Detective Story Magazine/The Secret of the Quarry/Part 2

by J. S. Fletcher

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS.

When Antony Bartle, antiquarian bookseller of Barford, England, comes upon the will of John Mallathorpe, which he finds in an old book purchased from Mallathorpe's estate, he goes at once to see his lawyers, Eldrick & Pascoe. Mallathorpe, with his manager and cashier, had been killed in an accident at his mill. His estate had passed to his nephew and niece, Harper and Nesta Mallathorpe, who live at his late home with their mother. After explaining his errand and his discovery to Linwood Pratt, the senior clerk of Eldrick & Pascoe, old Bartle dies of heart failure in Eldrick's chair. Pratt decides his big chance has come, and appropriates the will, after he had heard from the dead man that no one knows of his discovery. Bartle's grandson, Bartle Collingwood, arrives to settle his grandfather's affairs, and learns from the dead bookseller's office boy that Bartle had written a letter that very day to Mrs. Mallathorpe. Investigation convinces Collingwood that his grandfather merely wanted to purchase from Mrs. Mallathorpe more antiquarian books of her late brother-in-law. But Pratt sees Mrs. Mallathorpe, shows her a copy of the will, and proposes a bargain. On his way home he is overtaken by James Parrawhite, another clerk in Eldrick & Pascoe's office, who tells him he was hidden in the office at the time of old Bartle's visit, and knows all. He proposes that they sell the document to Mrs. Mallathorpe. A fight ensues, and Parrawhite is killed. Pratt throws the body into a deep quarry pit filled with water, having first weighted Parrawhite's clothes with iron.

 

CHAPTER VII.

The Machinations of a Murderer.

Soon after halt past eight next morning Pratt was in Eldrick & Pascoe's office, and for nearly forty minutes he had the place entirely to himself. But it took only a few of those minutes for him to do what he had carefully planned before he went to bed the previous night. Shutting himself into Eldrick's private room and making sure that he was alone this time, he immediately opened the drawer in the senior partner's desk, wherein Eldrick, culpably enough, as Parrawhite had sneeringly remarked, was accustomed to put loose money. Eldrick was strangely careless in that way; he would throw money into that drawer in the presence of his clerks—notes, gold, silver. If it happened to occur to him, he would take the money out at the end of an afternoon and hand it to Pratt to lock up in the safe; but as often as not it did not occur. Pratt had more than once ventured on a hint which was almost a remonstrance, and Eldrick had paid no attention to him. Eldrick was a careless, easy-going man in many respects, and liked to do things in his own way.

And, after all, as Pratt had decided, when he found that his hints were not listened to, it was Eldrick's own affair if he liked to leave money lying about.

There was money lying about in that drawer when Pratt drew it open. It was never locked, day or night, or, if it was, the key was left in it. As soon as he opened it he saw some gold and silver, and under a letter weight four bank notes of fifty dollars each. But this was precisely what Pratt had expected to see. He himself had handed the bank notes, gold, and silver to Eldrick the previous evening, just after receiving them from a client who had called to pay his bill. And he had seen Eldrick place them in the drawer as usual, and soon afterward Eldrick had walked out, saying he was going to the club, and he did not return.

What Pratt did was done as the result of careful thought and deliberation. There was a check book lying on the top of some papers in the drawer; he took it up and tore three checks out of it. Then he picked up the bank notes, tore them and the abstracted blank checks into pieces, and dropped the pieces into the fire recently lighted by the caretaker. He watched these fragments burn, and then he put the gold and silver in his hip pocket, where he already carried a good deal of his own, and walked out.

Nine o'clock brought the office boy, a quarter past nine brought the clerks, and at ten o'clock Eldrick walked in. According to custom, Pratt proceeded to Eldrick's room with the letters and went through them with him. One of them contained a legal document, over which the solicitor frowned a little.

“Ask Parrawhite's opinion about that,” he said presently, indicating a marked paragraph.

“Parrawhite has not come in this morning, sir,” observed Pratt, gathering up letters and papers. “I'll draw his attention to it when he arrives.”

He went into the outer office, only to be summoned back to Eldrick a few minutes later. The senior partner was standing by his desk, looking a little concerned, and, thought Pratt, decidedly uncomfortable. He motioned the clerk to close the door. “Has Parrawhite come?” he asked.

“Not yet, Mr. Eldrick,” Pratt replied.

“Is he usually late?' inquired Eldrick.

“Usually quite punctual—half past nine,” said Pratt.

Eldrick glanced at his watch, then at his clerk. “Didn't you give me some cash last night?” he asked.

“Two hundred and fifteen dollars,” answered Pratt; “Thompson's bill of costs. He paid it yesterday afternoon.”

Eldrick looked more uncomfortable than ever. “Well, the fact is,” he said, “I—I meant to hand it to you to put in the safe, Pratt. but I didn't come back from the club. And—it's gone!”

Pratt simulated concern, but not astonishment. Eldrick pulled open the drawer and waved a hand over it. “I put it down there,” he said. “Very careless of me, no doubt, but nothing of this sort has ever happened before, and—— However, there's the unpleasant fact, Pratt. The money's gone!”

Pratt, who had hastily turned over the papers and other contents of the drawer, shook his head and used his privilege as an old and confidential servant. “I've always said, sir, that it was a great mistake to leave loose money lying about,” he remarked mournfully. “If there'd only been a practice of letting me lock anything of that sort up in the safe every night, and this check book, too, sir, then——”

“I know,I know!” said Eldrick. “Very reprehensible on my part. I'm afraid I'm careless, no doubt of it. But——”

He was interrupted by Pratt, who was turning over the check book. “Some check forms have been taken out of this,” he said; “three, at the end. Look there, sir.”

Eldrick uttered an exclamation of intense annoyance and disgust. He looked at the despoiled check book and flung it into the drawer.

“Pratt,” he said, turning half appealingly, half confidentially to the clerk, “don't say a word of this; above all, don't mention it to Mr. Pascoe. It's my fault, and I must make the two hundred and fifteen dollars good. But I'm afraid this is Parrawhite's work. I—well, I may as well tell you, he'd been in trouble before he came here. I gave him another chance; I'd known him years ago. thought he'd go straight. But I fear he's been tempted. He may have seen me leave money about. Was he in here last night?”

Pratt pointed to a document which lay on Eldrick's desk. “He came in here to leave that for your perusal,” he answered. “He was in here alone a minute or two before he left.”

All these lies came readily and naturally, and Eldrick swallowed each. He shook his head. “My fault, all my fault!” he said. “Look here, keep it quiet. But do you know where Parrawhite has lived—lodged?”

“No,” replied Pratt, “but some of the others may.”

“Try to find out quietly,” continued Eldrick, “Then make some excuse to go out, take papers somewhere or something, and find if he's left his lodgings. I—I don't want to set the police on him. He was a decent fellow once. See what you can make out, Pratt. In strict secrecy, you know. I do not want this to go farther.”

Pratt could have danced for joy when he presently went out into the town. There would be no hue and cry after Parrawhite, none! Eldrick would accept the fact that Parrawhite would never be heard of, never be mentioned again. It was the height of good luck for him. Already he had got rid of any small scraps of regret or remorse about the killing of his fellow clerk. Why should he be sorry? The scoundrel had tried to murder him, thinking, no doubt, that he had the will on him. What he had done he had done in self-defense. No! Everything was working together finely. Parrawhite's previous bad record, Eldrick's carelessness, and his desire to hush things up—it was all good.

From that day forward Parrawhite would be as if he had never been. Pratt was not even afraid of the body being discovered, for he believed that it would remain forever where it was, and the probability was that the authorities would fill up that pit with earth and stones. But if it was brought to light, why, the explanation was simple. Parrawhite, having robbed his employer, had been robbed himself, possibly by men with whom he had been drinking, and had been murdered into the bargain. No suspicion could attach to him, Pratt. He had nothing to fear—nothing!

For the appearance of the thing he called at the place where Parrawhite had lodged, but the people had seen nothing of him since the previous morning. They were poor, cheap lodgings in a mean street. The woman of the house said that Parrawhite had gone out as usual the morning before and had never been in again. In order to find out all he could, Pratt asked if he had left much behind him in the way of belongings, and, just as he had expected, he learned that Parrawhite's personal property was remarkably limited; he only possessed one suit of clothes and not much besides, said the landlady.

“Is there aught wrong?” she asked, when Pratt had finished his questions. “Are you from where he worked?”

“That's it,” answered Pratt. “And he hasn't turned up this morning, and we think he's left the town. Owe you anything, missus?”

“Nay, nothing much,” she replied. “Two dollars and a half 'u'd cover it, mister.”

Pratt gave her five dollars. It was not out of consideration for her, nor as a concession to Parrawhite's memory. It was simply to stop her from coming down to Eldrick & Pascoe's. “Well, I don't think you'll see him again,” he remarked. “And I dare say you won't care if you don't.” He turned away then, but before he had gone far the woman called him back.

“What am I to do with his bits of things, mister, if he doesn't come back?” she asked.

“What you please,” answered Pratt. “Throw 'em on the dust heap.”

As he went back to the center of the town he occupied himself in considering his attitude to Mrs. Mallathorpe when she called him that evening. In spite of his own previous notions and of his carefully worked-out scheme about the stewardship, he had been impressed by what Parrawhite had said as to the wisdom of selling the will for cash. Pratt did not believe there was anything in the Collingwood suggestion. No doubt whatever, he had decided, that old Bartle had meant to tell Mrs. Mallathorpe of his discovery when she called in answer to his note; but as he had died before she could call, and as he had told nobody but Pratt, what possible danger could there be from Collingwood? And a stewardship for life appealed to him. He knew, from observation of the world, what a fine thing it is to have a certainty. If he once became steward and agent of the Normandale Grange estate he would stick there until he had saved a tidy heap of money. Then he would retire with a pension and a handsome present and enjoy himself. To be provided for for life, what more could a wise man want? And yet there was something in what that fellow Parrawhite had urged.

Pratt's doubts on this point were settled in a curious fashion. He had reached the center of the town in his return to Eldrick's, and there, in the fashionable shopping street, he ran up against an acquaintance. He and the acquaintance stopped and chatted about nothing. And, as they lounged on the curb, a smart victoria drew up close by, and out of it stepped a girl who immediately attracted Pratt's eyes. He watched her into a shop, and his companion laughed.

“That's the sort!” he remarked flippantly. “If you and I had one each old man—what?”

“Who is she?” demanded Pratt.

The acquaintance stared at him in surprise. “What!” he exclaimed. “You don't know that's Miss Mallathorpe?”

“I didn't know,” said Pratt. “Fact!”

He waited until Nesta Mallathorpe came out and drove away, so that he could get another and closer look at her. And when she was gone he went slowly back to the office, his mind made up. Risk or no risk, he would carry out his original notion. Whatever Mrs, Mallathorpe might offer, he would stick to his idea of close and intimate connection with Normandale Grange.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Terms of a Conqueror.

Left to face the situation which Pratt had revealed to her in such sudden and startling fashion, Mrs. Mallathorpe had been quick to realize its seriousness. It had not taken much to convince her that the clerk knew what he was talking about. She had no doubt whatever that he was right when he said that the production of John Mallathorpe's will would mean dispossession to her children, and through them to herself. Nor had she any doubt, either, of Pratt's intention to profit by his discovery. She saw that he was a young man of determination, not at all scrupulous, eager to seize on anything likely to turn to his own advantage. She was, in short, at his mercy, with no one to turn to. Her son was weak, powerless, almost devoid of character; he cared for nothing beyond ease and comfort, and left everything to her, so long as he was allowed to do what he liked. She dared not confide in him; he was not fit to be intrusted with such a secret, nor was he endowed with the courage to carry it off boldly and unflinchingly. Nor dare she confide it to her daughter. Nesta was as strong as her brother was weak. Mrs. Mallathorpe had only told the plain truth when she said to Pratt that, if her daughter knew of the will, she would go straight to the trustees. No, she would have to do everything herself. And she could do nothing save under Pratt's dictation. So long as he had that will in his possession he could make her agree to whatever terms he liked to insist upon.

She spent a sleepless night, revolving all sorts of plans; she revolved more plans and schemes during the day which followed. But they all ended at the same point—Pratt. All the future depended upon—Pratt. And by the end of the day it had come to this: she must make a determined effort to buy Pratt clean out, so that she could get the will into her own possession and destroy it. She knew that she could easily find the necessary money. Harper Mallathorpe had such a natural dislike of all business matters and was so little fitted to attend to them that he was only too well content to leave everything relating to the estate and the mill at Barford to his mother.

Mrs. Mallathorpe used some ingenuity in making her visit to Pratt. Giving out that she was going to see a friend in Barford, of whose illness she had just heard, she drove into the town, and, on arriving near the town hall, dismissed her carriage, with orders to the coachman to put up his horses at a livery stable, and to meet her at the same place at a specified time. Then she went away on foot and drew a thick veil over her face before hiring a cab in which she drove to the outskirts, where Pratt had his lodging. She was still veiled when Pratt's landlady showed her into the clerk's sitting room.

“Is it safe here?” she asked at once. “Is there no fear of anybody hearing what we may say?”

“None,” answered Pratt reassuringly. “I know these folks. I've lived here several years, and nobody could hear, however much they put their ears to the keyhole. Good thick old walls, these, Mrs. Mallathorpe, and a solid door. We're as safe here as we were in your study last night.”

Mrs. Mallathorpe sat down in the chair which Pratt politely drew near his fire. She raised her veil and looked at him, and the clerk saw at once how anxious and eager she was.

“That will!” she said in a low voice. “Let me see it first.”

“One moment,” answered Pratt. “First, you understand that I'm not going to let you handle it. I'll hold it before you so that you can read it. Second, you give me your promise—I'm trusting you—that you'll make no attempt to seize it. It's not going out of my hands.”

“I'm only a woman and you're a strong man,” she retorted sullenly.

“Quite so,” said Pratt. “But women have a trick of snatching at things. And, if you please, you'll do exactly what I tell you to do. Put your hands behind you. If I see you make the least movement with them, back goes the will into my pocket.”

If Pratt had looked more closely at her just then he would have taken warning from the sudden flash of hatred and resentment which swept across Mrs. Mallathorpe's face. It would have told him that he was dealing with a dangerous woman, who would use her wits to circumvent and beat him—if not now, then later. But he was moving the gas bracket over his mantelpiece, and he did not see.

“Very well, but I had no intention of touching it,” said Mrs. Mallathorpe. “All I want is to see it and read it.”

She obediently followed out Pratt's instructions, and, standing in front of her, he produced the will, unfolded it, and held it at a convenient distance before her eyes. He watched her closely as she read it, and he saw her grow very pale.

“Take your time. Read it over two or three times,” he said quietly. “Get it well into your mind, Mrs. Mallathorpe.”

She nodded her head at last, and Pratt stepped back, folded up the will, and, turning to a heavy box which lay open on his table, placed it within, under lock and key. And that done, he turned back and took a chair close to his visitor.

“Safe there, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” he said, with a glance that was both reassuring and cunning. “But only for the night. I keep a few securities of my own at one of the banks in the town—never mind which—and that will shall be deposited with them to-morrow morning.”

Mrs. Mallathorpe shook her head. “No,” she said, “because you'll come to terms with me.”

Pratt shook his head, too, and he laughed. “Of course I shall come to terms with you,” he answered. “But they'll be my terms, and they don't include any giving up of that document. That's flat, Mrs. Mallathorpe!”

“Not if I make it worth your while?” she asked. “Listen! You don't know what ready money I can command. Ready money, I tell you—cash down, on the spot!”

“I've a pretty good notion,” responded Pratt. “It's generally understood in the town that your son's a mere figurehead and that you're the real boss of the whole show. I know that you're at the mill four times a week and that the managers are under your thumb. I know that you manage everything connected with the estate. So, of course, I know you've lots of ready money at your disposal.”

“And I know that you don't earn more than twenty-five or thirty dollars a week at the outside,” said Mrs. Mallathorpe quietly. “Come, now, just think what a nice, convenient thing it would be to a young man of your age to have capital. Capital! It would be the making of you. You could go right away to London, say, and start out on whatever you liked. Be sensible. Sell me that paper and be done with the whole thing.”

“No,” replied Pratt.

Mrs. Mallathorpe looked at him for a full moment. She was a shrewd judge of character, and she felt that Pratt was one of those men who are hard to stir from a position once adopted. But she had to make her effort, and she made it in what she thought the most effective way.

“I'll give you twenty-five thousand dollars cash for it,” she said. “Meet me with it to-morrow, anywhere you like in the town, any time you like, and I'll hand you the money in notes.”

“No,” said Pratt. “No.”

Once more she looked at him, and Pratt looked back and smiled. “When I say no, I mean no,” he went on. “And I never meant 'No' more firmly than I do now.”

“I don't believe you,” she answered, affecting a doubt which she certainly did not feel. “You're only holding out for more money.”

“If I were holding out for more money, Mrs. Mallathorpe,” replied Pratt, “if I meant to sell you that will for a cash payment, I should have stated my terms to you last night. I should have said precisely how much I wanted and I shouldn't have budged from the amount. Mrs. Mallathorpe, it's no good. I've got my own schemes and my own ideas, and I'm going to carry 'em out. I want you to appoint me steward to your propery, your affairs, for life.”

“Life!” she exclaimed. “Life!”

“My life,” answered Pratt. “And let me tell you, you'll find me a first-class man, a good, faithful, honest servant. I'll do well by you and yours. You'll never regret it as long as you live. It'll be the best day's work you've done. I'll look after your son's interests, everybody's interests, as if they were my own. As, indeed,” he added, with a sly glance, “they will be.”

Mrs. Mallathorpe realized the finality, the resolve in all this, but she made one more attempt. “Fifty thousand,” she said. “Come, now, think what fifty thousand dollars in cash would mean to you.”

“No, nor a hundred thousand,” replied Pratt. “I've made up my mind. I'll have my own terms. It's no use, not one bit of use, haggling or discussing matters further. I'm in possession of the will, and therefore of the situation. Mrs. Mallathorpe, you've just got to do what I tell you.”

He got up from his chair, and, going over to a side table, took from it a blotting pad, some writing paper, and a pencil. For the moment his back was turned, and again he did not see the look of almost murderous hatred which came into his visitor's eyes. Had he seen and understood it, he might even then have reconsidered matters, and taken Mrs. Mallathorpe's last offer. But the look had gone when he turned again, and he noticed nothing as he handed over the writing materials.

“What are these for?” she asked.

“You'll see in a moment,” replied Pratt, reseating himself and drawing his chair a little nearer her own. “Now listen, because it's no good arguing any more. You're going to give me that stewardship and agency. You'll simply tell your son that it's absolutely necessary to have a steward. He'll agree. If he doesn't, no matter, you'll convince him. Now, then, we must do it in a fashion that won't excite any suspicion. Thus, in a few days, say next week, you'll insert in the Barford papers—all three of them—the advertisement I'm going to dictate to you. We'll put it in the usual formal phraseology. Write this down, if you please, Mrs. Mallathorpe.”

He dictated an advertisement, setting forth the requirements of which he had spoken, and Mrs. Mallthorpe obeyed him and wrote. She hated Pratt more than ever at that moment; there was a quiet, steadfast implacability about him that made her feel helpless, but she restrained all sign of it, and, when she had done his bidding, she looked at him as calmly as he looked at her.

“I am to insert this in the Barford papers next week,” she said. “And what then?”

“Then you'll get a lot of applications for the job,” said Pratt. “There'll be mine among them. You can throw most of 'em in the fire. Keep a few for form's sake, profess to discuss them with Mr. Harper, but let all the discussion be all on your side. I'll send two or three good testimonials. You'll incline to me at the first. You'll send for me. Your interview with me will be highly satisfactory; then you'll give me the appointment.”

“And your terms?” asked Mrs. Mallathorpe. Now that her own scheme had failed, she seemed quite placable to all Pratt' proposals, a sure sign of danger to him if he had only known it. “Better let me know them now and have done with it.”

“Quite so,” agreed Pratt. “But, first of all, can you keep them secret to yourself and me—the money part, anyway?”

“I can and shall,” she answered.

“Good!” said Pratt. “Very well, I want five thousand a year. Also, I want two rooms and a business room at the grange. I shall not interfere with you or your family or your domestic arrangements, but I shall expect to have all my meals served to me from your kitchen, and to have one of your servants at my disposal. I know the grange; I've been over it more than once. There's much more room there than you can make use of. Give me the rooms I want in one of the wings. I shan't disturb any of you. You'll never see me except on business, and if you want to.”

Again the calm acquiescence which would have surprised some men. Why Pratt failed to be surprised by it was because he was just then feeling exceedingly triumphant; he believed that Mrs. Mallathorpe was metaphorically at his feet. He had more than a little vanity in him, and it pleased him greatly to dictate terms. He saw himself a conqueror, with his foot on the neck of his victim.

“Is that all, then?” asked the visitor.

“All,” answered Pratt.

Mrs. Mallathorpe calmly folded up the draft of the advertisement and placed it in her purse. Then she rose and adjusted her veil.

“Then there is nothing to be done until 1 get your answer to this, your application?” she asked. “Very well.”

Pratt showed her out, and walked to the carriage with her. He went back to his rooms highly satisfied and utterly ignorant of what Mrs. Mallathorpe was thinking as she drove away.

CHAPTER IX.

Collingwood's Prospects.

Within a week of his sudden death in Eldrick's private office, old Antony Bartle was safely laid in the tomb under the yew tree, of which Mrs. Clough had spoken with such appreciation, and his grandson had entered into virtual possession of all that he had left, Collingwood found little difficulty in settling his grandfather's affairs. Everything had been left to him, and he was the sole executor as well as sole residuary legatee. He found his various tasks made uncommonly easy. Another bookseller in the town hurried to buy the entire stock and business, good will, book debts, everything. Collingwood was free of all responsibility of the shop in Quagg Alley within a few days of the old man's funeral. And when he had made a handsome present to the housekeeper, a suitable one to the shop boy, and paid his grandfather's last debts, he was free to depart, a richer man by a hundred thousand dollars than when he hurried down to Barford in response to Eldrick's telegram.

He sat in Eldrick's office one afternoon, winding up his affairs with him. There were certain things that Eldrick & Pascoe would have to do. He himself would have to return to London.

“There's something I want to propose to you,” said Eldrick, when they had finished the immediate business. “You're going to practice, of course?”

“Of course,” replied Collingwood with a laugh. “If I get the chance.”

“You'll get the chance,” said Eldrick. “What line are you going in for?”

“Commercial law—company law—as a special thing,” answered Collingwood. “Why?”

“I'll tell your what it is,” continued Eldrick eagerly. “There's a career for you, if you'll take my advice. Leave London, come down here and take chambers in the town, and go the Northeastern Circuit. I'll promise you, for our firm alone, plenty of work. You'll get more; there's lots of work waiting here for a good, smart young lawyer. Ah, you smile, but I know what I am talking about. You don't know Barford men. They believe in the old adage that one should look at home before going abroad. They're given to litigation, too, and if you were here on the spot they'd give you work. What do you say, Collingwood?”

“That you sound very tempting. But I was thinking of sticking to London.”

“Not one-hundredth part of the chance in London that there is here!” affirmed Eldrick. “We badly want two or three lawyers in this place. A man who's really well up in commercial and company law would soon have his hands full. There's work, I tell you. Take my advice and come!”

“I couldn't come, in any case, for a few months,” said Collingwood musingly. “Of course, if you really think there's an opening——”

“I know there is,” asserted Eldrick. “I'll guarantee you lots of work—our work. I'm sick of fetching men down all the way from town, or getting them from Leeds. Come, and you'll see.”

“I might come in a few months' time and try things for a year or two,” replied Collingwood. “But I'm off to India, you know, next week, and I shall be away until the end of spring—four months or so.”

“To India!' exclaimed Eldrick. “What are you going to do there?”

“Sir John Standridge,” said Collingwood, mentioning a famous legal luminary of the day, “is going out to Hyderabad to take certain evidence and hold a sort of inquiry in a big case, and I'm going with him as his secretary and assistant. I was in his chambers for two years, you know. We leave next week and we shall not be back until the end of April.”

“Lucky man!” remarked the solicitor. “Well, when you return, don't forget what I've said. Come back. You'll not regret it. Come and settle down. By the way, you're not engaged, are you?”

“Engaged?” said Collingwood. “To what, to whom? What do you mean?”

“Engaged to be married,” answered Eldrick coolly. “You're not? Good! If you want a wife, there's Miss Mallathorpe. Nice, clever girl, my boy, and no end of what Barford folk call brass. The very woman for you.”

“Do you Barford people ever think of anything else but what you call brass?” asked Collingwood laughingly.

“Sometimes,” replied Eldrick. “But it's generally of something that nothing but brass can bring or produce. After all, a rich wife isn't a despisable thing nowadays. You've seen this young lady?”

“I've been there once,” assented Collingwood.

“Go again before you leave,” counseled Eldrick. “You're just the right man. Listen to the counsels of the wise. And while you're in India, think well over my other advice. I tell you there's a career for you here in the North that you'll never get in town.”

Collingwood left him and went out to find an automobile and drive off to Normandale Grange, not because Eldrick had advised him to go, but because of his promise to Harper and Nesta Mallathorpe. And once more he found Nesta alone, and, though he had no spice of vanity in his composition, it seemed to him that she was glad when he walked into the room in which they had first met.

“My mother is out—gone to town, to the mill,” she said, “and Harper is knocking around the park, with a gun, killing rabbits—and time. He'll be in presently to tea, and he'll be delighted to see you. Are you going to stay in Barford much longer?”

“I'm going up to town this evening by the seven o'clock train,” answered Collingwood, watching her keenly. “All my business is finished now for the present.”

“But you'll be coming back?” she asked,

“Perhaps,” he said. “I may come back again after a while.”

“When you do come back,” she went on a little hurriedly, “will you come and see us again? I—it's difficult to explain—but I do wish Harper knew more men. Do you understand?”

“You mean he needs more company?”

“More company of the right kind. He doesn't know many nice men, and he has so little to occupy him. He's no head for business—my mother attends to all that—and he doesn't care much about sport, and when he goes into Barford he only hangs about the club, and, I'm afraid, at two or three of the hotels there, and it's not good for him.”

“Can't you get him interested in anything?” suggested Collingwood. “Is there nothing that he cares about?”

“He never did care about anything,” replied Nesta with a sigh. “He's apathetic, just moves along. Sometimes I think he was born half asleep and he's never been really awakened. Pity, isn't it?”

“Considering everything, a great pity,” agreed Collingwood. “But he's provided for.”

Nesta gave him a swift glance.

“It might have been a good deal better for him if he hadn't been provided for,” she said. “He'd have just had to do something then. But, if you come back, you'll come here sometimes?”

“Of course,” answered Collingwood. “And if 1 come back it will probably be to stop here. Mr. Eldrick says there's a lot of work going begging in Barford for a smart young lawyer well up in commercial law. Perhaps I may try to come up to his standard. I'm certainly young, but I don't know whether I'm smart.”

“Better come and try,” she said. “Don't forget that I've seen you look the part, anyway, and your wig and gown suited you very well.”

“Theatrical properties,” he replied. “The wig was too small and the gown too long. Well, we'll see. But in the meantime I'm going away for four months—to India.”

“To India! Four months!” she exclaimed. “That sounds nice.”

“Legal business,” said Collingwood.

“I shall be back about the end of April, and then I shall probably come down here again and seriously consider Eldrick's suggestion. I'm very much inclined to take it.”

“Then you'd leave London?” she asked.

“I've little to leave there,” replied Collingwood. “My father and mother are dead, and I've no brothers, no sisters, no very near relations. Sounds lonely, doesn't it?”

“One can feel lonely when one has relations,” said Nesta.

“Are you saying that from experience?” he asked.

“I often wish I had more to do,” she answered frankly. “What's the use of denying it? I've next to nothing to do here. I liked my work at the hospital; I was busy all day. Here——”

“If I were you,” interrupted Collingwood, “I'd set to work nursing in another fashion. Look after your brother. Get him going at something, even if it's playing golf. Play with him. It would do him and you all the good in the world if you got thoroughly infatuated with even a game. Don't you see?”

“You mean anything is better than nothing,” she replied. “All right, I'll try that, anyway. I'm anxious about Harper—all this money and no occupation!”

Collingwood, who was sitting near the window, looked out across the park and into the valley beyond.

“I should have thought that a man who had come into an estate like this would have found plenty of occupation,” he remarked. “What is there besides the house and this park?”

Nesta, who had busied herself with some fancy work since Collingwood's entrance, laid it down and came to the window.

“There's the whole village of Normandale,” she said. “A tiny place, no doubt, but it's all Harper's—he's lord of the manor. He's patron of the living, too. It's all his.”

Collingwood looked out over the area which Nesta had indicated. Harper Mallathorpe, he calculated, must be possessed of some three or four thousand acres.

“A fine property,” he said. “He's a very fortunate fellow.”

Just then the very fortunate fellow came in. Collingwood led him on to the project which he had mentioned at his previous visit, the making of the golf links in the park. He promised to go into the matter and to employ a man whom Collingwood recommended as an expert in laying out golf courses.

“You'll have got your greens in something like order by this time next year, if you start operations soon,” said Collingwood. “And then, if I settled down at Barford, I'll come out now and then, if you'll let me.”

“Let you!” exclaimed Harper. “By Jove, we're only too glad to have anybody out here, aren't we, Nesta?”

“We shall always be glad to see Mr. Collingwood,” said Nesta.

Collingwood went away with that last intimation warm in his memory.

He determined, being a young man of sense, not to think any more of Nesta Mallathorpe until after he returned from India.

He called in at Eldrick's office on his way to the hotel to get some documents which they had been preparing for him. It was then late in the afternoon, and no one but Pratt was there. Pratt, indeed, had been waiting until Collingwood called.

“Going back to town, Mr. Collingwood?” asked Pratt as he handed over a big envelope. “When shall we have the pleasure of seeing you again, sir?”

Something in the clerk's tone made Collingwood think—he could not tell why—that Pratt was fishing for information. And, also for reasons which he could not explain, Collingwood had taken a curious dislike to Pratt and was not inclined to give him any confidence.

“I don't know,” he answered a little icily. “I am leaving for India next week.”

He bade the clerk a formal farewell and went off, and Pratt locked the office door and slowly followed him downstairs.

“To India!” he said to himself, watching the young lawyer's retreating figure. “To India, eh? For a time, or for what?”

Anyway, that was good news. Pratt had seen in Collingwood a possible rival.

CHAPTER X.

Rotten Wood.

His return to London was made on a Friday evening, and next day Collingwood began the final preparations for his departure to India on the following Thursday.

As he sat at breakfast in his rooms on the Monday morning, turning over his newspaper, his attention was suddenly and sharply arrested by a headline.

This is what Collingwood read as he sat, coffee cup in one hand, newspaper in the other, staring at the lines of type:

TRAGIC FATE OF YOUNG YORKSHIRE SQUIRE.

A fatal accident of a particularly sad and distressing nature occurred near Barford, Yorkshire, on Saturday. About four o'clock in the afternoon Mr. Linford Pratt, managing clerk to Messrs. Eldrick and Pascoe, solicitors of Barford, who was crossing the grounds of Normandale Grange on his way to a business appointment, discovered the dead body of Mr. H. J. Mallathorpe, the owner of Normandale estate. Mr. H. J. Mallathorpe was unmarried, and it is understood that the Normandale estate now becomes the property of his sister, Miss Nesta Mallathorpe.

Collingwood set down his cup and dropped the newspaper. He was but halfway through his breakfast, but his appetite had vanished. Suddenly he started from his chair and snatched up a railway guide. As he turned over its pages he thought rapidly. The preparation for his journey to India was almost finished; what was not done he could do in a few hours. He had no further appointment with Sir John Standridge until nine o'clock on Thursday morning, when he was to meet him at the train for Dover and Paris. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, he had three days, ample time to hurry down to Normandale to do what he could to help them, and to get back in time to make his own last arrangements. He glanced at his watch; he had forty minutes in which to catch an express from King's Cross to Barford. Without further delay he picked up a suit case which was already packed and set out for the station.

He was in Barford soon after two o'clock, and in Eldrick's office by half past two.

Eldrick shook his head at sight of him. “I can guess what's brought you down, Collingwood,” he said. “I don't think they've many friends out there.”

“IT can scarcely call myself that yet,” answered Collingwood. “But I thought I might be of some use. I'll drive out there presently. But first, how was it?”

Eldrick shook his head.

“Don't know much more than what the papers say,” he answered. “Nobody on the estate seems to have known of the dangerous condition of that bridge. But they say it was little used—simply a link between one plantation and another. However, it's done now. Our clerk, Pratt, you know, found the body. Hadn't been dead five minutes, Pratt says.”

“What was Pratt doing there?” asked Collingwood.

“Oh, business of his own,” replied Eldrick, “not ours. There was an advertisement in Saturday's papers which set out that a steward was wanted for the Normandale estate, and Pratt mentioned to me in the morning that he thought of applying for the job if we'd give him a good testimonial. I suppose he'd gone out there to see about the preliminaries. Anyway, he was walking through the park when he found young Mallathorpe's body. I've sent him out there again to-day to do anything he can. Smart chap Pratt!”

“Possibly, then, there is nothing I can do,” remarked Collingwood.

“I should say you'd do a lot by merely going there,” answered Eldrick. “As I said just now, they've few friends and no relations, and I hear that Mrs. Mallathorpe is absolutely knocked over. By that lad's death Nesta Mallathorpe becomes one of the wealthiest young women in Yorkshire!”

Collingwood made no reply to this communication. But as he drove off to Normandale Grange it was fresh in his mind. Within a few minutes of entering the big, desolate-looking house, he realized that Nesta had been thinking of him. She came to him in the room where they had first met and quietly gave him her hand.

“I was not surprised when they told me you were here,” she said. “I was thinking of you, or, rather, expecting to hear from you.”

“I came at once,” answered Collingwood, who had kept her hand in his. “I—well, I had to come. I thought perhaps I could do something, be of some use.”

“It's a great deal of use to have just come,” she said. “Thank you. But I suppose you'll have to go?”

“Not for two days, anyway,” he replied. “What can I do?”

“I don't know that you can actually do anything,” she answered. “Everything is being attended to. Mr. Eldrick sent his clerk, Mr. Pratt, who found Harper. He's been most kind and useful. He and our solicitor are making all arrangements. There's got to be am inquest. No, I don't know that you can do actual things. But while you're here you can look in when you like. My mother is very ill. She has scarcely spoken since Saturday.”

“I'll tell you what I will do,” said Collingwood determinedly. “I noticed in coming through the village just now that there's quite a good inn there. I'll go down and arrange to stay there until Wednesday evening. Then I shall be close by if you should need me.”

He saw by her look of quick appreciation and relief that this suggestion pleased her. She pressed his hand and withdrew her own. “Thank you again,” she said. “Do you know, I can't quite explain, but I should be glad if you were close at hand. While everybody has been very kind I do feel that there is nobody I can talk to. If you arrange this, will you come in again this evening?”

“I shall arrange it,” answered Collingwood. “I'll see to it now. Tell your people I am to be brought in whenever I call, and I'll be close by whenever you want me.”

It seemed little to say, little to do, but he left her feeling that he was being of some use. As he went off to make his arrangements at the inn he encountered Pratt, who was talking to the butler in the outer hall.

The clerk looked at Collingwood with an unconcern which he was able to assume because he had already heard of his presence in the house. Inwardly he was malignantly angry that the young lawyer was there, but his voice was suave and polite enough when he spoke.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Collingwood,” he said quietly. “Very sad occasion on which we meet again, sir. Come to offer your sympathy, Mr. Collingwood, of course. Very kind of you.”

“I came,” answered Collingwood, who was not inclined to bandy phrases with Pratt, “to see if 1 could be of any practical use.”

“Just so, sir,” said Pratt. “Mr. Eldrick sent me here for the same purpose. There's really not much to do beyond the necessary arrangements, which are about completed. Going back to town, sir?” he went on, following Collingwood out to his car, which stood waiting in the drive.

“No,” replied Collingwood, “I'm going to send this man to Barford to fetch my bag to the inn down there in the village, where I'm going to stay for a few days. Did you hear that?” he continued, turning to the driver. “Go back to Barford, get my bag from the station hotel, and bring it to the Normandale Arms. I'll meet you there on your return.”

The car went off, and Collingwood, with a nod to Pratt, was about to turn down a side path toward the village, when Pratt stopped him.

“Would you care to see the place where the accident happened, Mr. Collingwood?” he said. “It's close by. Won't take five minutes.”

“Thank you,” he said. “If it's so near.”

“This way, sir,” responded Pratt. He led his companion along the front of the house and into a plantation by a path thickly covered with pine needles. Presently they emerged upon a similar tract, at right angles to that by which they had come, and leading into a denser part of the woods. At the end of a hundred yards of it they came to a barricade, evidently of recent construction, over which Pratt stretched a hand. “There,” he said, “that's the bridge, sir.”

Collingwood looked over the barricade. He saw that he and Pratt were standing at the edge of one thick plantation of fir and pine; the edge of a similar plantation stretched before them some ten yards away. But between the two lay a deep, dark ravine, which, immediately in front of the temporary barricade, was spanned by a narrow rustic bridge, a fragile-looking thing of planks, railed in by boughs of trees. And in the middle was a jagged gap in both floor and side rails, showing where the rotten wood had given way.

“I'll explain, Mr. Collingwood,” said the clerk presently. “I know this park, sir; I knew it well before the late Mr. John Mallathorpe bought the property. That path at the other end of the bridge makes a short cut down to the station in the valley, through the woods and the lower part of the park. I came up that path from the station on Saturday afternoon, intending to cross this bridge and go on to the house, where I had private business. When I got to the other end of the bridge there, I saw the gap in the middle. And then I looked down into the cut. There's a road—a paved road—down there, and I saw—him! And so I made shift to scramble down—stiff job it was—to get to him. But he was dead, Mr. Collingwood; stone dead, sir, though I'm certain he hadn't been dead five minutes. And——”

“Aye, an' he'd never ha' been dead at all, young squire, if only his ma had listened to what I tell'd her!” interrupted a voice behind them. “He'd ha' been alive at this minute, he would, if his ma had done whot I said owt to be done—now then!”

Collingwood turned sharply to confront an old man, evidently one of the woodmen on the estate, who had come up behind them, unheard on the thick carpeting of pine needles. And Pratt turned, too, with a keen look and a direct question.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

“I know what I'm talking about, young gentleman,” said the man doggedly. “I ain't worked, lad and man, on this here estate nine and forty year—and happen more—wi'out knowin' all about it. I tell'd Mrs. Mallathorpe on Friday noon 'at that there owd brig 'u'd fall in afore long if it worn't mended. I met her here, at this very place where we're standin', and I showed her that it owt to have been fastened up, theer an' then. It's been rottin' for many a year, has this owd brig. Why, I mind when it wor last repaired, and that wor years afore owd Mestur Mallathorpe bowt this estate!”

“When do you say you told Mrs. Mallathorpe all that?” asked Pratt.

“Friday noon it were, sir,” answered the woodman. “When I were on my way home—dinner time. 'Cause I met the missis here, and I made bold to tell her what I'd noticed. That there owd brig! Lor' bless yer, gentlemen, it were black rotten i' the middle theer, where poor young maister he fell through it, 'Ye mun hev that seen to at once, missus,' I says. 'Sartin sure, 'tain't often as it's used,' I says. An' reight, too, gentlemen. Forty feet it is down to that road, an' a mortal hard road, an' all, paved wi' granite stone all t' way to t' stable yard.”

“You're sure it was Friday noon?” repeated Pratt.

“As sure as that I see you,” answered the woodman. “An' Mrs. Mallathorpe she said she'd hev it seen to. Dear me! It should ha' been closed!”

The old man shook his head and went off among the trees, and Pratt, giving his vanishing figure a queer look, turned silently back along the path, followed by Collingwood. At the point where the other path led to the house he glanced over his shoulder at the young lawyer.

“If you keep straight on, Mr. Collingwood,” he said, “you'll get down to the village and the inn. I must go this way.”

He went off rapidly, and Collingwood walked on through the plantations toward the Normandale Arms, wondering all the way why Pratt was so anxious to know exactly when it was that Mrs. Mallathorpe had been warned about the old bridge.

CHAPTER XI.

Danger Signals.

Until that afternoon Collingwood had never been in the village to which he was now bending his steps. The Normandale Arms, a roomy, old-fashioned place, stood at one end of the bridge. It was a peaceful, pretty, quiet place, but the gloom, which was heavy at the big house on the hill above, seemed to have spread to everybody that he encountered.

“Bad job, this, sir!” said the landlord, an elderly, serious-faced man, to whom Collingwood had made known his wants, and who had quickly formed the opinion that his guest was of the legal profession. “And a queer one, too! Odd thing, sir, that our old squire, and now the young one, should both have met their deaths in what you might term violent fashion.”

“Accident, in both cases,” remarked Collingwood,

“Aye, well,” he answered. “Of course, a mill chimney falling, without notice, as it were, and a bridge giving way, them's accidents, to be sure. But it's a very strange thing about this foot-bridge up yonder at the grange, very strange indeed! There's a queer talk about it already.”

“What sort of talk?” asked Collingwood. Ever since the old woodman had come up to him and Pratt as they stood looking at the footbridge, he had been aware of a curious sense of mystery, and the landlord's remark tended to deepen it. “What are people talking about?”

“Nay, it's only one or two,” replied the landlord. “There's been two men in here, since this affair happened, that crossed that bridge Friday afternoon, and both of 'em big, heavy men. According to what one can learn that there bridge wasn't used much by the grange people; it led to nowhere in particular for them. But there is a right of way across that part of the park, and these two men as I'm speaking of, they made use of it on Friday, getting toward dark. I know 'em well, and they both of 'em together weigh four times as much as young Squire Mallathorpe, and yet it didn't give way under them. And then, only a few hours later, as you might say, down it goes with him!”

“I don't think you can form any opinion from that,” said Collingwood. “These things, these old structures, often give way quite suddenly and unexpectedly.”

“Aye, well, they did admit, these here two, that it seemed a bit totterylike,” remarked the landlord. “Talking it over between ourselves in here, they agreed, to be sure, that it felt to give a bit. All the same, there's them as says that it's a queer thing it should ha' given altogether when young squire walked on it.”

Collingwood clinched matters with a straight question. “You don't mean to say that people are suggesting that the footbridge had been tampered with?” he asked.

“There is them about as wouldn't be slow to say as much,” answered the landlord. “Folk will talk. You see, sir, nobody saw what happened. And when country folk doesn't see what takes place with their own eyes, then they——”

“Makes mysteries out of it,” interrupted Collingwood a little impatiently. “I don't think there's any mystery here, landlord. I understand that this foot-bridge was in a very unsafe condition. No, I'm afraid the whole affair was only too simple.”

But he was conscious as he said this that he was not precisely voicing his own sentiments. He himelf was mystified.

He was still pondering over these things when he went back to the grange later in the evening, but he was resolved not to say anything about them to Nesta. And he only saw Nesta for a few minutes. Her mother, she said, was very ill indeed.

“If there is anything that I can do, or if you should want me during the night,” said Collingwood earnestly, “promise me that you'll send at once to the inn.”

“Yes,” answered Nesta, “I will. But there is something I should be glad if you would do to-morrow,” she went on, looking at him a little wistfully. “You know about the inquest?”

“Yes,” said Collingwood.

“They say we—that is, I, because, of course, my mother couldn't—that I need not be present,” she continued. “Mr. Robson, our lawyer, says it will be a very short, formal affair. He will be there, too, so that you can afterward tell me all about it.”

“Will you tell me something, straight out?” answered Collingwood, looking intently at her. “Have you any doubt of any description about the accepted story of your brother's death? Be plain with me.”

Nesta hesitated for a while before answering. “Not of the actual circumstances,” she replied at last. “No, none at all of what you call the accepted story. I—the fact is, I'm not a good hand at explaining anything, and perhaps I can't convey to you what I mean. But I've a feeling, an impression, that there is, or was, some mystery on Saturday which might have, and might not have—oh, I can't make it clear, even to myself! If you would be at the inquest to-morrow and listen carefully to everything, and then tell me afterward—do you understand?”

“I understand,” answered Collingwood. “Leave it to me.”

Collingwood attended the inquest and was soon assured that there was nothing beyond brevity and formality. He felt bound to admit that, taking the evidence as it was brought forward, no simpler or more straightforward cause of investigation could be adduced.

Pratt gave his evidence tersely and admirably. On Saturday morning he prepared his application for the stewardship of the estate and decided to take it himself that afternoon to Normandale Grange. He had left Barford by the two o'clock train, which arrived at Normandale at two-twenty-five. Knowing the district well, he had taken the path through the plantations. Arrived at the footbridge, he had at once noticed that part of it had fallen in. Looking into the cutting, he had seen a man lying in the roadway beneath, motionless. He had scrambled down the side of the cutting, discovered that the man was Mr. Harper Mallathorpe, and that he was dead, and had immediately hurried up the road to the house, where he had informed Miss Mallathorpe.

A quite convincing story, evidently thought everybody, and no questions needed. “A clear case, nothing could be clearer,” said the coroner to his obedient jury, who presently returned the only verdict—one of accidental death—which, on the evidence, was possible.

Collingwood heard no comments on the inquest from those who were present. But that evening, as he sat in his parlor at the Normandale Arms, the landlord, coming in on pretense of attending to the fire, approached him with an air of mystery and jerked his thumb in the direction of the regions which he had just quitted.

“You remember what we were talking of this afternoon when you come in, sir?” he whispered. “There's some of 'em, regular nightly customers—village folk, you understand—talking of the same thing now, and of this here inquest. And if you'd like to hear a bit of what you may call local opinion, and especially one man's, I'll put you where you can hear it without being seen. It's worth hearing, anyway.”

Collingwood, curious to know what the village wiseacres had to say, rose and followed the landloard into a small room at the back of the bar parlor. An open hatchment in the wall, covered by a thin curtain, allowed him to hear every word which came from what appeared to be a full company. But it was quickly evident that in that company there was one man who either was, or wished to be, dictator and arbiter, a man of loud voice and domineering tone, who was laying down the law to the accompaniment of vigorous thumpings of the table at which he sat.

“What I say is, and I say it again, I reckon nowt at all o' crowner's quests!” he was affirming as Collingwood and his guide drew near the curtained opening. “What is a crowner's quest, anyway? It's nowt but formality, all form and show—it means nowt. All them 'at sits on t' jury does and says what t' crowner tells 'em to say and do. They nivver ax no questions out o' their own mouths, they're as dumb as sheep; that's what yon jury was this mornin'—now then!”

“That's James Stringer, the blacksmith,” whispered the landlord, coming close to Collingwood's elbow. “He thinks he knows everything.”

“And pray, what would ye ha' done, Mestur Stringer, if ye'd been on yon jury?” inquired a milder voice. “I suppose ye'd ha' wanted to know a bit more, what?”

“Mestur Stringer 'u'd ha' wanted to know a deal more,” observed another voice. “He would so!”

“There's a many things I want to know,” continued the blacksmith with a stout thump of the table. “They all tak' it for granted 'at young squire walked on to yon bridge, an' 'at it theer and then fell to pieces. Who see'd it fall to pieces? Who was theer to see what did happen?”

“What else did happen or could happen nor what were testified to?” asked a new voice. “Theer wor what they call circumstantial evidence to show how all t' affair happened.

“Circumstantial evidence be hanged!” retorted the blacksmith heartily. “I reckon nowt o' circumstantial evidence. Look ye here! How do we know, how does anybody know, 'at t' young squire worn't thrown off that bridge, and 'at t' bridge collapsed when he wor thrown? He might h' met somebody on 't bridge, and quarreled wi' em', and whoivver it wor might ha' been t' strongest man and flung him into t' road beneath!”

“Aye, but i' that case t'other feller, t' assailant, 'u'd ha' fallen wi' him,” objected somebody.

“Nowt o' t' sort!” said the blacksmith. “He'd be safe on t' sound part o' t' bridge. It's only a pi'ce on't that gave way. I say that theer idea wants inquirin' into! An' theer's another thing: what wor that lawyer clerk chap fro' Barford, Pratt, doin' about theer? What reight had he to be prowlin' round t' neighborhood o' that bridge, and at that time? Come, now, there's a tickler for somebody.”

“He telled that!” exclaimed several voices in unison. “He had business i' t' place. He had some papers to 'liver.”

“Then why didn't he go t' nearest way to t' house to 'liver 'em?” demanded Stringer. “T' shortest way to t' house fro' t' railway station's up t' carriage drive, not through them plantations. I ax agen: what wor that feller doin' theer? It's important.”

“Why, ye don't suspect him of owt, do yer, Mestur Stringer?” asked somebody. “A respectable young feller like that theer, come!”

“I'm sayin' nowt about suspectin' nobody!” vociferated the blacksmith. “I'm doin' nowt but a puttin' a case, as t' lawyers 'u'd term it. I say 'at theer's a lot o' things 'at owt to ha' comed out. I'll tell ye one on 'em: how is it 'at nowt, not a single word, wor said at yon inquest about Mrs. Mallathorpe and t' affair? Not a word.”

A sudden silence fell on the company, and the landloard tapped Collingwood's arm and took the liberty of winking at him.

“Why,” inquired somebody at last, “what about Mrs. Mallathorpe and t' affair? What had she to do wi' t' affair?”

The blacksmith's voice became judicial in its solemnity. “Ye listen to me!” he said with emphasis. “I know what I'm talking about. Ye know what came out at t' inquest. When this here Pratt ran to tell t' news at t' house he returned to what they term t' fatal spot i' company wi' t' butler and a couple o' footmen and Dan Scholes, one o' t' grooms. Now theer worn't a word said at t' inquest about what that lot—five on 'em, mind yer—found when they reached t' dead corpse, not one word! But I know; Dan Scholes tell'd me!”

“What did they find, then, Mestur Stringer?” asked an eager member of the assemblage. “What wor it?”

The blacksmith's voice sank to a mysterious whisper. “I'll tell yer!” he replied. “They found Mrs. Mallathorpe lyin' i' a dead faint close by! And they say 'at she's nivver done nowt but go out o' one faint into another ivver since. So, of course, she's nivver been able to tell if she saw owt, or knew owt. And what I say is,” he concluded with a heavy thump of the table, “that theer crowner's quest owt to ha' been what they term adjourned until Mrs. Mallathorpe could tell if she did see owt, or if she knew owt, or else they wo'dn't ha' found her lyin' theer aside o' t' corpse. What did she see? What did she hear? Does she know owt? I tell ye 'at them's questions 'at wants answerin', and theer's trouble ahead for somebody if they aren't answered—now then!”

Collingwood went away from his retreat, beckoning the landlord to follow. In the parlor he turned to him. “Have you heard anything of what Stringer said just now?” he asked. “I mean about Mrs. Mallathorpe?”

“Heard just the same, and from the same chap, Scholes, the groom, sir,” replied the landlord. “Oh, yes, of course, people will wonder why they didn't get some evidence from Mrs. Mallathorpe, just as Stringer says.”

Collingwood sat a long time that night thinking over the things he had heard, He came to the conclusion that the domineering blacksmith was right in one of his dogmatic assertions—there was trouble ahead. And next morning, before going up to the grange, he went to the nearest telegraph office and sent Sir John Standridge a lengthy message in which he resigned the appointment that would have taken him to India.

CHAPTER XII.

Power of Attorney.

As he walked across Normandale Park that morning, Collingwood had many things to think over. He had deliberately given up his Indian appointment for Nesta's sake, so that he might be near her in case the trouble which he feared arose suddenly. But he was still utterly in the dark as to what that possible trouble might be; yet of one thing he felt convinced—it would have some connection with Eldrick's clerk, Pratt. He had formed some queer, uneasy suspicion about Pratt when he first hurried down to Barford on hearing of Antony Bartle's death. He walked toward the house in thoughtful mood, and, suddenly looking up, beheld Pratt.

Pratt, a professional-looking bag in his hand, a morning newspaper under the other arm, was standing at the gate of one of the numerous shrubberies which flanked the grange, talking to a woman who leaned over it. Collingwood recognized her as a woman whom he had twice seen in the house during his visits on the day before, rather shrewd and intelligent looking. She was evidently in close conference with Pratt at that moment, but as Collingwood drew near she turned and went slowly in the direction of the house, while Pratt, always outwardly polite, stepped toward the interrupter of this meeting and lifted his hat.

“Good morning, Mr. Collingwood,” he said. “A fine sharp morning, sir. I was just asking Mrs. Mallathorpe's maid how her mistress is this morning. She was very ill when I left last night. Better, sir, I'm glad to say. Mrs. Mallathorpe has had a much better night.”

“I'm pleased to hear it,” replied Collingwood. He was going toward the front of the grange, and Pratt walked at his side in the same direction. “I'm afraid she has had a great shock. You are still here, then?” he went on, feeling bound to make some remark, and saying the first obvious thing. “Still busy?”

“Mr. Eldrick has lent me, so to speak, until the funeral's over, to-morrow,” answered Pratt. “There are a lot of little things in which I can be useful, you know, Mr. Collingwood. I suppose your arrangements—you said you were sailing for India—won't permit of your being present to-morrow, sir?”

Collingwood was not sure if the clerk was fishing for information. Pratt's manner was always polite, but he was not going to give him any information, either then or at any time.”

“I don't quite know what my arrangements may be,” he answered. And just then they came to the front entrance, and Collingwood was taken off in one direction by a footman, while Pratt, who already seemed to be fully acquainted with the house and its arrangements, took himself and his bag away in another.

Nesta came to Collingwood looking less anxious than when he had left her at his last call the night before. He had already told her what his impressions of the inquest were.

“Oh, I wanted to tell you,” he said, after talking to her a while about Mrs. Mallathorpe. “I—there's a change in my arrangements. I'm not going to India, after all.”

He was not prepared for the sudden flush of color that came over the girl's face. It took him aback. But he affected not to see anything.

Nesta, who was conscious of her betrayal of more than she cared to show just then, tried to speak calmly. “But isn't it an awful disappointment?” she said. “You were looking forward so to going there, weren't you?”

“Can't be helped,” replied Collingwood. “All these affairs are preordained.”

Then, not trusting himself to remain longer, he went off to Barford, certain that he was now definitely pledged in his own mind to Nesta Mallathorpe.

After leaving Nesta, Collingwood went to see Eldrick, who received his news with evident gratification. He immediately suggested certain chambers in an adjacent building; he volunteered information as to where the best rooms in the town were to be had. And, in proof of his practical interest in Collingwood's career, he then and there engaged his professional services for two cases which were to be heard at a local court within the following week.

“Pratt shall deliver the papers to you at once,” he said. “That is, as soon as he's back from Normandale this afternoon. I sent him there again to make himself useful.”

“I saw him this morning,” remarked Collingwood. “He appears to be a very useful person.”

“Clever chap,” assented Eldrick carelessly. “I don't know what'll be done about that stewardship that he was going to apply for. Everything will be altered now that young Mallathorpe's dead.”

Collingwood offered no comment.

Some time went by before Collingwood was asked to render service of any sort. At Normandale Grange events progressed in apparently ordinary and normal fashion. Collingwood felt that the time was coming when he might speak. He was professionally engaged in London for nearly three weeks in the early part of that spring, but when he returned he had made up his mind to tell Nesta the truth at once.

But Collingwood found something else than love to talk about when he presented himself at Normandale Grange on the morning after his arrival from his three weeks' absence in London. As soon as he met her he saw that Nesta was not only upset and troubled, but angry.

“I am glad you have come,” she said when they were alone. “I want some advice. Something has happened.”

“Tell me,” suggested Collingwood.

Nesta frowned at some recollection or thought. “Yesterday afternoon,” she answered, “I was obliged to go into Barford on business. I left my mother fairly well. She had been recovering fairly fast lately, and she only has one nurse now. Unfortunately she, too, was out for the afternoon. I came back to find my mother ill and much upset; and, there's no use in denying it, she'd all the symptoms of having been—well, frightened. I can't think of any other term than that, frightened. And then I learned that in my absence Mr. Eldrick's clerk, Mr. Pratt—you know him—had been here and had been with her for quite an hour. I am furiously angry!”

“How came Pratt to be admitted to your mother?” he asked.

“That makes me angry, too,” answered Nesta. “Though I confess I ought to be angry with myself for not giving stricter orders. I left the house about two; he came about three and asked to see my mother's maid, Esther Mawson. He told her that it was absolutely necessary for him to see my mother on business. Mother consented to see him, and he was taken up. And, as I say, I found her ill and frightened, and that's not the worst of it.”

“What is the worst of it?” asked Collingwood anxiously. “Better tell me. I may be able to do something.”

“The worst of it,” she said, “is just this: She flatly refuses to tell me anything. What business can that man have with her, or she with him? Eldrick & Pascoe are not our solicitors, There's some secret, and——”

“Will you answer me one or two questions?” said Collingwood quietly. He had never seen Nesta angry before, and he now realized that she had certain possibilities of temper and determination which would be formidable when roused. “First of all, is that maid you speak of, Esther Mawson, reliable?”

“I don't know,” answered Nesta “My mother has had her two years. She's a Barford woman. Sometimes I think she's sly and designing. But I've given her such strict orders now that she'll never dare to let any one see mother again without my consent.”

“The other question's this,” said Collingwood. “Have you any idea, any suspicion, of why Pratt wanted to see your mother?”

“Not unless it was about that stewardship,” replied Nesta. “But how could that frighten her? Besides, all that's over. Normandale is mine, and, if I have a steward or an estate agent, I shall see to the appointment myself. No, I do not know why he should have come here. But there's some mystery. The curious thing is, I'm absolutely certain that mother never knew the man Pratt—I don't think she ever knew his name—until quite recently. She got to know him just about the time you first called here, at the time of Mr. Bartle's death. Our butler told me this morning that Pratt came here late one evening, asked to see mother, and was with her for some time in the study. Oh, what is it all about, and why doesn't she tell me?”

Collingwood stood silently staring out of the window. At the time of Antony Bartle's death? An evening visit, evidently of a secret nature. And why paid to Mrs. Mallathorpe at that particular time? He suddenly turned to Nesta. “What do you wish me to do?” he asked.

“Will you speak to Mr. Eldrick?” she said. “Tell him that his clerk must not call upon nor attempt to see my mother. I will not have it!”

Collingwood went off to Barford and straight to Eldrick's office. He noticed as he passed through the outer rooms that Pratt was not in his accustomed place.

“Hullo! said Eldrick. “Just got in from town? That's lucky. I've got a big case for you.”

“I got in late last night,” replied Collingwood, “but I went out to Normandale first thing this morning. I say, Eldrick, here's an unpleasant matter to tell you of.” And he told the lawyer all that Nesta had just told him and also spoke of Pratt's visit to Mrs. Mallathorpe, about the time of Antony Bartle's death. “Whatever it is,” he concluded sternly, “it's got to stop. If you've any influence on your clerk whatever——”

Eldrick made a grimace and waved his hand. “He's our clerk no longer,” he said. “He left us the week after you went up to town, Collingwood. He was only a weekly servant and he took advantage of that to give me a week's notice. Now, what game is Master Pratt playing? He's smart and he's deep, too. He——”

Just then an office boy announced Mr. Robson, the Mallathorpe family solicitor—a bustling, rather rough-and-ready type of man—who came into Eldrick's room, looking not only angry, but astonished. He nodded to Collingwood and flung himself into a chair at the side of Eldrick's desk.

“Look here, Eldrick,” he exclaimed, “What on earth has that clerk of yours to do with Mrs. Mallathorpe? Do you know what Mrs. Mallathorpe has done? Hang it! She must be out of her senses, or—or there's something I can't fathom. She's given your clerk, Linford Pratt, a power of attorney to deal with all her affairs and all her property! Oh, it's all right, I tell you. Pratt's been to my office and exhibited it to me as if—as if he were the lord chancellor.”

Eldrick turned to Collingwood, and Collingwood to Eldrick, and then both turned to Robson.

CHAPTER XIII.

Pratt's Cards

Under those questioning glances the Mallathorpe family solicitor shook his head impatiently.

“It's not a bit of use appealing to me to know what it means!” he exclaimed. “I know no more than what I've told you. That chap walked into my office as bold as brass half an hour ago and exhibited to me a power of attorney all duly drawn up and stamped, executed in his favor by Mrs. Mallathorpe yesterday. And as Mrs. Mallathorpe is, as far as I know, in her senses—why, there you are!”

“What is it,” asked Eldrick, “a general power or a special?”

“General!” answered Robson with an air of disgust. “Authorizes him to act for her in all business matters. It means, of course, that that fellow now has full control over—why, a tremendous amount of money! The estate, of course, is Miss Mallathorpe's. He can't interfere with that. But Mrs. Mallathorpe shares equally with her daughter as regards the personal property of Harper Mallathorpe—his share in the business, and all that he left—and what's more, Mrs. Mallathorpe is administratrix of the personal property. She's simply placed in Pratt's hands an enormous power. And for what reason? Who on earth is Pratt? What right, title, age, or qualification has he to be intrusted with such a big affair? I never knew of such a business in the whole course of my professional experience!”

“Nor I,” agreed Eldrick. “But there's one thing in which you are mistaken, Robson. You ask what qualification Pratt has for a post of that sort? Pratt's a very smart, clever, managing chap.”

“Oh, of course, he's your clerk!” retorted Robson a little sneeringly. “Naturally you've a big idea of his abilities. But——”

“He's not our clerk any longer,” said Eldrick. “He left us about a week ago. I heard this morning that he has set up an office in Market Street in the Atlas Building, and I wondered for what purpose.”

“Purpose of fleecing Mrs. Mallathorpe, I should say!” declared Robson. “Of course, everything of hers must pass through his hands. What on earth can her daughter have been thinking of to allow——”

“Stop a bit!” interrupted Eldrick. “Collingwood came in to tell me about that; he's just come from Normandale Grange. Miss Mallathorpe complains that Pratt called there yesterday in her absence. That's probably when this power of attorney was signed. But Miss Mallathorpe doesn't know anything of it. She insists that Pratt shall not visit her mother.”

Robson stirred impatiently in his chair. “That's all bosh!” he said. “She can't prevent it. I saw Mrs. Mallathorpe myself three days ago. She's recovering very well, and she's capable of doing business. Her daughter can't prevent her from doing anything she likes. And if she did what she liked yesterday, when she signed that document, why everybody's powerless, except Pratt.”

“There's the question of how the document was obtained,” remarked Collingwood. “There may have been undue influence.”

The two solicitors looked at each other. Then Eldrick rose from his chair. “I'll tell you what I'll do,” he said. “It's no affair of mine, but we employed Pratt for years, and he'll confide in me. I'll go and see him and ask him what it's all about. Wait here a while, you two.”

He went out of his office and across into Market Street, where the Atlas Building, a modern range of offices and chambers, towered above the older structures at its foot. Within five minutes of leaving Collingwood and Robson, he was closeted with Pratt in a well-furnished and well-appointed office of two rooms, the inner one of which was almost luxurious in its fittings. And Pratt himself looked extremely well satisfied and confident and quite at his ease. He wheeled forward an easy-chair for his visitor and pushed a box of cigarettes toward him.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Eldrick,” he said with cordial politeness.

“You're making a comfortable nest of it, anyhow, Pratt,” answered Eldrick, looking round. “And what sort of business are you going to do, pray?”

“Agency,” replied Pratt promptly. “It struck me some little, time ago that a smart man—like myself, eh?—could do well here in Barford as an agent, attending to things for people who aren't fitted or inclined to do 'em for themselves or are rich enough to employ somebody to look after their affairs. Of course, that Normandale stewardship dropped out when young Harper died, and I don't suppose the notion'll be revived, now that his sister's come in. But I've got one good job to go on with. Mrs. Mallathorpe has given me her affairs to look after.”

Eldrick took one of the cigarettes and lighted it as a sign of his peaceable and amicable intentions. “Pratt,” he said, “that's just what I've come to see you about. Unofficially, mind, and in quite a friendly way. It's like this”—and he went on to tell Pratt of what had just occurred at his own office. “So there you are,” he concluded. “I'm saying nothing, you know; it's no affair of mine, but if these people began to say that you'd used any undue influence with——”

“Mr. Collingwood and Mr. Robson and Miss Mallathorpe—and anybody,” answered Pratt slowly and firmly, “had better mind what they are saying, Mr. Eldrick. There's such a thing as slander, as you're well aware. I'm not a man to be slandered or libeled or to have my character defamed without fighting for my rights. There has been no undue influence. I went to see Mrs. Mallathorpe yesterday at her own request. The arrangement between me and her is made with her approval and her will. If her daughter found her a bit upset, it's because she'd such a shock at the time of her son's death. I did nothing to frighten her—not I! The fact is Miss Mallathorpe doesn't know that her mother and I have had a bit of business together of late. And all that Mrs. Mallathorpe has intrusted to me is the power to look after her affairs for her. And why not?”

“Well, well!” said Eldrick, who, being an easy-going and kindly dispositioned man, was somewhat inclined to side with his old clerk. “I suppose Mr. Robson thinks that if Mrs. Mallathorpe wished to put her affairs in anybody's hands she should have put them in his. He's their lawyer, you know, Pratt, while you're a young man with no claim on Mrs. Mallathorpe.”

Pratt smiled a queer, knowing smile and reached out his hand to some papers which lay on his desk.

“You're wrong there, Mr. Eldrick,” he said. “But of course you don't know. I didn't know. I didn't know myself, nor did Mrs. Mallathorpe, until lately. But I have a claim, and a good one, to get a business lift from Mrs. Mallathorpe. I'm a relation.”

“What, of the Mallathorpe family? You don't mean it!” exclaimed Eldrick.

“No, but of hers—Mrs. Mallathorpe's,” answered Pratt. “My mother was her cousin. I found that out by mere chance, and, when I found it, I worked out the facts from our parish church register. They're all here, fairly copied, and Mrs. Mallathorpe has seen them. So I have some claim, even if it's only a poor relation.”

Eldrick took the sheets of foolscap which Pratt had handed to him and looked them over with interest and curiosity. He was something of an expert in such matters and had helped to edit and print more than one of the local parish registers. He soon saw from a hasty examination of the various entries of marriages and births that Pratt was quite right in what he said.

“I call it a poor and a mean game,” remarked Pratt, “to come between me and my living.”

“Oh, well, well,” said Eldrick soothingly as he handed back the papers and rose. “It's one of those matters that hasn't been understood. You made a mistake, you know, Pratt, when you went to see Mrs. Mallathorpe yesterday in her daughter's absence. You shouldn't have done that.”

Pratt pulled open a drawer, and picked out a letter.

“Do you know Mrs. Mallathorpe's handwriting?” he asked. “Very well—there it is. Isn't that a request from her that I should call on her yesterday afternoon? Very well—there you are, then!”

Eldrick looked at the letter with some surprise. He had a good memory and he remembered what Collingwood had told him. And, though Eldrick was naturally unsuspicious, an idea flashed across his mind—had Pratt compelled Mrs. Mallathorpe to write that letter?

“I think there's a good deal of misunderstanding,” he said. “Mr, Collingwood says that you went there and told the maid that it was absolutely necessary for you to see her mistress—sort of forced yourself in, you see, Pratt.”

“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Pratt. He flourished the letter in his hand. “Doesn't it say there, in Mrs. Mallathorpe's own handwriting, that she particularly desires to see me at three o'clock? It does! Then it was absolutely necessary for me to see her. Come, now! Mr. Collingwood had best attend to his own business.”

Eldrick said another soothing word or two, and went back to his own office. He was considerably mystified by certain things, but inclined to be satisfied about others. In giving an account of what had taken place, he unconsciously seemed to take Pratt's side, much to Robson's disgust and to Collingwood's astonishment.

“You can't get over this, you know, Robson,” said Eldrick. “Pratt went there yesterday by appointment—went at Mrs. Mallathorpe's own desire, made in her own handwriting. And it's quite certain that what he says about the relationship is true. I examined the proof myself. It's not unnatural that Mrs. Mallathorpe should desire to do something for her own cousin's son.”

“To that extent?” asked Robson. “Bless me! You talk as if it were no more than presenting him with a hundred-dollar note, instead of its being what it is—giving him the practical control of many thousands of dollars every year. There'll be more of this yet!”

He went away angrier than when he came, and Eldrick looked at Collingwood and shook his head. “I don't see what more there is to do,” he said. “So far as I can make out or see Pratt is within his rights. But there is a fact which does seem uncommonly strange to me. It's this: how is it that Mrs Mallathorpe doesn't consult, hasn't consulted, doesn't inform, hasn't informed, her daughter about this?”

“That,” answered Collingwood, “is precisely what strikes me, and I can't give any explanation, nor, I believe, can Miss Mallathorpe.”

He felt obliged to go back to Normandale and tell Nesta the result of the afternoon's proceedings.

“I will not have Mr. Pratt coming here!” she declared. “He shall not see my mother—under my roof, at any rate. I don't believe she sent for him.”

“Mr. Eldrick saw her letter,” said Collingwood quietly.

“Then that man made her write it while he was here!” exclaimed Nesta. “As to his relationship, I don't care what relation he is to my mother, he is not going to run her affairs.”

“The strange thing,” said Collingwood as pointedly as was consistent with kindness, “is that your mother—just now, at any rate—doesn't seem to be taking you into her confidence.”

“Quite so,” she said. “She is keeping something from me! And if she won't tell me things—well, I must find them out for myself.”

She would say no more than that, and Collingwood left her. As he went back to Barford he cursed Linford Pratt soundly for a deep and underhand rogue.

But Pratt himself had won the first trick, and he had splendid cards still left in his hand. He was reckoning up his chances on them one morning, a little later, when a ring at his bell summoned him to his office door. There stood Nesta Mallathorpe, alone.

To be continued in next week's issue of DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE.