence in this town was likely to prevent."

"That's it!" agreed Willett, "He turned up just when somebody didn't want him. And so—he's been quietly interned."

"How do you—how would you—account for it that if he's locked up in that way he’s free to buy wine and books?" asked Brixey. "That's queer!"

"Not a bit," said Archington. "He got the girl to manage it—probably paid her well to get him a few comforts. She's a sharp young minx, and it looks to me as if he'd been told that he'd got to stop where he was for some days, and so determined to make the best of it. I noticed you started when I said that Debbie Lee ordered Château Laffite?"

"My uncle's favourite wine, that's' all," answered Brixey.

"There you are!" exclaimed Archington triumphantly. "Well, what'll you do? Go to the police?"

"No!" replied Brixey. "Not yet, anyway. I'll satisfy myself about these notes, and then I shall consider further operations. I feel pretty comfortable now about one thing.

"From what you tell me, my uncle, if he is a prisoner, is not likely to be either in chains or on bread and water. That's something to know. And now I'm going to wire to the bank."

Archington pointed to a sheaf of telegram forms on his desk, and Brixey wrote out his message:

Manager, Amalgamated Counties Bank, Fleet Street, London—I cashed a cheque for Mr. John Linthwaite with you on May 12th. Please wire me the numbers of the five-pound notes which you gave me in exchange.—Richard Brixey, Mitre Hotel, Selchester.

"You shall know what I hear about this," he said, as he went off. "In the meantime, silence all round!"

He handed in the wire to the post office and then walked back to the "Mitre," expecting to encounter Gaffkin either in the streets or about the hotel. But Gaffkin was not in evidence; Brackett, the barmaid, said, had gone out on business, and Brixey was left to his thoughts.

On one point Brixey's mind was already made up—he was going to know the secret of the Priory before the day was out. He hung around the "Mitre," wishing that Gaffkin would turn up, so that he could consult with him. But noon was chimed and rung from all the city clocks and from the great bell in the cathedral tower, and no Gaffkin appeared.

Then, at half-past twelve, as Brixey was moodily strolling up and down near the Market Cross, keeping an eye on the ends of four streets along any one of which Gaffkin might have appeared, he saw Empidge come out of the "Mitre" courtyard, look round, catch sight of him, and point him out to a railway porter who carried an envelope in his hand. The man came hurrying up to him.

"Mr. Brixey, sir?" he asked. "Gentleman down at the station asked me to bring you this, sir. No answer."

Brixey took a dirty and crumpled envelope from its bearer and extracted a scrap of paper on which Gaffkin had hastily scrawled a message.

Found out that M. left by 9.41 for Brighton; going after him by 12.13. Will keep you informed by wire of what I am doing—G."

Brixey gave the porter a shilling and was turning away when a thought occurred to him.

"Here!" he said, calling the man back. "Do you know Mr. Mr. Mesham?"

"Mr. Mesham—him that lives at Strike's, sir?" answered the porter. "Yes, sir, well enough by sight, sir."

"Did you happen to see him go away by the 9.41 this morning?" asked Brixey. "You did. Well, was he alone?"

"As far as I know, he was, sir," replied the man. "I saw him in a first-class smoker, sir—hadn’t no one with him that I noticed."

Brixey nodded in silence, and turned into the "Mitre." He was disappointed at not being able to communicate his news to Gaffkin, but a little reflection made him determined not to tell even Brackett of it. He had already made up his mind that he would not share it with Crabbe and the police—yet.

Gaffkin would probably return from Brighton before night; if not, he would visit the Priory alone. And while he lunched he thought out a plan of action. Know whether his uncle was immured or not in those ruins he would before he slept.

Three o’clock brought Brixey a wire from the bank in London. After one glance at it he walked over to Chantry Passage and showed it to Willett.

"There you are!" he said. "Just as I expected. You see, the twenty five-pound notes I got in exchange for Mr Linthwaite's cheque were numbered X 61 23768 to X 61 23787, both numbers inclusive! Your note and Mr. Archington’s are X 61 23784 and X 61 23785. Nothing could be clearer!"

"What are you going to do? asked Willett.

"Without saying anything to anybody, answered Brixey, "I'm going to pay a quiet visit to that spot this evening, after dark. Are you a yearly subscriber to those grounds? You are? Then it would be a help if you’d lend me your key. I want to get in on quiet."

"You don’t think you’re running into danger?" asked Willett.

"Possibly, but it will only be for about the twentieth time, replied Brixey. "That's merely incidental. I'll keep you posted."

He lounged away the afternoon around and within the cathedral. And as he sat down to dinner that evening, still alone, a second wire arrived from Gaffkin. Mesham was in company with an elderly man, much resembling himself, at Brighton, and Gaffkin was carefully watching all their movements.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE GREEN PURSE

Brixey, before sitting down to dinner that evening, had been out in the town, doing a little necessary shopping. Had Crabbe followed him from shop to shop his police-inspector's mind might have attached suspicion in Brixey's purchases.

For at one shop Brixey bought an electric lamp of the best make obtainable, and at another a pair of cloth shoes, thickly soled with felt; at a third he purchased a small but eminently business-like revolver and had it fitted with cartridges.

When he went out of the "Mitre" after darkness had fallen over Selchester he had all these things in his pockets, ready for use.

In the course of his professional career Brixey had more than once played the part of a spy. More than once, too, he had run himself into queer situations. If was no empty boast on his part when he told Willett that if he risked danger on this occasion it would only be for the twentieth time.

But he was a cool hand, and full of resourcefulness and of ideas, and he had already worked out the plans which he intended to follow that evening.

He knew from observation that after dark the grounds of the old Priory were closed; accordingly there would be no one about to witness his movements. His notion was to get in there, unobserved, and to do a little quiet spying round the caretaker's dwelling.

There might be windows with undrawn curtains; there might be something to hear at doors; some accidental circumstance might ensue which would be of immense value. And if none of these things materialised he meant to walk boldly in on the father and daughter and tax Debbie Lee with having been in possession of two five-pound notes belonging to Mr. John Linthwaite.

Everything was very quiet at the far extremities of the little town. Such Selchester folk as went abroad at night always congregated in the centre of the place, around the old Market Cross; up there, near the North Bar and its adjacent walls, there was nobody about.

While he waited at a corner opposite the "Lame Hussar," two sounds broke the silence. Behind him, down a narrow side street which his wanderings in the town had taught him to know as leading beneath the walls to the western extremity of Selchester, and so to the high road which ran, towards Portsmouth, he heard the coming of a motor-car.

It stopped a little distance away down this street; moved again. Brixey, stepping a yard or two into the roadway, saw it turn round—a car with back and front lights. It pulled up and remained stationary by the kerb, and at that moment he heard the second sound.

At the end of the narrow entry which led past the "Lame Hussar" to the entrance to the Priory grounds his quick ear caught the closing of a gate. And a second later all the clocks of Selchester, from that of the cathedral to those of the various small churches, struck nine.

Brixey slipped noiselessly into the shelter of the deep porch of an old house behind him. He had seen two figures coming along from the Priory gates. In another moment they passed him, walking swiftly, and in the faint light from the windows of the tavern he recognised them.

Lee and his daughter.

Brixey put his head out of the porch and watched. They were moving on as silently as swiftly. He strained his ears to catch a word from either as they went by, and caught nothing.

But his eyes had better luck than his ears. He saw that Lee was overcoated and capped as if for a journey; that Debbie was similarly apparelled. And Lee tugged a heavy portmanteau, while his daughter carried two smaller bags, one in each hand. This, clearly, decided Brixey, was a departure, and perhaps a hurried one.

As he now expected, father and daughter crossed the end of the main street, hurrying their steps as they passed the gas—lamps at the corners, and made for the waiting motor-car down the side alley. He saw them get into it, saw the driver move round to the front, heard him start his engine; a few seconds later the car went swiftly away.

And Brixey knew then that the coast was clear for him, and he wondered if he had been wise in letting these two highly-suspicious characters depart without questions. For he was sure by that time that whatever share Miss Deborah Lee had taken in the mystery which centred in the Priory, now so dark and silent before him, her father was a participant in.

But, after all, the going-away left him free to explore, unchecked, probably unwatched, unless, indeed, there were other conspirators left behind.

After a few moments of reflection, Brixey slipped along the street to the Priory gates and let himself into the grounds by means of Willett's key. In there everything was dark and very quiet. Nevertheless, he wished to be quiet himself, and once inside the walls he turned aside to a rustic arbour which he had noticed on his previous visits, and there took off his boots and put on the felt-soled shoes.

Having felt that the revolver in his hip-pocket was loose and handy, and that the electric lamp was ready for immediate pulling out, Brixey went away up the broad gravelled walk in the direction of the ruins.

There was not a gleam of light from the front of the caretaker's house. Silent as a shadow Brixey glided across the front, peering in at the windows, listening at the doors.

The whole place was tomb-like in its quietness. The windows were fast and the door under the portico was fast. If the father and daughter had left by that entrance they had taken the key with them.

But Brixey, in his previous observations of the Priory and its grounds, had noticed that there was a back entrance to the caretaker’s house. The house itself had been fashioned and rearranged out of the lower stories of we great, square tower of the Priory.

At the rear of the tower, among the ruins of one of the transepts, there was a yard, from which admittance could be had to the caretaker's premises. He made his way. through the old masses of fallen masonry to this, passed through a hedge of laurel bushes, and entered the yard.

And there, in one of the lower windows, he saw a faint gleam of light, evidently from a fire. To make his way to that window was the work of a moment. When he looked cautiously through the bottom panes he was astonished to see that on the hearth of what was evidently the living-room of the house quite a respectable fire was burning.

Clearly, then, the departure of the Lees had been an unexpected one. The fire had surely been made up for the evening. But there was another piece of evidence on that point. In the firelight he saw that the table was spread for supper. He saw, too, that the meal had been interrupted.

So convinced was Brixey by this time that the place was empty, that he went away from the window towards the back door. But as he crossed the bit of yard his foot struck something soft, soft yet firm, which lay on the pavement in his path.

There was a peculiar sensation about this contact in the dark, and he stopped and put down a hand—to encounter something warm and yet suspiciously still.

He had a swift intuition of what this was before even he drew out his lamp and, carefully shading it within his jacket, bent down to look. There at his feet lay an Airedale terrier, dead, but not long dead.

The poor brute was warm. Not so long since its life had coursed joyously enough through its veins, and Brixey uttered a malediction on the folk who had so callously taken it. But there was no use in indulging in sentiment, and he switched off his lamp and went on to the door.

That, of course, he said to himself, was the dog of which Fanshawe Byfield had spoken—the excellent house-dog. Why had Lee poisoned it just before leaving? That, surely, was another proof of hasty departure.

Had the dog been left alive he would, even if chained up when Lee and his daughter went away, have followed in their tracks on his release. Therefore, argued Brixey, it was very evident that they wished to prevent any risk, to obviate any chance of being followed.

Folk who do not wish to be followed, he further argued, have some very good reason for desiring to escape pursuit. That, at any rate, seemed clear.

With a quietness that would have done credit to a professional burglar, Brixey crept along to the kitchen door and tried the latch. He was not surprised to find that it tipped easily. The door was unlocked and unbolted. He was inside it in another second and had glided into the living-room and through it to a little hall which divided it from the front of the house.

There in the darkness he stood for a while, listening. At first not a sound came from the heights above, but presently a breath of chilly air blew down on him, and he knew that somewhere up above him there was a window open. He heard a slight rattle of its frame in a casement.

On that slight breeze, too, came the hooting of an owl in the trees outside the ruins—a sound that fitted well with the character of the old place and with the circumstances. And, curious and eager as he was, Brixey felt a certain sense of eeriness when he heard that hooting, and his heart beat a little quicker as he groped about him, found a stair, and quietly tiptoed up it.

He scarcely knew why he was adopting a mouse-like quiet in this place, which he was perfectly sure, was absolutely free of its usual denizens. But was his uncle interned somewhere in the upper regions? He was going to search that tower from bottom to top, now that he was in it.

When he came to the first landing he cautiously burned on the gleam of his electric lamp, and, shrouding it with his jacket, looked round him. A door stood open on his right hand, and he slipped into the room behind it.

Miss Debbie Lee’s room this, evidently; evidently, too, left by its tenant in some haste. Drawers had been left half closed, boxes were standing about with unclosed lids; female wearing apparel was thrown, here and there about the bed and the chairs.

And on the dressing-table, over which Brixey carefully shone his lamp, lay an oblong green morocco purse, a thing of some size, half hidden beneath a handkerchief which bad either been carelessly thrown or purposely placed on it.

Brixey set down his lamp at the corner of the dressing-table and opened that purse. And he instantly knew that its owner had gone off in such a hurry that she had forgotten it. For there, in one division, were bank-notes; in another, gold.

In a third was a mere scrap of paper, and it was to that, rather than to the gold and the notes, that Brixey gave his attention.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE CRY ACROSS THE WATER

It was a bit of crumpled, dirty paper, a scrap evidently torn from a small memorandum-book, at which Brixey looked. On it were a few words scribbled in pencil in a man’s handwriting—an address. Whether it signified much or little, Brixey instantly memorised it.

Wolmark’s Private Hotel, Trinity Square, E.C.

He repeated it once or twice and packed it away in a safe corner of his brain for future use if need arose. Woimark’s Private Hotel, Trinity Square—down by the Tower, and near the Docks.

What was an address like that doing in Debbie Lee’s purse, there in Selchester?

But before Brixey had time to consider this problem his attention was otherwise occupied. Outside the room in which he stood there was a landing, and on that landing a window was open. All the time he had been there he had heard the hooting of the owls in the old trees across the grounds.

Now he heard something else—the steady throb of the engine of a motor-car. That sound drew nearer and nearer; slowed down, ceased. He knew it to have come from the road outside; knew the car to have pulled up close to the gates of the Priory, and he instantly slipped the bit of paper back into the purse, laid the purse where he had found it, half covered by the handkerchief, and turned off the light of his lamp.

The next instant he heard footsteps on the drive below—somebody was running towards the house. And he knew then that Debbie Dee had missed her purse, and was either hurrying back herself or had sent somebody to fetch it.

Brixey, in glancing round the room, had noticed a curtain which hung from a shelf in an alcove. To slip behind that curtain was the work of an instant.

Another instant and he heard the hurrying steps in the yard beneath, then in the living-room below, then on the stair. And he knew then that it was a man who had come back for the green purse.

The man came running fast up the stairs. Brixey heard him panting. He turned straight into the room. Brixey saw his figure outlined against the grey light of the curtainless window. But the next instant the man struck a match; it flared up brightly.

And then the watcher knew that he had indeed made a discovery. The man standing before him, glancing eagerly at the contents of the dressing-table, was, without doubt, the man whom the Newhaven landlord had described—a very ordinary-looking fellow to whom an unmistakable cast or squint gave a sinister appearance.

Also, Brixey was certain that he was the man to whom he had seen Mesham talking that very morning in the side-alley when he followed Mesham from the station after the Byfields had gone off to London. He knew him by his coat; its cut, its loud pattern.

In the same instant in which Brixey made these discoveries, the man caught sight of the purse and grabbed it with a muttered exclamation of relief. The next instant he had flung down the match, run out of the room, and was flying down the stairs; the next he was out of the house again, and running down the drive.

Brixey then emerged from his hiding-place, and, hurrying to the open window on the landing, put out his head and shoulders, and listened. A moment later he heard the motor-car's engine begin to throb—another moment and it had gone off once more into the night.

And once more silence fell over the old place, broken now and then by the mournful hooting of the owls.

Brixey thought a good deal to that eerie accompaniment. That Lee and his daughter were in flight he was certain. That the squint-eyed man was in collusion, or league or conspiracy with them seemed pretty positive. But what was it all about? Had it anything to do with the mystery which seemed to centre in Mrs. Byfield? Was it in relation to, or in consequence of, the disappearance of Mr. Linthwaite?

Without doubt the man who had just been to fetch the green purse was the man who had sent that mysterious telegram from Newhaven, and had torn up and thrown away the actual message written by Mr. linthwaite himself. Therefore he must have been in touch with Mr. Linthwaite in the first day or two of his disappearance, and probably ever since.

And if he, as now seemed probable, was running away with the Lees, where was Mr. Linthwaite, who had probably been in their custody?

That last question seemed, after all, the immediately important one, and Brixey determined to continue his search. And now, feeling sure that nobody else would come to the old tower, he turned on the light of his lamp and boldly and carefully explored his surroundings. Before he left it, he was going to make certain whether Mr. Linthwaite was in that tower or not.

There were yet upper regions to explore, and Brixey climbed what was evidently the last flight of stair.

And before he knew of it he had set foot in what he very quickly assured himself to have been his uncle’s prison.

The stair terminated on a narrow landing whereon was an ancient archway in which a door, clamped and ironed, was deeply set. That door was open. The vaulted chamber behind it was empty. But there was a door in the farther wall of that chamber, also open, through which Brixey instantly strode.

And he had not thrown the gleam of his lamp round the small room inside it for more than a few observant seconds than he knew that one part of the mystery was solved. Here, without a doubt, Mr. Linthwaite had been immured.

But he was not there! The place was empty and silent. Yet that he had been locked up there Brixey never doubted after his first rapid inspection—nay, he was certain that he had been there recently. And now that he had settled that point he proceeded to take a careful look round this curious jail.

An oil lamp stood on a table set against one of the bare walls. He lighted it and turned it up to the full. In its fairly strong light he saw how it was that Mr. Linthwaite had been incarcerated in this place without anyone knowing outside the circle—large or small—of his jailers.

The room was some twelve feet square in floor space, but of a considerable height. Its two windows were set high in the wails, much too high for a tall man to reach, even if standing on chair or table. The door was strong, thick, and closely set in its framework. Brixey saw that when it was closed the room must be sound-proof.

These facts showed him that a prisoner confined in the room would have little chance of attracting the attention of any person outside.

He turned from them to the proofs of his uncle’s presence. The place had been fitted up as a bed-sitting-room, and was not uncomfortably furnished. A thick, if somewhat timeworn, carpet had been spread on the floor, a camp-bed placed in one corner, a roomy arm-chair stood by a table set in the centre. On another and smaller table lay books, newspapers, periodicals.

Brixey turned them over—the last newspapers were of that day’s date; the books were those which Debbie Lee had bought from Willett. Writing materials lay near. A quantity of manuscript revealed the fact that Mr. Linthwaite had solaced the hours of imprisonment by making copious notes from the "History of Selchester." There was no mistaking his somewhat crabbed penmanship.

And ranged on the same table, in company with a cruet-stand and certain table appointments, stood the half-dozen bottles of Château Laffitte which Archington had spoken of; three of them were still uncorked.

A sudden fear sprang up in Brixey’s mind as he took in all these various details and proofs. Was it possible that the evidently sudden and hurried departure of the Lees and the squint-eyed man had brought about some tragedy?

The Airedale terrier was lying dead in the yard. Was it possible that Mr. linthwaiie was hung dead, too, somewhere among these ruins? It might be that these folk had been faced with some situation which made them desperate—desperate enough to take life.

And at that thought and its dreadful possibilities Brixey hastily ran down the stairs, left the Priory grounds, and hurried along the streets to the police station. Now, at last, the police would be of use.

Crabbe was in his office, writing letters, when Brixey was shown in to him. He looked up in astonishment.

"News?" he asked.

"Look here!'" exclaimed Brixey. "We've got to stir—quick! Never mind all the particulars. I'll tell you them later. But I’ve made a discovery.

"My uncle's been locked in a room in the top of that tower at the old Priory. There's no doubt about it, as you'll see for yourself. But he's not there now, and those Lees are gone—both father and daughter. They've gone off to-night, in a motor-car. I saw them go.

"Now, something's been done with my uncle before they left. We've got to find out what. Get some of your men and come up there. I'll tell you a lot more as we go along."

Crabbe got to his feet and made for the door. But before he could open it the policeman who had just ushered Brixey in came back with an expression of face which betokened news.

"Well?" demanded Crabbe. "What now?"

The policeman, obviously excited, jerked a thick thumb in the direction of the front office.

"There's a man there from one of those cottages up North Bar way, sir," he said. "Outside the walls—between the Priory grounds and the lake. He says there's somebody on that island in the middle of the lake shouting for help!"

Brixey started forward. In his observations of the big sheet of water behind the Priory grounds he had noticed the small, thickly-wooded island of which the policeman spoke, and now a sudden light flashed field of mental vision. He clapped the inspector on the shoulder.

"Come on at once!" he exclaimed. "I've an idea what that means. Come! Bring more men. Get this man outside to show us the nearest way."

Ten minutes later at the head of half a dozen men, Brixey was standing on the edge of the black surface of the lake, striving to penetrate the gloom. Not even his sharp eyes could make out the island, half a mile away, but it needed little acuteness of hearing to catch a cry which came through the night.

"Help there! Help!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

MAROONED

Brixey gripped the inspector by the arm as he heard that cry.

"There you are!" he said. "Found! That's Mr. Linthwaite's voice. Now, then—how to get to him? What is this island? Do people go across to it?"

"There's a hut on it that's used for wild-fowl shooting," answered Crabbe. "And there ought to be a punt somewhere about here. This is a queer business, Mr. Brixey," he went on as they began to search the bank of the lake. "How on earth does this poor gentleman come to be there?"

"Never mind that," exclaimed Brixey. "He'll tell us all that later. Coming!" he shouted as the cry for help came again. "Wave one of those lanterns to let him know he's heard," he continued, turning to the knot of police, who were turning the lights of their bull's-eye lamps on the reeds and sedges in an endeavour to find the punt. "Where is this boat you're talking about?"

One of the policemen, a little in advance, suddenly stopped and turned his light on the still water at the edge of the lake.

"There it is, sir!" he said. "And scuttled, too! That's no use."

The other men gathered round, turning their lamps on the foundered punt, which lay a foot or so beneath the surface.

"That's been done on purpose!" remarked Crabbe. "I see what it's been. Whoever took Mr. Linthwaite across to that island came back alone and scuttled that punt, so that it couldn't be used in a hurry. And I don't know where there's another boat!"

The man who had run down to the police station with the news came forward.

"Jim Pybus has a bit of a boat down at his garden steps, Mr. Crabbe," he said. "’Tain't much of a size, but he goes about this here water in it, fishing."

"Come on! Where is it?" urged Brixey.

The man led them along the side of the lake to a point where one or two isolated cottages stood on the shore, and at the foot of some stone steps showed his companions a tiny skiff tied up to a post.

By dint of shouting beneath his window its owner was brought down. He regarded the posse of men with sleepy wonder, and shook his head.

"Ain't fit for no more than two to be in that there vessel!" he said. "I don't go out with no more than one in she, any times, 'Tain't safe, nohow, for more. Can't take all of 'ee across, there,"

"Let him go by himself," said Brixey. "Look here, my man. There’s a gentleman stranded across there on that island. Go and fetch him. Bring him safe over, and there's a sovereign for you."

"All right, master—hoping he ain't a very heavy 'un," said the man. "Ain't crippled, nor nothing, is he?"

"I don't know what state he's in," answered Brixey. "Get across there and find out, anyway."

"The boat-owner got into his tiny craft and pulled away into the gloom, and the company on the bank stood casting their lights in his direction until he vanished. Crabbe took off his cap and wiped his forehead.

"This beats all!" he said in an undertone to Brixey, "Never heard the like of it! Who can have put him over there? Those Lees, now—they can't have done that themselves. Who's been in at it?"

"You'll hear more presently, Inspector," answered Brixey. "Unless I’m mistaken you'll hear still more to-morrow, and I sincerely hope you'll have the pleasure of making some arrests. But I'm a bit doubtful on that point, unless——"

"There's a light on the island now!" interrupted one of the policemen. "Gentleman's struck a match, I think."

A tiny spark of blue flame glimmered for a second or two far off across the water. It died out, and was presently succeeded by another. The captive was evidently showing his whereabouts to the man in the boat.

And in a few minutes more the watchers on the bank heard the splash of the returning oars and voices from the boat—that of the boatman low and monosyllabic, that of his passenger high-pitched and loquacious.

"That's my uncle!" said Brixey, with a sigh of relief, "He's all right! I know that from his voice. Well, that's a consolation, anyhow!"

Mr. Linthwaite, sitting very uncomfortably in the stern of the tiny boat, and gripping the timbers on either side of him, was something of a picture as he came into the glare of the policemen's lamps. A somewhat prim, precise, and old-fashioned-looking gentleman, his outward appearance was now rendered odd and even amusing by the fact that he wore an ordinary blanket pinned about his shoulders and had a cheap cloth cap, two sizes too small for him, perched on the crown of his head.

He wore pince-nez on the bridge of his high, inquisitive nose; the black ribbon attached to them dangling gracefully across his blanket. He stared wonderingly around the ring of faces on the bank, and as Brixey stepped forward to give him a helping hand his wonder found vent in an exclamation.

"Bless my soul!" he said, as his nephew pulled him. through the reeds and set him on the bank. "You here? Dear me! Most extraordinary. I fear your arrangements have been upset, eh? This is not—not accidental?"

Brixey slapped the blanketed shoulders.

"I've been here looking for you ever since last Thursday," he answered. "The whole place has been turned upside down for you. You're going to cost me five hundred pounds! Where have you been?"

Mr. Linthwaite removed his pince-nez, and waved them in the direction whence he had just been ferried.

"Since a little while after dark this evening," he remarked calmly, "marooned—I think that is the correct term?—marooned on a small island, across there.

"I wish I'd had one of these lamps with me. I found some ancient stones on that island on which, I am sure, are inscriptions. But I only had one box of matches—growing low, too.

"So you are really here?" he continued, glancing almost dubiously at his nephew. "Didn’t you receive my wire last week? I expected to join you at Winchester."

"Look here!" broke in Brixey. "Who put you on that island to-night? Never mind me—we'll talk about that later. Come now—who was it?"

Mr. Linthwaite resumed his glasses and looked speculatively round the ring of interested faces.

"Um!" he said. "An inspector of police, I perceive; also several constables. Ah! I think we will defer explanations until—— Shall we adjourn to the 'Mitre’? Perhaps the inspector will accompany us? The fact is, a little refreshment will not do me any harm."

Brixey slipped a sovereign into the hand of the boatman, another into that of the man who had first heard Mr. Linthwaite’s cry for help. The procession set forth, Brixey and Crabbe going first with the recent captive behind them; the constables following, highly diverted by their view of Mr. Linthwaite from the rear.

At the police station they fell out. The three in front marched on in silence until they came to the 'Mitre.' Not until they were in the private sitting-room did Mr. Linthwaite remove his blanket and his cap. That done, he glanced significantly at his nephew.

"On this occasion, Dick" he said solemnly, "I think—whisky!"

Instead of ringing the bell, Brixey went round to the bar parlour in person. Brackett sat by the hearth reading the evening paper, in which he was so absorbed that he did not hear Brixey’s footstep until his guest clapped him on the shoulder.

"Got him!" said Brixey triumphantly. "He’s in the little parlour. Come in, and bring a decanter of your best whisky with you."

Brackett got up with marvellous alacrity for a man of his age. He stared at Brixey open-eyed.

"You don’t mean to say Mr. Linthwaite’s found!" he exclaimed. "Bless me! There’s a most amazing theory about his disappearance in that paper!"

"I'll consider it later," laughed Brixey. "He’s here, and he’s all right, though a bit shivery."

Brackett gazed wonderingly on his elder guest as he carried decanter and glasses into the parlour, and his hand trembled as he put it in Mr. Linthwaite’s outstretched palm.

"I was never so glad to see anything in my life, gentlemen!" he said fervently as he glanced from uncle to nephew. "Never! I—I hope you’re no worse, sir?"

"Except for a slight and merely temporary feeling of chilliness, my good sir, I am, I believe, no worse," answered the returned captive. "I have eaten, and drunk, and smoked, and read—very profitably—and written—also profitably—and I am quite well.

"A little more exercise, perhaps? The fact is, until to-night, I have had none—not even that allowed to prisoners of the usual brand," he added, with a sly glance at Crabbe. "I wasn’t even allowed out of my cell!"

"Then you have been locked up, sir?" suggested Brackett. "Dear me!"

Brixey touched the landlord's elbow and pointed to the table.

"Give us each a drink," he commanded. He presently handed a glass to his uncle, and, giving him a meaning look, nodded in Crabbe’s direction.

"I think you had better tell us something," he said suggestively. "This is, or ought to be, a police job, and the inspector there is waiting for information."

Linthwaite took a pull at his glass, and, dropping into an easy chair, looked round and shook his head.

"I should be very glad," he said dryly, "if somebody could give me some information! I don’t know what any of you know, but I do know that since Tuesday afternoon I have been a prisoner under the most extraordinary and mystifying circumstances."

"You don't know why you were imprisoned?" exclaimed Brixey. "Come, now, is that in the nature of a legal quibble, or are we to take it in a literal sense?"

"Take it as you please, my dear lad," replied Linthwaite. "I merely repeat what I have said. All I know is that since last Tuesday I have been imprisoned, that three particular persons acted, as my gaolers, that they released me to-night—by marooning me on that island—and that I am here! But——"

Brixey interrupted his uncle with some impatience.

"This is important!" he said. "Just tell us! Was it Mesham who locked you up in that tower at the Priory? Did he cause it? Was he there? Have you seen, him?"

Linthwaite shook his head as if puzzled by these questions.

"Mesham?" he answered. "Mesham? Ah, you mean—yes, I know the man you mean. But no, I have never seen him since I left him outside the Priory at noon last Tuesday morning—never!"

CHAPTER XXIX

WITHOUT EXPLANATION

Brixey was obviously so taken aback by this reply that his uncle, after looking him carefully over for a few seconds, turned to the landlord and the inspector with a significant glance.

"I think my nephew would like to have some explanation from me, or to give me some explanation of his own in private," he said. "I've no doubt you gentlemen, and all the town, will eventually get your fill on this before long! But just now——"

Brackett took the plain hint and moved to the door. But Inspector Crabbe looked like a man whose hopes are being dashed just as they are about to be realised.

"Those Lees sir?" he asked. "You don't make any charge against them?"

"For the present, my friend," answered Linthwaite, "I make no charge against anybody. I'm too much in the dark."

"You said those Lees had slipped off in a motor-car, Mr. Brixey," said Crabbe. "Seemed to be running away, you thought?"

"Yes, but I don't know that they were carrying off anybody's property, Inspector," replied Brixey. "I, too, have no charge to make. Better wait. Morning may bring revelations!"

He spoke chaffingly, but when Crabbe and the landlord had left the room he turned to his uncle with a face that was serious enough.

"What on earth is all this about?" he asked. "You don't know what strange things I've unearthed since Thursday. I've an awful lot to tell you. There's some extraordinary mystery at the bottom of all this, and I'm certain it's just about to be developed in a very serious way for somebody.

"Hadn't you better tell me your story of this past week! Then I'll tell you what I've been up to. And then——"

Linthwaite interrupted his nephew with a deep cough and a sly look.

"Yes, dear boy," he said, "and what then?"

"Then, I should say, it will probably be high time to call in the police," replied Brixey.

"It might be," remarked Linthwaite, "if I knew, or we knew, what to call them in about. But it seems to me that somebody else will have to do the calling, and I don't know who that somebody else really is. I don't know what's going on!

"You want to know what's happened to me. I can tell you in a very few words. Last Tuesday morning, when I went out of this hotel, bent on no more than a mere stroll to a neighbouring ruin, I met a woman whom I knew years ago as a Mrs. Cradock Melsome.

"I know—know, mind!—her husband to be living. I know where he is, or was a week ago. But I found out that she had married, twenty-two years since, a well-to-do man in this town, and was now his widow—supposed widow, that is, for she has, of course, no legal status, unfortunately for her. She is now called Mrs. Byfield.

"I spoke to her for a few minutes, but without telling her that I knew her real husband to be alive. I might have done so, but our conversation was interrupted by her brother-in-law, Charles Melsome, whom I know well enough, though I haven't seen him for two years.

"I walked away with him, leaving her. I asked him a question or two about matters. 'Does Mrs. Byfield know that Cradock is alive?' was one. 'Has she any family?' was another.

"He told me that she had one son, that she didn't know that Cradock was alive, and that she had married Byfield in good faith. I then asked him a most pertinent question—'How did Byfield leave his money?' He replied that Byfield had died intestate, and that she, as his supposed widow, had administered the estate.

"‘In that case I said, 'the unfortunate woman is going to encounter serious trouble, for your brother is here in England, seeking her for reasons of his own, and he is sure to find her. The truth will come out, and she and her son won't be entitled to a penny of Byfieid's.

"He then asked me what should be done. I said I would consider matters during my walk, and speak to him again in the afternoon. We had an appointment for half-past two at the Priory, and parted. And now," added Linthwaite, "I may tell you that for thirty years I have been trustee for these two Melsomes, and——"

"A moment!" interrupted Brixey. "I'd better tell you that I know all about it, through you think I don't. The fact is, I was so convinced that you'd been the victim of foul play that I sent Gaffkin to search your papers—and, to cut the story short, I've got the Melsome receipts and the pedigree safely locked up here. Sorry to have had to make such a search—but, you know, everybody here believed you'd been murdered!"

"Oh, well, then, of course, you know who these Melsomes are," said Linthwaite, somewhat surprised by his nephew's drastic methods. "Um—I hope Gaffkin was careful in looking through my papers?"

"You can be sure he was," replied Brixey. "Yes, I worked out all about the Melsomes, and I also came to the conclusion that Mrs. Martin Byfield is really Mrs. Cradock Melsome.

"And as it's well known in the town that Martin Byfield died intestate, Gaffkin and I, of course, realised that, as you said just now, Mrs. Byfield and her son aren't entitled to a penny, by the mere fact that her marriage to Martin was no marriage. So now you see that you and I are at a common point. I know what you know, so far."

"Aye, but you don't know this!" said Linthwaite. "Cradock Melsome is in London, wanting to find his wife. He has a reason. Needless to say, it's for his own benefit. But, on thinking the whole thing thoroughly over, when I got to Mardene village after leaving Charles Melsome, I wired to Cradock bidding him meet me here at the 'Mitre,' next day.

"The fact was, I saw a way out of the difficulty for his wife, and I knew that I could save her annoyance. It was better that he should know where she was than that he should begin to advertise and make inquiries, and so I told him to come here last Wednesday."

Brixey jumped in his chair.

"Have you seen this Cradock Melsome lately?" he asked. "If so, what is he like?"

"I saw him a fortnight ago," answered Linthwaite. "Just after he came over from Canada. Elderly, greyish-haired, fresh-coloured man—good-looking."

"Then he did come to Selchester, and I believe he saw Mrs. Byfield, too, last week!" exclaimed Brixey. "That explains a lot. He was here on two different nights."

"Aye? Well, I didn't see him," said Linthwaite, with a sarcastic laugh. "I was otherwise engaged. I returned from Mardene, after a bit of lunch at the village inn, and was at the Priory a little after two.

"I looked in at the museum while I was waiting for Charles Melsome. A youngish man, an intelligent fellow, evidently a townsman, was in there—marked, I may tell you, by a peculiar cast in one eye—and I got into conversation with him.

"He asked me if I would care to examine the interior of the old tower, and as Melsome hadn't come, I went up the stairs with him. He took me, from one story to another—finally into an inner room at the top, a furnished room."

"I saw it to-night" remarked Brixey.

"Then you saw my prison!" said Linthwaite. "Before I'd scarcely crossed the threshold, the key was turned on me, and there I was, trapped! Of course, I immediately realised that my two meetings of that morning had something to do with this—but what?

"I couldn't think that Mrs. Byfield would endeavour to trap me. As for Charles Melsome, he had to look to me for a hundred and fifty pounds a year. But there I was, evidently imprisoned for a purpose. I looked round and saw that all preparations had been made for me—bed, easy chair, tables, and so on. It was very evident that all had been lately arranged.

"And there I stayed wondering and indescribably angry until about six o’clock, when the door opened, and the man whom we will call Squint—for I never learnt his name—entered. Incidentally, I may mention that when he did enter, he let me see that he had an ugly-looking revolver handy. He stood just within, close to the door, one hand on the latch, the other in a pocket from which the revolver also protruded.

"‘I’m sorry, Mr. Linthwaite,’ he said, 'but you made a great mistake in coming to Selchester just now, and you’ll have to pay for it. You'll have to remain here at least a week in this room.'

"‘You infernal blackguard!' I said, 'if you don't stand aside and let me walk freely down those stairs you'll see the inside of a jail longer than you think of.' 'I think not, sir,’ he said, coolly enough. 'And talking of jails, this of yours shall be made as comfortable as possible for you.’ Then he slightly opened the door and beckoned in a demure young woman.

"‘This young lady,’ he said, 'will take any orders you like to give her and do anything in reason for you. But,’ he added, with a sinister took, 'whenever she comes up, Mr. Linthwaite, there’ll always be a man in close attendance.

"‘Look here!' and he opened the door a few inches again and showed me a black-visaged, determined-looking fellow outside. 'Make the most of the situation, Mr. Linthwaite,' he continued. 'Only a week and you'll be free again.'

"‘Whose work is this, and what does it mean?’ I demanded. 'That,' he answered, 'is neither here nor there—so far as I'm concerned. Take my advice—and be as comfortable as you can!' After which, without as much as an if-you-please, he calmly took my hat and umbrella and walked off with them—three guineas' worth of property, which I've never seen since."

"Who the devil is this squint-eyed fellow?" growled Brixey.

"No more idea than the man in the moon!" said Linthwaite. "But he must be easily identified. However, there I was, and I had to make the best of it. So I cultivated the demure damsel. She was friendly and agreeable enough, so long as I said nothing about freedom—in fact, I am bound to say she made a very pleasant gaoler.

"She bought me some good wine—by the by, I have left three bottles of it there—and got me some books, and was very kind. And, knowing that I should be detained a week, I got her to take a telegram for you, which I suppose you duly received, eh?"

"I got a telegram from Newhaven, sent in your name by a squint-eyed man," remarked Brixey. "It informed me that you had gone to Paris for a week. That’s what I got!"

Linthwaite pursed his lips and shook his head.

"Mr. Squint," he remarked, "is certainly a person of ingenuity and resourcefulness, whoever he is! But to tell the rest, I remained immured until after dark this evening. Then Squint and the black-visaged person appeared, conducted me under stress to a punt at the edge of that lake, and took me over to the island, Squint kindly remarking as they rowed off that he would be obliged if I wouldn't shout for help for half an hour or so. And the rest you know."

"It seems to me," observed Brixey, "that the first thing to do is to find out who this squint-eyed chap is!"

"The first thing to do," said Linthwaite, "is to discover the whole circumstances and situation of the woman known here as Mrs. Byfield. I don't know why I was kidnapped and locked up, but I am sure that it had something to do with the Byfield estate.

"Now, look here! You've evidently been going into the matter. Do you know when Mrs. Byfield’s son comes of age?"

"Yes," replied Brixey, with a significant nod. "He comes of age to-morrow."

CHAPTER XXX

THE MIDNIGHT DISCOVERY

The old man of law’s eyebrows went up and a sharp look of suspicion flashed across his face.

"To-morrow!" he exclaimed. "And all this going on! Then we must see these Byfields at once."

"Can’t be done," said Brixey. "Mrs. Byfield and her son went off to London hurriedly first thing this morning. Why, I don’t know. I wish I did, for more reasons than one."

"More mystery?" asked Linthwaite.

"It’s all mystery," assented Brixey. "Look here! Hadn’t I better tell you everything that’s happened to me since last Thursday afternoon? You'll get the hang of things then. And it strikes me the time’s getting short."

Linthwaite, who had sat slowly sipping his whisky and water, set his glass down, drew out a cigar case and lighted a cigar.

"Go on!" he said. "Everything, then."

He listened in silence while his nephew related all his doings from the arrival of Georgina at the Sentinel office to his adventures of that evening, only asking a brief question here and there. And in the end he nodded his head with decision.

"You're quite right in your conclusion, my lad!" he said. "There’s a conspiracy here, which was evidently in being before I came to Selchester last week, and which was to have matured to-morrow. My presence interfered with the prospects of success; your doings have further interfered; the sudden going away of Mrs. Byfield has presumably been another cog in the wheel.

"But why did she go? Why did she persuade that girl to go with her? What did she tell that girl last night, to induce her to go? And, by George, sir, there’s no doubt that girl is the real owner of all the Martin Byfield property—every pennyworth!"

"What do you think now you know all?" asked Brixey.

"That that scoundrel Charles Melsome—or Christopher Mesham, as he now calls himself—is at the bottom of it!" answered Linthwaite.

"The squint-eyed fellow is probably his tool, or agent. Probably, too, Charles encountered Cradock when he came here in answer to my wire, and has drawn him into it. Presumably the object was to blackmail Mrs. Byfield to a very considerable extent, and to make the lad Fanshawe another victim. Between them, mother and son will to-morrow, when the son comes of age, be in possession of a considerable amount.

"These fellows meant, no doubt, to have a big share of it on condition of keeping silence about Mrs. Byfield's marriage to Cradock before her marriage to Byfield. We don't know what they may have already done. There's only one bit of consolation that I see."

"What?" asked Brixey.

"You say that Mesham, as we'll call him, looked much taken aback when he saw those three going off this morning?" said Mr. Linthwaite.

"Clean sold!" replied Brixey. "So much so that he stood with his mouth wide open, staring!"

"That looks as if he saw his victim escaping him," remarked Linthwaite. "But we mustn't trust to chance. Now, first, do you know where these three are in London?"

"No," said' Brixey, "but Brackett may know. Miss Byfield, I believe, promised to wire to him. The old chap was anxious about her."

"Go and see," commanded Linthwaite. "And then send for my overcoat and hat from my bedroom. We've got to go out."

Brixey came back in five minutes, bringing the hat and coat and the desired information. Georgina had wired to Brackett that evening. They were all staying at the Grosvenor Hotel.

"Very good," observed Linthwaite. "Then come on to Semmerby's house."

Brixey looked at his watch.

"The old man will be in bed," he said. "It's eleven now."

"Doesn't matter if it's two in the morning, my lad!" answered Linthwaite. "Or three, or four. We're going to have him up!"

Brixey spoke a word or two to the old landlord as they passed out, asking him to keep up a bit of fire in the sitting-room; he already foresaw that there might be no going to bed that night. Then he took his uncle along to Semmerby's house—to find it, as he had expected, all in darkness.

It was not until they had knocked and rung several times that a window was opened just above the door and a grey head was put out.

"It's I—Brixey—Mr. Semmerby," said the young disturber. "And here's my uncle with me!"

"God bless me!" exclaimed the old lawyer. "Glad to hear you're found, Mr. Linthwaite! You want me? I'll be down in two minutes."

He presently appeared at the door in his dressing-gown, carrying a lamp, which he lifted towards Linthwaite's face.

"Safe and sound, I see, at any rate!" he said cordially. "Come in! And where," he went on, when he had led them, into the room in which Brixey had found him and Faxshawe Byfield the night before, "where did you find your uncle, young man?

"He's been pretty active in looking for you, and pretty original in some of his methods," he added, turning to Linthwaite, "I thought he’d come off all right in the end."

Linthwaite laid his hand on his fellow-practitioner's arm.

"My friend!" he said. "Never mind where I sprang from just now! There's mischief afoot—black, bad mischief! Mow, first, do you know why Mrs. Byfield and her son have gone to London?"

Semmerby showed his astonishment.

"Haven't the ghost of a notion!" he answered. "I knew nothing about their going until your nephew told me of it this morning."

"Very well," said Linthwaite. "Another question. You know Selchester, I suppose, as well as anybody in it. Do you know a man, apparently about thirty to thirty-five years of age, dark, medium-sized commonplace in appearance, but marked by a decided cast in his left eye?"

Semmerby started back, and a suspicious gleam shot over his face,

"You're describing my head clerk—John Letwige!" he exclaimed.

"Your clerk!" said Linthwaite. He turned to Brixey and spread out his hands, "I might have guessed that!" he muttered. "Of course—he'd have facilities!"

Semmerby stared from one visitor to another.

"What is all this? " he asked sharply. "What has my clerk—who's been with me a good many years, a thoroughly trustworthy fellow—to do with this?"

Linthwaite pointed to a chair and laid hold of another himself.

"Sit down!" he said. "Late as it is you've got to listen. And then—then I think we've all got to act!"

Brixey, sitting on the edge of the table and watching intently as Linthwaite set forth his carefully marshalled facts to his brother solicitor, was struck by the conflicting emotions depicted on old Semmerby's face.

Astonishment, doubt, suspicion, incredulity, anger—all these were plain, as they were manifested in succession. But eventually they all merged in one expression of utter amazement. Semmerby was clearly mystified.

"Do you mean to tell me," he exclaimed, as soon as Linthwaite had made an end, "do you really mean to tell me that Mrs. Byfield is legally not Mrs. Byfield at all, never legally was, and therefore was never in a position to administer that estate? Do you know that to be so?"

"I know it to be so," affirmed Linthwaite. "The woman you know as Mrs. Martin Byfield is Mrs. Cradock Melsome—more's the pity she is! But she is!"

"What does this precious husband of hers want with her?" asked Semmerby.

"The fact of the matter is," replied Linthwaite, "a certain relation of our family has left money to her. I'm trustee for it. I haven't been able to trace her, and I was fool enough, having failed to do so, to acquaint Cradock with the fact chinking that he might have heard of her—because, failing her, it goes to him. The result was that he crossed to England recently. Wherever there's money to be got, these two will be after it."

"You think he's the man who was seen in company with Mesham here last week?" asked Semmerby,

"Without a doubt!" agreed Linthwaite. "And he's no doubt entered into this conspiracy with his brother. Semmerby, this has got to be seen to at once!"

The old lawyer shook his head.

"A pretty coil!" he said. "I—I don't know which way to look at it. And my clerk, too—evidently in it! A man I trusted most implicitly. Why, he's practically managed my practice for some years. I've entrusted him with——"

He suddenly broke off his remarks, as if a new idea had occurred to him, and Brixey noticed that when he rose he was trembling a little.

"I—I think," he said, glancing from one to the other, "I think that, late, as it is, I shall have to go to my office. I shall never sleep if I don't. Perhaps you'll come with me. I'll get ready."

The Selchester clocks were striking midnight as the three men entered Semmerby's office, and went upstairs to his private room. The old lawyer showed an almost painful nervousness as he turned on the light and went to a shelf on which were a number of boxes, each inscribed with the name of some client. He pointed to one marked "Byfield," and Brixey lifted it down and set it on the desk.

"There are securities in here," whispered Semmerby as he produced a key. "And the worst of it is, considering what we know now, they are easily negotiable securities. This is not a difficult lock, and if that man Letwige is really dishonest——"

He paused as, throwing back the lid, he revealed a quantity of documents and papers, neatly parcelled and docketed. And when he spoke again it was in accents of consternation.

"Gone!" he said. "Certain securities—some East India bonds—other things! My God, Linthwaite! But I fear, I fear this may not be the worst. I must go to the bank, to the manager—he lives over it. Come with me!"

Brixey put the box on its shelf again, and Linthwaite gave the old man his arm down the stairs and along the street. All three were very silent until the bank manager had been roused and had admitted them by his private door.

By that time Semmerby was pale and shaking, and he looked to have aged ten years since the uncle and nephew had walked into his parlour an hour earlier.

"Hollinshaw!" he said, grasping the manager by the lapels of his dressing-gown. "Tell me! Have you the Byfield box of securities and papers safe? Tell me? A word will do!"

The manager started back and gazed from one anxious face to the other.

"The Byfield box!" he exclaimed. "Good heavens, Mr. Semmerby—you sent your clerk, Letwige, for it just before the bank closed this afternoon. He carried it away with him!"

CHAPTER XXXI

THE ABSCONDER

The old lawyer relinquished his hold on the bank manager's coat and stepped back. His hands fell nervelessly to his sides; his lips, quivering and pale, parted in a queer, almost ghastly grin.

"What!" he exclaimed, in a tone that nearly approached a snarl "My clerk, Letwige, fetched that box this afternoon?"

"To be exact, yesterday afternoon," replied the manager, glancing at a clock which hung on the wall of the bank parlour. "It’s past midnight, you see, Mr. Semmerby. At ten minutes to four yesterday afternoon."

"By whose order?" demanded Semmerby. "You couldn't give up that box without authority!"

The bank manager turned away in silence, and, unlocking a drawer in his desk, turned over some documents.

"There you are, Mr. Semmerby," he said, handing the old man a sheet of letter paper. "All correct, I believe, so far as we’re concerned."

Semmerby’s hands shook so much that he was obliged to lay the paper on the edge of the desk before he could read it. Linthwaite and Brixey, without ceremony, bent over it on either side of him.

"Nothing could be plainer," remarked the bank manager. "That’s Mrs. Byfield’s private note-paper, and Mrs. Byfield’s signature. I ought to know that, anyway!"

Brixey found himself regarding an octavo sheet of slightly tinted notepaper whereon an address was embossed in thick black letters. All but the signature of what he saw on it was type-written. The signature was in a somewhat conventional feminine style, of the old-fashioned Italian type of penmanship so popular among English women in the Victorian era.

The Minories, Selchester,⁠
May 19th, 1919.

Dear Mr. Semmerby,

Will you please ask Mr. Hollinshaw to hand over to you the box of securities and deeds this afternoon, so as to have everything in readiness for me first thing to-morrow morning?

Yours truly,⁠
Harriet Byfield.

"That’s what your man brought, Mr. Semmerby," continued Hollinshaw. "Of course, as he brought it direct from you, I took it as sufficient authorisation, and handed over the box."

The old lawyer brought his fist heavily down on the letter.

"I never saw this thing till now!" he exclaimed. "Never! I believe it’s a forgery!"

The bank manager started, picked up the letter, and looked sharply at it. He put it down again with a decisive shake of his head.

"No, sir!" he said quietly. "Not Mrs. Byfield's signature, anyway. I've not been familiar with that for several years for nothing!"

Linthwaite, who, as soon as Semmerby spoke of forgery, had nudged Brixey’s elbow, picked up the letter.

"A question or two," he said. "Does Mrs. Byfield commonly use a typewriter?"

"She’s used one for two or three years, to my knowledge," said Hollinshaw.

"This signature of hers is a fairly easy one to imitate," remarked Linthwaite. "A very clever forger——"

"I'll say that's no forgery!" exclaimed Hollinshaw. "I’ve seen Mrs. Byfield's signature on hundreds of cheques. I know it as well as I know my own!"

Linthwaite said no more. He turned and looked at Semmerby, who was groaning and muttering.

"I suppose there was a good deal that was valuable in the box?" he asked.

"Valuable!" said Semmerby bitterly. "There’s pretty nearly the whole of the Byfield estate in it. And the worst of it is, it's mostly in negotiable securities! If that scoundrel, Letwige, has those, and what’s missing from my office——"

Hollinshaw turned sharply from the drawer to which he was restoring the letter.

"Ah, he’s got something from your office, has he?" he exclaimed. "Then that explains what puzzled me! That letter came into his hands, and he has made use of it without your knowledge. But what’s he got?"

"A quantity of East India bonds, for one thing," answered Semmerby. "And other matters just as easily negotiable. As I was saying, Letwige, with his knowledge of London, where he was a clerk in the City before coming to me, will be able to convert a lot of these securities into cash, easily, in an hour or two.

"And some of the others he could do the same thing with, on sight, in Paris, or Vienna, or New York. They’re most of them as good as an open cheque!"

"Then," remarked Hollinshaw drily, "the best thing to do, Mr. Semmerby, is to lay Letwige by the heels! But I imagine he’s off."

Brixey, who had refrained from telling Linthwaite of the address in the green purse and was by this time determined on keeping it to himself, stepped into the arena.

"I have very good reason for knowing that Letwige went away from Selchester in a motor-car, travelling west, in company with Nat Lee and his daughter, this evening," he said. "And I suggest that we now go and ask Mr. Crabbe to track him and his companions. They can possibly find out something about the car."

"We'll have to do more than that," muttered Semmerby. "I must get up to London—at once! Who knows Mrs. Byfield's address there?"

"I do!" said Brixey. "She’s at the Grosvenor Hotel."

Hollinshaw picked up a railway guide.

"Get a train from Ledfield Junction just after four o’clock," he said. "Land you at London Bridge ten minutes past six."

"I shall take it!" exclaimed Semmerby, "I must see Mrs. Byfield at once."

"I’ll go with you," said Linthwaite. "I, too, want to see Mrs. Byfield—and some other people, who, I rather suspect, will be somewhere near her."

Brixey walked with his elderly companions as far as the hotel, and then, under pretence of going on to the police station, walked farther up the street. But he had no intention of knocking up Inspector Crabbe.

While in the bank he had been thinking hard. It was very clear to him that Letwige had been, if not the chief at any rate one of the chief partners in the conspiracy which had been interfered with by Linthwaite's appearance in Selchester. Clear, too, that something else—perhaps his own doings—having interfered at the last moment, Letwige had effected a bold and daring stroke by helping himself to the wealth which he would probably have shared in more comfortable and less risky fashion had things gone well with him and his partners.

But had he made that stroke on his own behalf, solely? Or was it in collusion with somebody else. Mesham, for instance? As for the Lees, father and daughter, Brixey regarded them as no more than agents—servants—tools—who were probably being well paid and bundled into obscurity.

Nevertheless, they might be useful, and Brixey, as he thoughtfully paced the deserted streets, once more repeated to himself the address which he had seen in the green purse—Wolmark's Private Hotel, Trinity Square, E.C.

He went back to the "Mitre" at last, without having been near the police station. But during the hour in which he paced the streets of the old town, meeting no one but a very occasional and much surprised policeman, Brixey had formulated a plan of action. It was like most of his schemes, a plan which depended on luck.

But he believed in his luck. There was a chance, a sporting chance, a toss-up chance, that he could possibly circumvent Letwige, or Letwige and his gang, at the eleventh hour. And he was going to take it without saying a word to anyone.

Brackett, ardently solicitous that Mr. Linthwaite and Mr. Semmerby should not suffer by these unwonted adventures, had roused up his cook and caused a refection to be ready at three o'clock, which, he said, he scarcely knew whether to call very early breakfast or very late supper.

Whichever it was, it sent Semmerby off in better spirits, and his feelings of despondency had changed to sentiments of lively anger by the time all three were in the comers of a first-class carriage and bound for London.

"If I can lay hands, on my clerk," he said, "I'll—I'll—but you shall see!"

"By the by," remarked Brixey. "Do you happen to remember where your clerk was last Thursday afternoon?"

Semmerby reflected for a while.

"Yes, I do!" he answered suddenly. "I sent him over to Newhaven, on business—about the sale of some property, near the harbour. And I wish he'd fallen in the harbour, and broken his neck, and been drowned! I do, indeed, though I am a churchwarden!"

Brixey smiled. Things were smoothing themselves out. Now he knew beyond doubt that Letwige had sent the altered telegram. But was it his own idea, or had it been at the instigation of some cleverer man?

CHAPTER XXXII

BLUE SPECTACLES

It was half-past six, and a fine and cheery May morning, when Brixey, having seen his two elderly companions safely off in a cab, bound first for Linthwaite's chambers in the Temple and thence to seek Mrs. Byfield and her party at their hotel, turned into a public telephone box at London Bridge Station and rang up New Scotland Yard.

The time had come, he had decided in the train, for calling in expert police assistance. He now knew enough to warrant him in taking action when he got to Trinity Square, if the people were there whom he firmly believed would be there. The folk at New Scotland Yard knew him, Brixey, well enough—he had been mixed up with them more than once.

As good luck would have it, the man who answered his telephone call was particularly well known to him, and was instantly eager to know what was afoot at that early hour of the morning.

"Tell you that when you meet me," said Brixey. "Come yourself, with the next best man you can get, and meet me as quickly as possible outside Mark Lane Station—going there straight, just now. Bye-bye. A nice job for you—and for me."

The voice at the other end of the wire said that its owner would be at the appointed rendezvous in half an hour, and Brixey rang off, left the station, and strolled lazily across London Bridge, looking about him with keen enjoyment of the rousing life of road and river, and feeling that if one has been out of London even for a few days there is a vast amount of enjoyment to be had in getting back to it.

He sauntered along, past the Monument, took a short cut into Great Tower Street, and was lounging outside Mark Lane Station when, at five minutes past seven, two men drove up in a taxicab, dismounted, and approached him. Quiet, soberly attired, eminently respectable persons these, who might have been taken for solid City men come very early to business, and Brixey looked them over with approving eyes.

"Good!" he said. "I think I've a nice little job for you. The actual doing of it is more in your particular line than mine."

"What's the game?" demanded the man whom Brixey had rung up. "Your last affair was murder! Same again?"

"Not this time, so far," replied Brixey. "Not but that there may be danger in it. Come into this corner."

He took the two detectives aside and rapidly put them in possession of the pertinent facts. Letwige had absconded with certain valuable negotiable securities, and there was little doubt that he had made off in the company of Lee and his daughter.

In Debbie Lee's purse Brixey had seen a certain address. Therefore, he concluded, there was at any rate a sporting chance of finding the missing birds at that address.

"And now why do you think they'd make for this place, Mr. Brixey?" asked one of the men. "You've some idea in your mind?"

Brixey pointed towards the dock district.

"It's an easy job to slip away from here to the Continent," he said. "Plenty of boats running to Antwerp, Rotterdam, Hamburg, and so on. This would be a convenient spot for the woman and her father to be snug in for a few hours while Letwige deals with the securities, or some of 'em, in the City."

"Then the thing to do" said the first man, "is to take a look at this private hotel. But these people know you by sight."

"Nothing venture, nothing have!" replied Brixey. "The probability is that they won’t be stirring yet. Letwige, I understand, is an old Londoner, and he'll know that there’s no business to be done before ten o'clock. Come round the corner and let's take an observation of the exterior of this spot."

From the corner of Byward Street the three men looked out on Trinity Square, and one of the detectives at once pointed to a house at the north side, where a faded, gilt-lettered sign proclaimed the presence of Wolmark’s Private Hotel, evidently a sort of second-rate establishment, judging from its dingy blinds and general appearance. A man was polishing the brass bell-pull at its front door; a girl was washing the steps.

"There’s the cage!" said the first detective. "Now, then, how about finding if the birds are in it?"

"There'll be a register" remarked the other man.

"Aye, but it’s a hundred to one if they’ve given their real names," declared the first. "That’s not at all likely. How would it be now——"

"Stop a bit!" said Brixey. "Here’s a new development, I think."

He had suddenly caught sight, across the road, lounging by the railings of the square, of a figure which somehow seemed strangely familiar—that of a man in a semi-nautical suit of blue serge cut in yachtsman fashion, topped by a peaked yachting cap.

Its wearer came across, at the same time pointing a warning finger towards the street which Brixey and the detectives had just quitted.

"Gaffkins, by all that’s wonderful!" exclaimed Brixey, and drew his companions back into shelter. "This is the chap I told you of, just now. He’s evidently come up from Brighton. If he’s on the same job, then, indeed, we are going to know something!

"I shouldn’t have known you, Gaffkin," he went on, as the private inquiry agent came up, looking very mysterious. "Sacrificed moustache and whiskers, eh? Well, what’s brought you here?"

Gaffkin, motioning all three to retire a little farther along Byward Street, jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the hotel.

"Mesham!" he said. "He’s in there—Wolmark’s. I followed him here last night. I’ve a man in there, keeping an eye on him—a safe man. I’m expecting him out every minute, with a report."

"What have you been doing?" asked Brixey. He introduced the two detectives by name, and the professional eyes took stock of their amateur rival. "We’re all on the same job, Gaffkin," he continued. "Tell your tale!"

"I heard that Mesham had gone from Selchester to Brighton by the 9.41, yesterday," said Gaffkin. "I followed by the 12.13. I’ve friends at Brighton, living near the station. I went to their house at once, shaved whiskers and moustache off, and borrowed this wig.

"Then I set out to look for my gentleman. I know Brighton pretty well, and I'd an idea I'd run across him before long. I looked in at one or two spots, and eventually found him at the 'Bodega.' He'd another elderly man with him, very like himself."

"Cradock!" exclaimed Brixey.

"No doubt," agreed Gaffkin. "They were in very close conversation. Now, I wanted to test my disguise, so I took a seat nearby while I had a glass of sherry. I saw Mesham glance at me once or twice, and I knew he didn't know me from Adam.

"Well, I kept 'em in view, quietly. They went off to Booth's in East Street, to lunch, and when they'd got in there I got the help of a friend who's had a bit of experience in these matters, and between us we kept an eye on them all the afternoon. When they left Booth's they walked to the Margrave Hotel, and went in, and there they stopped until evening.

"Then they went to the station. Mesham booked for London Bridge, The other man stayed in Brighton. We followed Mesham, I took good care he never saw me again after the "Bodega" meeting, though I knew very well he hadn't recognised me there.

"When we got to London Bridge we followed him here, to Wolmark's Private Hotel. It was then half-past ten. As I was quite certain he'd never seen this friend of mine, I sent him in after him.

"He came out presently to tell me that Mesham had booked a room—No. 8—and that he'd booked No. 11, right opposite. I told him to keep a strict watch on Mesham all night—and he's a dependable fellow. I got a room at another hotel, just along here, and now I'm waiting for him. That's all."

"So," remarked the first detective, "there's two of 'em to look after, Mr. Brixey?"

"Four," said his companion. "There's the girl and her father."

"If they're here!" exclaimed the other. "We don't know that yet!"

"We don't know that Letwige is here, either," said Brixey. "We don't know——"

"Here's my friend!" interrupted Gaffkin.

A man came round the corner—a man whom Brixey, had he been writing newspaper English, would have called a person of an an eminently watchful and noticing disposition, evidenced, in this instance, by the fact that when he saw Gaffkin in conversation with strangers, he immediately affected absolute non-knowledge of him, and made as if to cross the street.

Gaffkin laughed with satisfaction.

"Didn't I tell you he was a dependable fellow?" he remarked. "All right, Matsey—all friends here. Come on!"

Matsey turned slowly, and coming up to the group, took the three strangers in at one glance and Gaffkin with another.

"Well?" asked Gaffkin.

"He's there all right, Mr. G.," replied the auxiliary, "I saw him take in his hot water not ten minutes since. But, of course, I knew he was there before that. I've kept strict watch."

Brixey turned on Gaffkin's aide-de-camp with a sudden inspiration.

"Did you see anything of any people who, if they came in at all, would come in very late?" he demanded. "Two men, one woman?"

Matsey shook his head.

"No," he answered. "But there was one man, one woman—together—came in about one o'clock this morning. Only saw their backs as they went past my door. I had it a trifle open."

"One man, one woman—together?" said Brixey. "Then——"

Before he could say one word more Gaffkin suddenly pushed him inside the mouth of a passage by which they were standing, and, as if by instinct, the other three men separated and scattered over the street.

"Mesham—and another man!" whispered Gaffkin. "Keep back; he'd know you!"

A moment later Mesham, turning to neither right nor left, walked past, in company with a man in a dark overcoat and top-hat, who wore large blue spectacles.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE SUGGESTED SECRET

The two elderly solicitors, refreshed by some attention to the toilet at Linthwaite’s chambers and by a cup of coffee hastily prepared by his bedmaker, who, having diligently read the Sentinel for the last few days, was unfeignedly surprised to see him alive and well, drove up to the Grosvenor Hotel at eight o'clock and, presenting themselves at the office, asked for Mrs. Byfield. And they were at once plunged into further mystery.

"Mrs. Byfield is not here," replied the clerk. "She was here yesterday for a few hours, but she left again early in the afternoon. Mr. Fanshawe Byfield is here, and Miss Byfield."

"Better see Fanshawe at once," muttered Semmerby. "Will you send up to Mr. Fanshawe Byfield’s room?" he added, turning to the clerk. "Tell him—however, here’s my card.

"Now, what’s the meaning of this?" he went on as he and Linthwaite turned away to wait. "What’s this woman mean by rushing up to town with these two, leaving them here, and going off again? Where’s she gone? And what’s it all about?"

"She’ll have reasons, of course," replied Linthwaite. "I only hope she hasn’t gone to meet those infernal Melsomes. There’s no doubt that Charles has been blackmailing her for the last two years, and if he and his precious brother get hold of her, why, I don’t know what they mayn’t do!

"You know what the poor woman’s, position is! Naturally, she doesn’t want all Selchester—a little, provincial-minded place—to know her secret, and those two are capable of anything. I wish I’d never had dealings with them. They'll probably say to her: 'Make it worth our while, or out comes the whole truth!'

"My opinion, Semmerby, is that your clerk’s been in league with Charles Melsome, whom you know better as Mesham, and that Charles is now in the happy possession of these securities. Then, of course, he’ll make Mrs. Byfield pay for silence, and the Byfield fortune will go where it was never meant to go."

"Not if I know anything!" growled Semmerby. He glanced round and saw the man who had taken his card beckoning him to the lift. "Come along!" he continued. "We'd better be careful what we say to this lad, Linthwaite," he added, as they were carried upward. "My own impression, from what your nephew told me, is that Fanshawe Byfield is in the dark as yet."

"I shall leave the saying to you," replied Linthwaite, "I'm a stranger. He doesn't know me."

Fanshawe, encountered in the act of brushing his hair, stared hard at the family solicitor's companion.

"Hallo, Mr. Semmerby!" he exclaimed. "What brings you here? Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"This gentleman is Mr. Linthwaite, who was lost," said Semmerby, brusquely. "He's come to light again."

Fanshawe laid down his brushes and grasped Linthwaite's hand.

"Very glad to hear that, sir!" he exclaimed heartily. "There's been a nice old row about you. But what does it all mean?"

"You'll hear plenty about it in time," growled Semmerby. He carefully closed the door and sat down on the edge of Fanshawe's bed. "Where's your mother?" he demanded, "They say downstairs that she was here yesterday and went off, again. Where's she gone?"

Fanshawe, who was sprinkling bay rum over his fair hair, set the bottle down with a bang.

"I don't know where my mother is!" he answered. "I've no more idea than you have, perhaps less. She and my cousin Georgina worked up some dodge or other on Sunday night. I wasn't to ask questions, and I haven't asked questions.

"We all came here yesterday morning. My mother was out, somewhere, for an hour. Then she came back and had lunch. Then she went off again, saying she wouldn't be back till to-day, and we were to—well, just, to stop here till she returned.

"You know what my mother's like about business matters, Mr. Semmerby—she'll tell nobody anything until she wants to. So I didn't press her for any explanations. Georgie and I went to the theatre last night. We'd a good time, anyhow! And I guess my mother will turn up when she's done what she came up for."

"You haven't any idea what she came up for?" asked Semmerby.

"Not the remotest!" replied Fanshawe, carefully arranging his cravat. "I tell you, I was told to ask no questions. Georgina told me."

"Where's your cousin, then?" demanded Semmerby.

"In her room, I should think," said Fanshawe, "I arranged to meet her at breakfast at eight-thirty. You gentlemen had better join us."

"You seem mightily unconcerned young man!" remarked Semmerby.

"I don't know of anything to be concerned about, now," retorted Fanshawe. "I was a good deal bothered about my mother up to Sunday night, but since Georgina took hold, I'm not. I reckon my mother's gone to do some private business, and, as I say, she'll turn up."

"Oh," said Semmerby. "Very well. And talking of business, you know that clerk of mine, Letwige?"

"Do I know my own face?" laughed Fanshawe. "Who doesn't know him—in our town, anyway?"

"Do you know if Letwige called to see your mother on business at all during the last few days?" asked Semmerby.

Fanshawe picked up his waistcoat and carefully removed a speck of dust.

"Letwige called to see me on business on Saturday afternoon," he answered. "Cricket Club business."

Semmerby glanced at Linthwaite before he asked any more questions. His glance suggested that he was now expecting important information.

"You didn't happen to let him use your mother's typewriter for a few minutes, did you?" he inquired.

Fanshawe turned sharply on the old lawyer.

"Yes, I did!" he answered. "Who told you I did?"

"Never mind," said Semmerby. "Why did he use it?"

"Nothing extraordinary," answered Fanshawe. "He just asked if he could type a letter. He wanted to put it in the pillar-box close by, on his way to the cricket ground. I went out then. I left him typing."

Semmerby looked once more at Linthwaite.

"There you are!" he said. "I knew that signature was forged, in spite of Hollinshaw! I see how the thing's been worked. But—forgery!"

"Forgery!" exclaimed Fanshawe. He was into his coat by that time, and he thrust his hands into its pockets and turned on Semmerby with a queer, nervous movement "Forgery?"

"You'd far better tell him," remarked Linthwaite. "He'll have to know."

"Sit down!" said Semmerby, nodding at Fanshawe, "You wondered what we were doing here," he continued. "We made a very serious discovery during the night—at midnight.

"Yesterday afternoon, just before the bank closed, Letwige presented Hollinshaw with a letter, typed on your mother's note-paper and purporting to be signed by her, addressed to me, asking Hollinshaw to hand over the box containing the Byfield securities. Hollinshaw believed the letter to be genuine, and gave Letwige the box.

"Letwige has disappeared, and he not only has those securities from the bank—most of them easily negotiable—he also has some which he has stolen from my office. But answer me a question, to settle one point. You say you went out and left Letwige at your typewriter? Had he any chance of seeing your mother after you left him?"

"My mother was out," declared Fanshawe. "She was at Mrs. Merrifield's all Saturday afternoon. She never signed any such letter, that I'll swear! What's being done?" he asked anxiously. "Police know?"

"Crabbe's been put on the track," said Semmerby, who was all unaware that Brixey, for reasons of his own, had never been near Crabbe.

"And Mr. Brixey is making some inquiry—I don't know what—here in town. Letwige left Selchester last night in company with Nat Lee and his daughter, by motor-car."

Fanshawe whistled.

"Whew!" he said. "Debbie Lee, eh! The devil! That explains something. Of late, I've often seen Letwige and Debbie Lee together in the Priory grounds. I say, come down and meet my cousin—she'll have to know this."

Georgina, discovered in a quiet corner of the coffee-room, awaiting Fanshawe, became remarkably reserved after her first surprise on seeing Mr. Linthwaite.

She heard Semmerby's news without comment, and it was not until the four had nearly finished breakfast that she suddenly lifted a plate which lay beside her and revealed a telegram and a letter.

"Fanshawe!" she said, bending over to her cousin. "I have just had this wire from your mother. She will be here at ten o'clock. In the meantime there is something you are to do at once. Do you see this letter? It's addressed to the manager at the Imperial Safe Deposit in the city. There's the address.

"You're to give it to him and he'll show you a safe which your mother has there. Here's the key. In that safe you'll see a sealed envelope. You're to bring it here. Now go and get a cab, Fanshawe, and go to this place, and then get back here as soon as you can."

"Hanged if I know what all this mystery is about!" muttered Fanshawe, as he took the letter and the key. "What with the mater's mysterious movements, and now this Letwige affair——"

"Never mind, you'll know all about it presently," said Georgina, She turned to the two solicitors when Fanshawe had gone. "I may as well tell you something now," she continued. "Mrs. Byfield took me into her confidence on Sunday night and told me of something which has been giving her great trouble. That was the reason of her coming to London yesterday.

"I advised her to take a certain course and end her anxiety. When she comes back here you'll know all about it, Mr. Semmerby. She'll be surprised to find you here. We were to have gone back to Selchester by the eleven train."

Semmerby glanced at Georgina with unconcealed interest and curiosity.

"So there's a secret—and you know all its details, I suppose?" he said.

"Everything—since Sunday night," answered Georgina calmly. Then, remarking that she would see them again at ten o'clock, she left the two men to themselves and disappeared. And Semmerby and Linthwaite waited and wondered until, as they lounged about in the hall of the hotel, they saw Mrs. Byfield enter, accompanied by an elderly clergyman.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE STROKE DIRECT

Before Mesham and his companion had gone many yards along the street, Brixey and Gaffkin were peering round the corner of their retreat, and at the same moment the two detectives came sauntering back.

But Matsey, who had crossed the road in another direction and turned into a tobacconist's shop for a bare minute, went along on the opposite side, evidently bent on keeping an eye on the pair in front.

"He's after 'em!" whispered. Gaffkin, "Now, who's the blue-spectacled man?"

"Letwige!" exclaimed Brixey. "Semmerby's clerk—from Selchester. But I'd forgotten that you don't know what happened last night. Listen," and he gave his companion a hasty but clear account of the discoveries at Semmerby's office and at the bank, to which the detectives, who had now come up, listened for the second time.

"That's Letwige, without a doubt," concluded Brixey. "He's changed into dark clothes, and put on a pair of blue glasses to hide his infernal squint, but that's he! And now then, you fellows, you've got to fall in with my plans! This is what I want you to do. You must——"

"Half a minute! " said Gaffkin. "Here's Matsey coming back."

Matsey came hurrying along the street and turned into the passage in which, the others stood.

"They've gone into the office of the United Steamships Company, just along there," he said. "Both of ’em!"

"Ah!" remarked one of the detectives. "Going to inquire about passages to—where?"

"Listen to me!" continued Brixey. He button-holed the senior detective. "You know enough now," he said, "to arrest these fellows. Take 'em in charge, and bundle 'em off to the nearest police station. That's close by, isn't it? All right, I know it.

"Very well Go and get 'em. Never mind what they say, or protest. In any case, you can make them accompany you to give an account of themselves. Gaffkin, you and Matsey go with them."

"And what about you, Mr. Brixey?" asked the elder detective. "What are you going to do?"

"Follow up a little idea of my own," answered Brixey. "And, on second thoughts. I'll keep Matsey. You can manage without him?"

"We'll take these fellows to the station round there and make them account for their doings," replied the detective. "You’ll come there and identify Letwige and tell what you know?"

"I'll come there before very long and identify Letwige and Mesham, and tell all I know!" assented Brixey. "You go and make sure of them."

He beckoned Matsey to follow him and walked back in the direction of Trinity Square. At the corner he paused.

"Matsey!" he said. "You're a smart chap, I'm sure. I've got a bit of a notion that may turn out a master-stroke. It's got to be carried out in yonder hotel where you stopped last night, and at once. Now, will you do just what I ask?"

"Anything you like, sir," answered Gaffkin's assistant. "I reckon you know what you’re up to, Mr. Brixey."

"I know what I'm up to," said Brixey confidently. "Now, look here. Just you leave me and stroll in front till you see a policeman. Get him to come with you to the front of Wolmark’s Hotel, and get him also to hang about there with you. Whereabouts is the coffee-room?"

"First room on the right when you get in," replied Matsey. "Ground floor."

"Windows looking out on the street?" asked Brixey.

"All of them," said Matsey.

"Keep him strolling in front of those windows—you with him," commanded Brixey. "Tell him there’ll be half a sovereign for him when I come out. Don't tell him too much, but tell him enough to interest him. Now be spry!"

Matsey mowed away up the square, and Brixey followed at twenty yards' distance. But when they came to the hotel Matsey walked onwards, while Brixey turned in at the open door.

He was all alive now for what he thought might turn out a successful venture. He had his own ideas as to why Letwige had gone at that early hour to the shipping office; he also had ideas as to what Letwige had probably left behind him at the hotel. And what he wanted to do he conceived that he could best do unaided. The first thing was to see the register. There it lay, on a sloping desk, by the half window of a little office, just then empty. Brixey stepped straight to it, and had run his eye over the last half-dozen entries before anyone noticed his presence.

The first few entries conveyed nothing to him—the last two did:

Mr. C. Marrows ......... Brighton.
Mr. and Mrs. Leeson ......... Portsmouth.

Odd, thought Brixey, how people who adopt assumed names on these occasions will stick to the initials of their rightful ones! But without comment he turned to a sleepy-looking damsel who had appeared at the office window and was gazing speculatively at him.

"Friends of mine here, I think," said Brixey unconcernedly, "Mr. and Mrs. Leeson. Do you know if they’re down yet?"

"Mr. Leeson’s just gone out for a few minutes," replied the girl. "He ordered breakfast to be ready for them in half an hour when he went out. Mrs. Leeson’s in the coffee-room now—waiting for him."

"Oh, thank you; then I’ll go in to her!" said Brixey.

The girl pointed the stub of a pencil towards the coffee-room door, and Brixey walked in.

And as he entered, his quick eyes saw two things at the same time—Matsey and a big policeman, obviously much interested, marching slowly past the windows, and, at a table in a corner, turning over the pages of an illustrated paper, Debbie Lee.

She was the only occupant of the room—a smallish, dingy apartment, smelling strongly of the ghosts of chops and steaks—and she did not look up until Brixey had advanced to the table at which she sat. And before she looked up at all, he had noticed another thing.

At her right hand, set where her cup and saucer should have been, was a small, stout leather despatch-case with the initials "J.L." stamped in black. His heart gave a jump at that. What he wanted was, he felt sure, lying in that case, which Debbie was guarding whilst its owner took the air outside with Mesham and did a little necessary business.

Brixey had his hand on a chair, and was actually drawing it up to her table before Debbie knew he was there. At the grating sound she looked up and recognised him, and his heart jumped again as she instinctively clapped a hand—whereon he noticed a brand-new wedding ring—on the despatch case.

"That's right, Mrs.—Letwige!" whispered Brixey. "Take care of it for a few minutes longer!"

He knew from his slight acquaintance with her that this was a young woman of character and determination, who would probably show fight. But his sudden appearance had been too much for her, and she sank back in her chair, pale enough, and already trembling. Brixey drew his chair close in, and leaned across the table.

"Take it quietly!" he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Look out there—through the window at your left hand. You see two men waiting outside. One, as you see, is a policeman; the other is a detective. And I don't want to have to call them in."

The woman found her tongue. Brixey knew her to possess a naturally pleasant and ingratiating voice, and it surprised him now to find how hoarse and strained it had become.

"How—how did you find us here?" she gasped.

Brixey allowed himself to wink, and to smile.

"Ah!" he answered. "In all these affairs, Mrs. Letwige, there's generally some little detail that one goes wrong in. When you went off last night, you left your green purse on your dressing-table!

"I found it there. I was in your place within a few minutes of your leaving. I saw your purse, opened it, and read the address of this hotel on the bit of paper. I saw Letwige come back and fetch the purse. And so—there you are!"

The frightened eyes were restless by that time, now glancing at the door, now at the window, outside which stood Matsey and the policeman. They came back to Brixey.

"What are you going to do?" asked their owner.

"Ask you a few questions," replied Brixey promptly. "You'll be wise if you answer them. You’re in a nice hole, you know. Everything’s known—all about my uncle, your late prisoner, all about Letwige's theft of the securities from Mr. Semmerby and from the bank—all; and the police and detectives are hot on the job, I assure you! Now, tell me, where is your father?"

"You want to give us away?" she muttered sullenly.

"On the contrary, I want to be a bit of use to you," retorted Brixey. "I can get you out of this if you tell me the truth."

"He’s off to the west of England, where he belongs," she whispered.

"With plenty of money from Letwige in his pocket, no doubt," said Brixey. "Now, then, you are Mrs. Letwige, aren't you?"

"We were married when I was at the milliner's place in the West End," she answered. "Only we kept it secret. Nobody but father knows."

"Well, I'm sorry for you," said Brixey, "but you've got to face stern facts, Mrs. Letwige! Your husband's just been arrested; so has Mesham."

"Oh," she broke out. "It was that damned Mesham put him up to it! It’s all been Mesham! He planned it all about Mr. Linthwaite."

"Keep cool," whispered Brixey, "it’s the only thing. I'm the only person that can help you. And I will, if you’ll be sensible. Now, then, you’ve got all those stolen papers, and so on, in that case, haven’t you? I thought so! And you don’t want me to call on those two outside? Very well—hand the case over to me, and the key!"

Five minutes later, Brixey, having hastily gone through the contents of the despatch-case, put it securely under his arm and got up.

"Now, do as I tell you," he said. "Keep quiet here. I'll come back and see you before noon. We’ll fix it that you yourself didn’t know what these two were after. And we'll try to get the principal blame shoved on to Mesham. Now, I’m going to the police station where they’ve taken your husband."

He went away without another word, silently drew the policeman aside and handed him a sovereign and bestowed a solemn wink upon him, and then beckoned Matsey to follow him down the square.

"Hit it in one, my lad!" he whispered, tapping the despatch-case. "Here’s the swag—complete!"

CHAPTER XXV

THE UNWISHED-FOR PAST

That Mrs. Byfield was either unusually excited or was strung up to a pitch whereat nothing could strike her as unusual was immediately evident to the two men of law.

She showed no surprise at seeing either as they advanced to meet her, and her words were addressed, not to them, but to Georgina, who just then came along the hall to meet her.

"Where is Fanshawe?" she asked. "You got my telegram?"

"Gone down to the Safe Deposit," answered Georgina. "He'll be back presently."

Mrs. Byfield turned, then looked inquiringly at Semmerby.

"You’re surprised to see us here!" he said.

"No," she answered, "I’m surprised at nothing just now! "And here or at Selchester, it doesn't matter. We were going back by the afternoon train to see you. This gentleman was coming with me."

"Your son," said Semmerby, "has been asking what all this is about. I’m inclined to ask the same, Mrs. Byfield."

Mrs. Byfield turned to Georgina and pointed to the office.

"Ask them to show us into a private room, somewhere," she said. "I'll tell you everything in a few minutes," she continued, glancing at Semmerby. "Mr. Linthwaite there knows some of it. And I shall be glad to tell it to you while Fanshawe’s out of the way. I shall have to tell him of—things—later, when we’re alone."

She said no more until a waiter had shown them into a private parlour. Then she indicated the elderly clergyman.

"Mr. Winslow, vicar of Mingham Parva, in Berkshire," she said. "I went to see him yesterday about this. He’s been kind enough to get me some information I wanted and to come back with me to see you, Mr. Semmerby.

"The truth is," she continued, as they all sat down round a table, "I've kept back certain things until—well, until they can’t be kept back any longer. I told Georgina something of the truth on Sunday night, and she advised me to clear matters up, once for all. And so I had to come up to town, and to find Mr. Winslow—and now, as you're here, I will tell, and have done with it.

"Mr. Linthwaite," she exclaimed, after a pause during which she seemed to be reflecting, "you know that before ever I married Martin Byfield, I'd been married to Cradock Melsome, a relative of yours."

"Sorry to say I do, Mrs. Byfield," replied Linthwaite. "I am sorry for two reasons—first, I know Cradock to have been a bad lot, always; second, I regret to say he's alive."

He was watching her keenly as he said the last words, and he felt, rather than saw, that Semmerby, too, was waiting for the effect of this blunt announcement. But Mrs. Byfield showed no surprise. Instead, she nodded her head in acquiescence.

"So do I know he's alive," she answered. "He was brought to see me last week—twice—by his brother Charles, who's been living at Selchester for two years—on me! You know him, Mr. Semmerby. But he calls himself Christopher Mesham in Selchester."

The two solicitors exchanged glances.

"You know the effect of this, Mrs. Byfield," said Semmerby, after a pause. "It means that you were never legally married to Martin Byfield."

But Mrs. Byfield shook her head.

"It would mean that," she replied, "if I hadn't known something all these years, something that I never told to anybody but Martin Byfield. I've kept it quiet because I've a horror of raking things up, and I didn't want Fanshawe to know, and I hoped to end my days peaceably in Selchester without talk or gossip, which is impossible now, and because I'm easily got round, and lots of reasons.

"But it's got to come out. The truth is, I never was married to Cradock Melsome! Legally, anyway."

"Eh?" said Linthwaite. "You never were married to Cradock? But——"

Mrs. Byfield leaned over the table, tapping it with an outstretched finger. She looked from Linthwaite to Semmerby, from Semmerby to Linthwaite.

"I went through a form of marriage with Cradock Melsome here in London," she answered. "And I believed it was all right. But it wasn't. Cradock Melsome, Mr. Linthwaite—you were Mr. John Herbert in those days—was already married! This gentleman married him, and his real wife is alive!"

The two solicitors, after a long stare at Mrs. Byfield, turned to the old clergyman.

"Can you speak as to this, sir?" asked Linthwaite.

"I can speak as to what I know," replied Mr. Winslow. "Mrs. Byfield has given me the date of her marriage to Cradock Melsome, which took place, as she says, here in London."

"Now, two years before that I married Cradock Melsome to a parishioner of my own, who still lives in my parish. I have been vicar of Mingham Parva for forty-one years."

"There's proof of this?" asked Linthwaite.

"I made a copy of the entry from my marriage registers last night for Mrs. Byfield," answered Mr. Winslow. "And as I say, the woman is alive. She can be produced."

"Who is she? Who was she?" demanded Semmerby.

"A young woman of my parish who, very unfortunately for herself, had a little money," answered the vicar. "Cradock Melsome used to come down there fishing. He persuaded her to marry him. The money, I believe, was soon gone. Then he disappeared."

"I had a little money, too," remarked Mrs. Byfield, "That soon went. But in my case it was I who disappeared. I'd had enough."

Semmerby looked at his fellow-solicitor as if asking for advice. And Linthwaite nodded at Mrs. Byfield.

"I've never heard anything that gave me much more satisfaction than this," he said heartily. "But you'd better tell us all about it, Mrs. Byfield, and about recent events."

"Especially the recent events of which I seem to have been left in utter ignorance, family solicitor though I am!" muttered Semmerby. "You should have trusted me, my good lady!"

"I didn't know what to do. I hoped the past would never be raked up," replied Mrs. Byfield. "But I'll tell you everything. As I said just now, I had a little money—eight or nine hundred pounds—when I was twenty-one. I got to know Cradock Melsome. He persuaded me to marry him.

"We hadn't been married a week before I knew what I'd married—a thoroughly worthless, idle scoundrel! And he'd got my money! I hadn't been married six months before the other woman found us out—or found me out, for he was always away at race meetings, leaving me to support myself.

"She told me what Mr. Winslow has told you of just now. I asked her what she was going to do, and she said that all she wanted was to go back to her village and be left alone. She went, and I went, too—to the other end of the world! I never wanted to see or hear of Cradock Melsome again, I assure you.

"I just went off, there and then, and very soon afterwards I got a post as stewardess in a New Zealand steamer. When I got to Wellington, I stopped there for some years. Then I came back to Europe, again as a stewardess, and I was some little time at Marseilles, in one of the hotels there, and after that I was manageress of an English tea-room at Nice.

"There I met Martin Byfield. He wanted to marry me, and I told him all that I've told you. Well, we were married, and there's no doubt about that, Mr. Semmerby!"

"I'm unfeignedly glad to hear it!" exclaimed the old solicitor. "But I'm absolutely puzzled why you never told me of all this."

"I didn't want to tell anybody," said Mrs. Byfield. "I hated to think of the past, and I didn't want my son to know—I hoped he never would know. I believed it was all dead, and buried. I fancied I should never see or hear of Cradock Melsome again."

"But you have!" observed Linthwaite. "And that's what I want to know about. What are the recent events, now?"

"They began two years ago," replied Mrs. Byfield, "Not very long after my husband died, I went over to Brighton one day, and when I was leaving, I saw a man in the station there whom I thought I'd seen before, though I couldn't think where.

"When I'd got in the train, I remembered—he was Charles Melsome, Cradock's brother. It turned me faint and sick to think of. And when I got out at Selchester he came up to me. What was I to do? He made me meet him next day. He threatened to let everything out.

"So I began to give him money, and I've been giving him money ever since—seven or eight hundred pounds a year. So that he could keep an eye on me, he came and lived in the town and called himself Mesham. That's the truth about him—as bad if not worse than his brother he is!"

"About the brother, now?" asked Semmerby. "You say you saw him last week?"

"When I met Mr. Linthwaite—whom I'd known as Mr. Herbert, when I was married, or believed myself married, to Cradock—last Tuesday," answered Mrs. Byfield, "I made up my mind I'd tell him all about this. But Mesham, as we call him, came along. He and Mr. Linthwaite went off together. And it was the night after that, when Fanshawe was out, that Mesham brought Cradock to the house, by the garden gate. They caught me alone—nobody knew they were there. And there they had me trapped! What was more, they came again the next night, in the same way.

"Cradock swore that the marriage to the girl at Mingham Parva was not a proper one—he'd all sorts of explanations about it—and they were both so certain that I didn't know what to do, or think. They threatened me with exposure if I didn't——"

"If you didn't buy their silence!" interrupted Semmerby sardonically, "Now we're getting at it. In short, Mrs. Byfield, you consented to be blackmailed, eh?"

"What was I to do?" exclaimed Mrs. Byfield. "They both swore that I was legally married to Cradock! And I so dreaded what they could do that I promised to buy their silence. I dare say——"

"To what extent were you going?" demanded Semmerby.

"I promised to give them a certain sum of money—to-day," admitted Mrs. Byfield. "Of course, it would have been my money—not Fanshawe's, But——"

"That's why Mesham looked so sold when he saw Mrs. Byfield leave for London yesterday morning!" exclaimed Semmerby, with a glance at Linthwaite. "Well, they haven't got the money. But now, there's this Letwige's affair, Mrs. Byfield."

But before he could say more the door opened, and a waiter showed in a quiet and demure-looking person who carried in his right hand, evidently with great care, a brown leather dispatch-case.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE STOLEN MARCH

Brixey was still cock-a-hoop when he and Matsey rounded the corner into Byward Street. Everything had gone well. His plan of campaign was being carried out precisely as he had wished it to be. Nothing could have been more satisfactory, he thought; but in the midst of these triumphant reflections he came to a sudden halt.

One glance along the street showed him that something either had gone wrong, or was in process of going wrong. According to his plans, Mesham and Letwige ought by that time to have been in the sure and safe custody of the police.

He had already pictured them at the police station, bewildered, confounded, very angry, endeavouring, perhaps, to banter, trying, no doubt, to explain themselves to unsympathetic and incredulous ears.

But instead of that there they were, some thirty yards away along the pavement, talking in quite easy fashion to the two detectives and Gaffkin—they were even laughing. Brixey’s sharp eyes saw that the detectives appeared to be puzzled, that Gaffkin was looking doubtful.

Something unexpected was certainly in the air. And he was glad that all five men were so absorbed in their conversation that they saw neither himself nor Matsey.

To slip the dispatch-case behind his back and to draw his companion round the corner again was to Brixey the work of a second. He glanced about him, saw a disengaged taxicab, and signalled to its driver, who caught the beckoning movement, started his engine, and came quickly to the edge of the kerb.

"Matsey!" muttered Brixey. "You’re a dependable chap, and I'm going to entrust the swag to you! Take this dispatch-case straight to the Grosvenor Hotel. Ask for Mr. Semmerby and Mr. Linthwaite—give it into their hands, and to nobody else.

"If they haven’t arrived, wait for them! And tell them that I’ve sent you with this, that they’re to keep a tight hold on it till I come, and that I’m following you at once. Now be off!"

The taxicab sped away round the corner, westward, and when Brixey followed it at a leisurely pace, was already far past the group in which he was interested. Its members were strolling towards him, still talking, the detectives appearing puzzled, the two confederates nonchalant. As for Gaffkin, he walked alongside, apparently in moody thought.

Thereupon Brixey drew out his cigarette-case and ostentatiously proceeded to smoke. That gave him the opportunity to pause in the middle of the sidewalk, and to let the others approach more closely.

The elder detective was the first to see him. He immediately quickened his pace.

"There’s Mr. Brixey himself!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Brixey——"

"What the devil have we to do with any Mr. Brixeys?" demanded Mesham. "We’ve told you what you wanted to know, and there’s an end of it! You go about your business, and leave us to ours!"

Brixey threw away his match and turned on the group.

"Businesses are apt to get a bit intermixed," he remarked. "What stage has this got to?"

The elder detective pointed at Letwige.

"He admits he’s John Letwige, Mr. Semmerby’s clerk from Selchester," he said. "He admits, too, that he’s in possession of Mrs. Byfield’s securities—certain of them, at any rate."

"He does, eh?" asked Brixey, eyeing Letwige closely. "Candid, to be sure!"

"Yes—but," continued the detective, "he also says he’s every right to be in possession of them. He's got a power of attorney from her! We've seen it, just now."

Mesham laughed sneeringly, and Letwige's lips curled a little at the corners. Both were watching Brixey, but they saw nothing on his face beyond an almost careless indifference.

"Ah!" he said. "Mr. Letwige has a power of attorney from Mrs. Byfield, has he? And he's shown it to you? Perhaps Mr. Letwige will show it to me?"

Letwige lifted a hand towards his breast pocket, but Mesham shook his head and growled.

"Don't do anything of the sort!" he said. "What's he got to do with it? What right has he to interfere? Come on!"

But Letwige glanced at the detectives, and, disregarding Mesham's advice, drew out a big envelope and took from it a formal-looking document which he held up in front of Brixey’s eyes.

"No objection to his seeing it," remarked Letwige. "It's all in order."

Brixey glanced at the signature and turned away.

"Much obliged to you," he said. "But there are two or three things I might say to that. However, I'm only going to say one of them. How do we know that signature isn't a forgery?"

Letwige put the document back in his pocket with a scornful laugh, but Brixey noticed that his hand was trembling.

"My own belief," he continued, looking at the detectives, "is that it is a forgery. And probably that chap there," he went on turning, and indicating Mesham, "is the forger! He calls himself Christopher Mesham—his real name is Charles Melsome. And some time ago he was convicted of forgery, and he got five years!"

Mesham's fresh-coloured cheeks grew purple, and he made a step towards his accuser and lifted his stick.

"None of that!" exclaimed the detective, thrusting himself between the two men. "No violence! Here, didn't you say, Mr. Brixey, that Mrs. Byfield and Mr. Semmerby are in town? Yes? Then do you two come along and see them and show that document, and we'll soon know——"

"No," said Brixey suddenly. "Let them go on—where they like."

He himself stood aside, with a quiet wink at his helpers, and they, after a second's hesitation, moved from in front of the two confederates and let them pass. Letwige and Mesham passed on, slowly, muttering to each other.

"What's this mean," asked the elder detective. "What's your game now, Mr. Brixey?"

"Wait!" answered Brixey. "You'll see." He glanced round, and seeing two policemen talking together a little way off, pointed them out to the younger detective. "Look here," he said. "You'll want help in a few minutes. Go and get those chaps, and another, if you see one handy, to stroll up to the hotel there—that's where Mesham and Letwige are going—and they'd be out of it again pretty quick, too!

"You know what they're gone back for? Those securities? Well, they won't find 'em. The fact is, I've got 'em!"

"You!" exclaimed all three. "Got em—all?"

"I got the whole boiling out of Letwige's wife," answered Brixey. "You didn't notice a taxicab that ran up the street just now? Matsey was in it, sticking to a dispatch-case in which are all the securities carried off from Selchester! He's taking it to the Grosvenor Hotel, to Mr. Semmerby. And I'm following as soon as we've seen what we're about to see. Come on!"

He led the way towards the front of the hotel, while the younger detective summoned the policemen, who, in their turn, signalled to the constable to whom Brixey had recently given a sovereign. From various points the posse of avengers concentrated on Wolmark's, and watched.

There was not much time wasted in waiting. Through the open door of the hotel Mesham suddenly rushed, shouting and gesticulating. He had reached the steps, and was staring wildly about him, when Letwige, too, rushed out, only to seize his confederate by the arm in evident expostulation.

He appeared to be entreating Mesham to keep cool, and in the midst of his entreaties he caught sight of the watching group, dropped Mesham's arm, and fled within the house again.

Brixey turned to the detectives, with a laugh.

"They've found all the eggs stolen from the nest!" he said. "Now, then, you fellows, go and take both of 'em! I'm off to the Grosvenor. Telephone me there when you've got 'em under lock and key, and we’ll come down.

"But, look here," he added, taking the elder detective aside, "leave the woman alone. I promised her! Stick to Letwige and Melsome."

He hurried away then and found a taxicab and followed Matsey to the Grosvenor Hotel, where he burst in on an astonished group, in the midst of which lay the dispatch-case. Without a word, he drew a key from his pocket, and laying it before Mrs. Byfield, pushed the dispatch-case towards her.

"What's all this, young man?" demanded Semmerby.

Brixey got his breath, which he had lost in his hurry along the corridors.

"Mrs. Byfield," he said, "one question. Have you ever given that man Letwige a power of attorney to deal with your affairs and property? Think!"

Mrs. Byfield turned wonderingly on Semmerby, and looked from him to her questioner, still more wonderingly.

"Power of attorney—to Letwige?" she exclaimed. "Never!"

"Then open that case, and you'll find all your securites there—safe," said Brixey. "So far as I can judge," he added, turning to Semmerby, "everything's there! I rescued 'em by a trick. It came off. So, Mrs. Byfield, you're not a penny the worse, as it turns out."

But Mrs. Byfield was staring helplessly at her solicitor.

"My securities?" she faltered. "What does he mean? Rescued? What is it? What has happened?"

Brixey turned on Semmerby.

"Do you mean to say she doesn’t know?" he exclaimed.

Semmerby gave him a look.

"She knows nothing yet!" he whispered. "She's been telling us a good deal You're sure all’s safe?"

"Certain!" replied Brixey.

"And the men?" demanded Semmerby.

"In the hands of the police," said Brixey. "They’ll be telephoning presently. We shall have to go down there-—at least you and my uncle will."

He turned away from the old solicitor and touched Georgina on the shoulder, at the same time motioning her towards the door. "Come out here!" he murmured. "I want to speak to you."

Outside in the corridor Brixey led Georgina away to a retired and quiet corner which he had noticed as he came along.

"Tell me at once," he said as he signed to her to sit down behind a convenient screen, "what did Semmerby mean just now when he said that Mrs. Byfield had been telling a good deal? What has she told?

"Listen, I want to know particularly—is that theory of Gaffkin's, which we put before you on Sunday, right? Be plain. Does that Byfield property really belong to you?"

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE UNEXPECTED WINDFALL

Georgina, already considerably mystified by Brixey’s strange proceedings, and wondering why he had conducted her to a retired nook in a dimly lighted corridor, wherein, thanks to screens and curtains, they were completely shut off from the gaze of mortal eye, turned on him with a glance of astonishment.

"Why do you ask that, Mr. Brixey?" she exclaimed. "To me—how could it belong to me?"

"Oh rot!" retorted Brixey. "Don’t let’s stand on ceremony. I mean, don’t let’s quibble about terms, you know. I feel this is a great occasion.

"There are all sorts of momentous events in the atmosphere. You and I, we’re momentous events, or personalities, or—or something! Perhaps I'm not quite clear——!"

"Anything but!" said Georgina decisively.

Brixey made a desperate endeavour.

"Look here!" he said. "Let's try to be—I mean, let me try to be. You’ve been with these people ever since Sunday night, and when I came in just now, I saw, you were all in the thick of revelations.

"Has it come out that Mrs. Byfield was never legally married to Martin Byfield? That’s what I want to know. I’m on pins and needles to know it!"

"Then it has not come out!" answered Georgina with even more decision. "What has come out, undoubtedly, is that she was never legally married to that man Cradock Melsome. Therefore, she was legally carried to my uncle Martin."

"Fact?" asked Brixey.

"That’s what she brought that old clergyman here for," replied Georgina.

"Then the Byfield money, most of which I’ve just rescued from a couple of impudent thieves, is really hers and Fanshawe's!" demanded Brixey.

"I don’t think I'm wrong in saying—precisely so!" answered Georgina.

Brixey heaved a deep sign—unmistakably a sigh of immense relief.

"Hooray!" he said! "Delighted to hear it! Best news I've heard for a week."

Georgina turned a little in her seat and looked steadily at him.

"Why?" she exclaimed. "What on earth have you got to do with it? Or, rather, what on earth has it got to do with you? Aren't you a bit queer, Mr. Brixey?"

"I am a queer lot!" assented Brixey. "Odd, perhaps—I always was. But, the fact is, I—I wanted to speak to you."

"You are doing," remarked Georgina.

"To you—you!" continued Brixey, emphasising the personal pronoun. "That’s why I asked what I did just now. You see, I—the fact is, I have strong views on things in general."

"Yes?" remarked Georgina.

"On most things," asserted Brixey. "I—you must understand that I am by no means conventional. I neither do nor say things that other people say or do, usually!"

"For instance——?" suggested Georgina.

"Yes, quite right," said Brixey. "I—you see, I have very queer ideas about—marriage!"

Georgina turned the full inquiry of her eyes on him.

"Yes!" declared Brixey. "Always had—at least, I mean, always since I arrived at years of discretion, you know."

"I hope," observed Georgina, looking thoughtfully at a corner of the convenient alcove, "I hope they aren’t very queer!"

"Well perhaps not particularly so," said Brixey "But they're mine! You see, I always felt that I could never marry a girl, you know, who had a lot of money—couldn't do it!"

"No?" remarked Georgina demurely. "You are, indeed, different from most young men, Mr. Brixey."

"Well, it's a fact!" assented Brixey. "Human nature—we're poor things. Now, can you think of anything more awful than the spectacle of a wife with, say, a hundred thousand pounds, and a husband with five pounds a week? Dreadful!"

"It depends how you look at it," remarked Georgina. "Some men who haven’t five shillings a week would be very thankful to get a wife who possessed a hundred thousand pounds!"

"Not men!" exclaimed Brixey. "Don’t call 'em men! They aren’t men, that sort! Call 'em parasites, leeches—anything but men. A man," he continued, "should be the rock on which the family's built! Those are my ideas."

"Yes?" replied Georgina, somewhat timidly.

"It’s not a week since we met—first," observed Brixey. "isn't that queer?"

"Is it?" asked Georgina.

"Seems so." asserted Brixey. "More like—like a long time, somehow. You came into my room at the Sentinel, didn't you?"

"Can't you remember?" inquired Georgina.

"Remember everything!" protested Brixey. "Then we travelled down to Selchester together. I say look here!"

"Well?" said Georgina.

"Now that this confounded business is wound up," said Brixey, "I've the best part of a longish holiday before me. What do you say if I finish it up at Selchester? I can, you know."

"Would you really like to?" asked Georgina, still more timidly.

"Rather!" exclaimed Brixey. He looked out of his eye-corners at his companion and ventured to take her hand. "So that you and I could see a bit more of each other, eh?"

Georgina looked hard at the corner of the alcove, but she made no attempt to withdraw the hand which Brixey had possessed himself of. And Brixey proceeded to press it gently.

"In time, you see," he murmured ingratiatingly, "you might come to—to think of me a bit. You see, I——"

Georgina suddenly withdrew his hand and started aside.

"There's Fanshawe," she whispered.

Brixey looked out into the corridor and saw Fanshawe Byfield hurrying along, piloted by a waiter towards the room in which the conclave still sat.

He was evidently in great haste, and he carried a packet of papers in his hand, and was altogether so engrossed that he looked neither right nor left. And as he disappeared Brixey repossessed himself of Georgina's fingers.

"What do you say?" he whispered. "Am I to come back to Selchester? Come now, say the word!"

Georgina hesitated and blushed, and Brixey drew her her hand nearer.

"Do you really want to?" she said at last.

"Ever since I first met you!" asserted Brixey. "Sure case!"

Georgina looked down.

"To be sure," she remarked, "I have no money. That's just what you want, isn't it?"

"I’ve plenty!" declared Brixey. "Hang money! But, as it happens, I'm pretty well off in that way, quite apart from my profession. Say I'm to come!"

Georgina waited a full moment.

"I'm awfully in love with you!" whispered Brixey. "By George, it's a fact! Don't you believe it?"

"Ye-es!" admitted Georgina. "I do, if you say so. But——"

"I say," he murmured. "No more skirting round the subject! Look here. Are you going to marry me? And soon?"

Georgina took half a minute to consider, during which Brixey exercised a material pressure on her.

"I wouldn't mind if you're quite certain," she admitted at last. "Though, really, it's all so——"

At that moment there came the sound of a violently opened door of hurrying feet, and of Fanshawe's voice, loudly demanding his cousin and Brixey. Those two drew apart and appeared in the corridor, to find Fanshawe gazing in all directions.

"Here, you two!" he called, as he caught sight of them. "Where on earth were you? Come here! I've some news for you, Georgie! By Jove! you never heard such news! Come on!"

He forced them into the room which they had recently quitted, and into the presence of those they had left there, who all gazed at Georgina in a way which betokened something. Georgina's blushes deepened.

"What is it, Fanshawe?" she asked. "What’s happened?"

Fanshawe was swelling with importance. He assumed a sort of heavy-father attitude at the head of the table, from which he picked up a thick packet, the seals of which had recently been broken.

"Georgie!" he said solemnly, "you know that you sent me down to that said deposit place this morning, acting on instructions from the mater? It turns out that my father, some time before his death, placed this packet in a safe which he rented at that place, and left instructions to my mother that I was to fetch it in person on my twenty-first birthday.

"I have carried out those instructions," continued Fanshawe, increasing in youthful solemnity. "Here is the packet! It is endorsed, Georgie, in my father's handwriting. He says this—'I wish my son Fanshawe to make a present of what is here enclosed to his cousin Georgina on the day on which he comes of age.' See?

"So now, Georgie, your cousin Fanshawe, in accordance with his fathers wish, hands this over to you, and—in short, my dear girl, here you are, and jolly glad I am, you know, and—the fact is, it's a little matter of ten thousand pounds."

Therewith Fanshawe pushed a bulky packet into the hands of the astonished Georgina, who, becoming pale and red by turns, stared from Fanshawe to the smiling and nodding faces of the others and shot a queer glance at Brixey.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and Brixey knew that the exclamation was meant for none but himself. "I—must I take it?"

Brixey shot in a rapid order which penetrated to Georgina's consciousness long before the chorus of congratulatory protestations struck it.

"You may!" he whispered. "Yes, certainly—now!"

THE END

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