 8. News from Arcadia. When Weiner, half an hour later, walked into the waiting room at Kroll, Paul and Rattenbury's, he was aware of a modestly tired young woman evidently from her dress and appearance, a country girl who sat shyly turning over the pages of an illustrated paper. And as soon as he got into Paul's private room, the old solicitor jerked his thumb at the door by which Weiner had entered and smiled significantly. "'See that girl outside?' he asked. "'She's the reason of my ringing you up.' "'Yes,' said Weiner, but, what, why? More mystery?' "'Don't know,' said Mr. Paul, I've kept her story till you came. She turned up here about three-quarters of an hour ago and said that her grandmother, who keeps an inn at Markett's Stoke in Buckinghamshire, had seen the paragraph in the papers this morning in which I asked if anybody could give any information about Mr. John Ashton's movements, and had immediately sent her off to me with a message that a gentleman of that name stayed at their house for a few days some weeks since, and that if I would send somebody over there she, the grandmother, could give some particulars about him.' "'So that solves the question we were talking of at Markendale Square as to where Ashton went, during the absence Mrs. Killenhall told us of.' "'If this is the same Ashton,' suggested Weiner. "'We'll soon decide that,' answered Mr. Paul, as he touched the bell on his desk. I purposely awaited your coming before hearing what this young woman had to tell. "'Now, my dear,' he continued as a clerk brought the girl into the room. "'Take a chair and tell me what your message is, more particularly. "'You're from Markett's Stoke, eh? "'Just so, and your grandmother, who sent you here, keeps an inn there.' "'Yes, sir,' the Ellingham arms, replied the girl as she sat down and glanced a little nervously at her two interviewers. "'To be sure, and your grandmother's name is what?' "'Hannah Summers, sir.' "'Mrs. Hannah Summers, grandfather living?' "'No, sir.' "'Very well, Mrs. Hannah Summers, landlady at the Ellingham arms, Markett's Stoke, "'in Buckinghamshire. "'Now then, but what's your name, my dear?' "'Lucy Summers, sir.' "'Very pretty name, I'm sure. "'Well, and what's the message your grandmother sent me? "'I want this gentleman to hear it.' "'Grandmother wishes me to say, sir, that we read the piece in the paper this morning "'asking if anybody could give you any news about a Mr. John Ashton, and that as we had a gentleman of that name staying with us for three or four days some week since, "'she sent me to tell you, and to say that if you would send somebody down to see her, "'she could give some information about him.' "'Very clearly put, my dear, much obliged to you,' said Mr. Paul. "'Now, I suppose you were at the Ellingham arms when this Mr. Ashton came there?' "'Oh, yes, sir, I live there. "'To be sure, now, what sort of man was he, in appearance?' "'A tall, big gentleman, sir, with a beard, going a little gray. "'He was wearing a blue-surge suit.' "'Mr. Paul nodded at Weiner. "'Seems like our man,' he remarked. "'Now,' he went on, turning again to Lucy Summers. "'You say he stayed there three or four days, "'but what did he do with himself while he was there?' "'He spent a good deal of time about the church, sir,' answered the girl, "'and he was at Ellingham Park a good deal.' "'Whose place is that?' interrupted Mr. Paul. "'Lord Ellingham, sir.' "'So you mean that Mr. Ashton called on Lord Ellingham or what?' "'No, sir, because Lord Ellingham wasn't there. "'He scarcely ever is there,' replied Lucy Summers. "'I mean that Mr. Ashton went into the park a good deal "'and looked over the house. "'A good many people come to see Ellingham Park, sir.' "'Well, and what else?' asked Mr. Paul. "'Did he go to see people in the town at all?' "'I don't know, sir, but he was out most of the day, "'and at night he talked a great deal with my grandmother "'in her sitting-room, I think.' "'Added the girl with a glance, which took in both listeners. "'I think that's what she wants to tell about. "'She would have come here herself, but she's over seventy "'and doesn't like traveling.' "'Mr. Paul turned to Viner. "'Now we know where we are,' he said. "'There's no doubt that this is our Ashton "'and that Mrs. Summers has something she can tell about him. "'Viner, I suggest that you and I go down "'to Market Stoke this afternoon. "'You've accommodations for a couple of gentlemen, I suppose, my dear?' "'He added, turning to the girl. "'Couple of nice bedrooms and a bit of dinner, eh?' "'Oh, yes, sir,' replied Lucy Summers. "'We constantly have gentlemen there, sir.' "'Very well,' said Mr. Paul. "'Now then you run away home to Market Stoke, my dear, "'and tell your grandmother that I'm very much obliged to her "'and that I am coming down this evening "'with this gentleman, Mr. Viner, "'and that we shall be obliged if she shall have a nice, "'plain, well-cooked dinner ready for us at half past seven. "'We shall come in my motor car. "'You can put that up for the night in my driver, too? "'Very well, that's settled. "'Now, come along and one of my clerks shall get to a cab "'to your station. "'Great central, isn't it? "'All right. "'Mind you get yourself a cup of tea before going home.' "'Viner,' Paul continued, "'when he had taken the girl into the outer office, "'we can easily run down to Market Stoke in under two hours. "'I'll call for you at your house at half past five. "'That'll give us time to wash away the dirt before our dinner, "'and then we'll hear what this old lady has to tell.' Viner, who was musing somewhat vaguely over these curious developments, looked at Mr. Paul as if in speculation about his evident optimism. "'You think we shall hear something worth hearing?' he asked. "'I should say we probably shall.' "'Reply, Mr. Paul. "'Put things together.' Ashton goes away as soon as he's got settled down in Markendale Square on a somewhat mysterious journey. Now we hear that he had a secret. Perhaps something relating to that secret is mixed up with his visit to Market Stoke. Depend upon it, an old woman of over seventy, especially a landlady of a country town in, whose wits are presumably pretty sharp, wouldn't stand for me unless she'd something to tell. "'Before midnight, my dear sir, we may have learned a good deal.' Viner picked up his hat. "'I'll be ready for you to have best five,' he said. Then halfway to the door he turned with a question. "'By the by,' he added, "'you wouldn't like me to tell the two ladies that we found out where Ashton went when he was away?' "'I think not, until we found out why he went away,' answered the old lawyer with a significant smile. "'We may draw the covert blank, you know, after all, when with some definite news.' Viner nodded, went out into the afternoon calm of Bedford Row, as he walked up it staring mechanically at the old-fashioned red brick fronts. He wondered how many curious secrets had been talked over and perhaps unraveled in the numerous legal sanctuaries approached through those open doors, where there often as strange ones as that upon which he had so unexpectedly stumbled. And when they first came into the arena of thought and speculation did they arouse as much perplexity that mental exercise as was now being set up in him. Did every secret too possibly endanger a man's life as his old school fellows was being endangered? He had no particular affection or friendship for Langston Hyde, of whom, indeed, he had known very little at school, but he had an absolute conviction that he was innocent of murder, and that conviction had already aroused and he may passionate determination to outwit the police. He had been quick to see through Drilford's plans. There was a case, a strong prima facie case against Hyde, and the police would work it up for all they were worth. Failing proofs in other directions, failing the discovery of the real murderer, how was that case going to be upset? And how is it likely that he and Paul were going to find any really important evidence in an obscure Buckinghamshire market town? He jumped into a cab at the top of Bedford Row and hastened back to Markendale Square to pack it back and prepare for his journey. Miss Pankridge called him from the drawing room as he was running upstairs. He turned into the room to find her in company with two ladies, dismal, pathetic figures in very plain and obviously contrived garments, both in tears and evident great distress, who, as Viner walked in, rose from their chairs and gazed at him sadly and wistfully. They reminded him at once of the type of spinster found in quiet, unpretentious cottages in out of the way villages, the neither young nor old women who live on circumscribed means and are painfully shy of the rude world outside. And before either he or Miss Pankridge could speak, the elder of the two broke into an eager exclamation. Oh, Mr. Viner! We are Langston's sisters, and we are so grateful to you! And oh, do you think you can save him? Viner was quick to see the situation. He said a soothing word or two begged his visitors to sit down again and whisper to Miss Pankridge to ring for tea. You have come to town today, he asked. We left home very very early this morning, replied the elder sister. We learned this dreadful news last night in the evening paper. We came away at four o'clock this morning. We live in Durham, Mr. Viner, and we have been to Mr. Felpham's office this afternoon. He told us how kind you had been in engaging his services for our unfortunate brother, and we came to thank you. But oh, do you think there is any chance for him? Every chance, declared Viner, pretending more conviction than he felt. Don't let yourselves be cast down. We'll move heaven and earth to prove that he's wrongly accused. I gather, if you don't mind my asking, that your brother has been out of touch with you for some time. The two sisters exchanged mournful glances. We had not heard anything of Langston for some years, replied the elder. He's much, much younger than ourselves, and perhaps we are too staid and old-fashioned for him. But if we had known that he was in want, oh dear me, we are not at all well to do, Mr. Viner, but we would have sacrificed anything. Mr. Felpham says that we shall be allowed to visit him. He is going to arrange for us to do so. And of course we must remain in London until this terrible business is over. We came prepared for that. Prepared for that? Reply the other sister, who seemed to be a fainter replica of the elder. Yes, prepared, of course, Mr. Viner. Now that we have found Langston, though in such painful circumstances at the first speaker, we must stand by him. We must find some quiet lodging and settle down to help. We cannot let the burden fall on you, Mr. Viner. Viner glanced at Miss Pankridge. They were quick to understand each other these two, and he knew at once that Miss Pankridge saw what was in his mind. You must stay with us, he said, turning to the two mournful figures. We have any amount of room in this house, and we shall be only two glad. Oh, but that is two, began both ladies. I insist, said Viner with a smile. We both insist, echoed Miss Pankridge. We are both given to having our own way, too, so say no more about it. We are all in the same boat just now, and its name is mystery, and we must pull together until we're in harbour. Listen, said Viner, I have to go away tonight on a matter closely connected with this affair. Let me leave you in my aunt's charge, and tomorrow I may be able to give you some cheering news. You'll be much more comfortable here than in any lodgings or hotel, and— and I should like to do something for Hyde. We're old school fellows, you know. Then he escaped from the room and made ready for his journey, and at half-past five came Mr. Paul in his private car and carried him off into the dark. And hour and a half later the car rolled smoothly into the main street of a quiet, holy Arcadian little town, and pulled up before an old-fashioned, many-gabled house over the door of which was set up one of those ancient signs which, in such places, display the coat of arms of the Lord of the Manor. Viner had just time to glance around him, and in a clear starlit evening, to see the high tower of a church. The timbre fronts of old houses, and many a tall, venerable tree, before following Mr. Paul into a stone-hall, filled with dark oak cabinets and bright with old brass and pewter, on the open hearth of which burned a fine and cheery fire of logs. Excellent! muttered the old lawyers, he began to take off his multitudinous raps. A real bit of the real old England. Viner, if the dinner is as good as this, promises I shall be glad we've come, whatever the occasion. Here's the land, lady, I suppose, said Viner as a door opened. A tall silver-haired old woman, surprisingly active and vivacious in spite of her evident age, came forward with a polite, old-fashioned bow. She wore a silk gown, and a silk apron, and a smart cap, and her still bright eyes took in the two visitors at a glance. You are servant, gentlemen, she said. Your rooms are ready, and dinner will be ready, too, when you are. This way, if you please. A very fine old house, this man. Observed Mr. Paul as they followed her up a curious staircase, all nooks and corners, and you have, no doubt, been long in it. Born in it, sir, said the landlady with a laugh, our family on one side has been here two hundred years. This is your room, sir, this is your friends. She paused, and with a significant look pointed to another door. That, she said, is the room which Mr. Ashton had when he was here. Ah, we are very anxious to know what you can tell us about him, ma'am, said Mr. Paul. Mrs. Summers paused, and again glanced significantly at her visitors. I wish I knew the meaning of what I shall tell you, she answered. On the principle that business should never be discussed when one is dining, Mr. Paul made no reference during dinner to the matter which had brought Viner and himself to the Ellingham arms. He devoted all his attention and energies to the pleasures of the table. He praised the grilled souls and roast mutton and grew enthusiastic over some old burgundy, which Mrs. Summers strongly recommended. But when dinner was over and he had drunk a glass or two of old port, his eyes began to turn toward the door of the quaint little parlor in which he and Viner had been installed, and to which the landlady had promised to come. I confess, I am unusually curious about what we are going to hear, Viner, he said, as he drew out a well-filled cigar case. There is an atmosphere of mystery about our presence and our surroundings, that's like an aperitif to an already hungry man. Ashton, poor fellow, comes over to this quiet out-of-the-way place. Why, we don't know. What he does here, we don't know yet, but all the circumstances up to now seem to the point to secrecy, if not to absolute romance and adventure. Is it going, after all, to clear up the mystery of his death? Asked Viner. That's what concerns me. I'm afraid I'm a bit indifferent to the rest of it. What particular romance do you think could be attached to the mere fact that Ashton paid a three-days visit to Market Stoke? Mr. Paul drew out a well-filled cigar case. In my profession, he answered, we hear a great deal more of romance than most folk could imagine. Now, here's a man who returns to this country from a long residence in Australia. The first thing he does, after getting settled down in London, is to visit Market Stoke. Why Market Stoke? Market Stoke is an obscure place. There are at least five or six towns in this very county that are better known. Again, I say, why Market Stoke? And why this, the very first place in England? For what reason? Now, as a lawyer, a reason does suggest itself to me. I've been thinking about it ever since that rosy-cheeked lass called at my office this afternoon. What does the man who's been away from his native land for the best part of his life do, as a rule, when at last he sets foot on it again, eh? I am not greatly experienced, replied Viner, smiling at the old solicitor's professional enthusiasm. What does he do, usually? Makes his way as soon as possible to his native place, exclaimed Mr. Paul with an expressive flourish of his cigar. That, usually, is the first thing he thinks of. You're not old enough to remember the circumstances, my boy, but I have, of course, a very distinct recollection of the tick-borne affair in the early seventies. Now, if you ever read the evidence in that cause-celebré, you'll remember that the claimant, Orton, on arriving in England, posing as the missing heir, Sir Roger tick-borne did a certain thing, the evidence of which, I can assure you, was not lost in the jury before whom he eventually came. Instead of going direct to tick-borne, where you'd naturally have thought all his affection and interests rested, where did he go? To Whitechapel. Why? Because the Ortons were Whitechapel folk. The native place called him, do you see? The first thought he had on setting foot on English soil was Whitechapel. Are you suggesting that Ashton was probably a native of Marketstoke? Asked Viner. I mean to find out, no matter what we hear from the landlady if that name is to be found in the parish register here anyway. Answered Mr. Paul. You can be sure of this, Ashton came to this obscure country town for some special purpose. What was it, and had it anything to do with, did it lead up to his murder? That, a light tap at the door heralded the approach of Mrs. Summers. That, repeated Mr. Paul as he jumped up from his chair and politely through the door open, is what I mean to endeavor, endeavor at any rate, to discover. Come in, ma'am. He continued, gallantly motioning the old lady to the easiest chair in the room. We are very eager indeed to hear what you can tell us. Our cigars, now. Pray, don't mention them, sir. Responded Mrs. Summers. I hope you are quite comfortable, and that you are having everything you wish. Nothing, ma'am, could be more pleasant and gratifying as far as material comfort goes. Answered Mr. Paul with conviction. The dinner was excellent. Your whiny sound. This old room is a veritable haven. I wish we were visiting you under less sad conditions. And now, about your recollections of this poor gentleman, ma'am. The landlady laid a large book on the table, and opening it at a page where she, had placed a marker, pointed to a signature. That is the writing of the Mr. John Ashton who came here, she said. He registered his name and address the day he came. There it is. John Ashton, 7 Markendale Square, London W. You gentlemen will recognize it, perhaps? Mr. Paul put up his glasses, glanced once at the open book, and turned to Viner with a confirmatory nod. That's Ashton's writing, without a doubt, he said. It's a signature not to be forgotten when you've seen it. Well, that establishes the fact that he undoubtedly came here on that date. Now, ma'am, what can you tell us about him? Mrs. Summers took the chair which Viner drew forward to the hearth, and folded her hands over her silk apron. Well, sir, she answered, a good deal. Mr. Ashton came here one Monday afternoon in a motocar with his luggage, and asked if I could give him rooms and accommodation for a few days. Of course I could. He had this room and the room appointed out upstairs, and he stayed here until the Thursday, when he left soon after lunch. The same car came for him. And he hadn't been in the house an hour, gentlemen, before I wondered if he hadn't been here before. Interesting, very, said Mr. Paul. Now, why, ma'am, did you wonder that? Well, sir, replied Mrs. Summers. Because after he'd looked around the house and seen his room upstairs, he went out to the front door, and then I followed him to ask if he had any particular wishes about his dinner that evening. Our front door, as you will see in the morning, fronts the market square, and from it you can see about all there is to see of the town. He was standing at the door, under the porch, looking all around him, and I overt him, talking to himself as I went up behind him. I, he was saying, as he looked this way and that, there's the old church, and the old moot hall, and the old marketplace, and the old gabled and thatched houses, and even the old town pump. They haven't changed a bit, I reckon, in all these years. Then he caught sight of me, he smiled. Not many changes in this old place land, lady, in your time? He said pleasantly. No, sir, I answered. We don't change much in even a hundred years in market stoke. No, he said, and shook his head. No, the changes in men, in men. And then he suddenly sat straight off across the square to the churchyard. You've known market stoke before, I said to myself. You didn't ask him that? Inquired Mr. Paul eagerly. I didn't, sir, replied Mrs. Summers. I never asked him a question all the time he was here. I thought that if I was correct in what I fancied, I should hear him say something. But he never did say anything of that sort, all the same. I felt more and more certain that he did know the place. And during the time he was here, he went about in it in a fashion to convince me that my ideas were right. He was in and around the church a great deal. The vicar and the parish clerk can tell you more about his visits there than I can. And he was at the old moot hall several times looking over certain old things they keep there. And he visited Ellingham Park twice and was shown over the house. And before he had been here two days, I came to a certain conclusion about him, and I've had it ever since. Though he never said one word or did one thing that could positively confirm me in it. Yes, exclaimed Mr. Paul, and that, ma'am, was? That he was somebody who disappeared from Market Stoke thirty-five years ago, answered the landlady, disappeared completely and has never been heard of from that day to this. Mr. Paul turned slowly and looked at Weiner. He nodded his head several times, then turned to Mrs. Summers and regarded her fixedly. And that somebody, he asked in hushed accents, who was he? The landlady smoothed her silk apron shook her head. It's a long story, sir, she answered. I think you must have heard something of it, though, to be sure. It was not talked of much at the time, and didn't become public until legal proceedings became necessary some years ago. You're aware, of course, that just outside the town here is Ellingham Park, the seat of the Earl of Ellingham. Well, what I have to tell you has to do with them, and I shall have to go back a good way. Thirty-five years ago the head of the family was a seventh Earl, who was then getting on in life. He was a very overbearing, harsh old gentleman, not at all liked. The people here in Market Stoke, nearly all of them, his tenants, used to be perpetually at variance with him about something or other. He was a sort of man who wanted to have his own way about everything. And he had trouble at home. At any rate with his elder son he had only had two sons and no daughter, and about the time I'm talking of it came to a head. Nobody ever knew exactly what it was all about, but it was well known that Lord Market Stoke, that was the elder son's name, and his father, the Earl, were at cross purposes, if not actually at daggers drawn, about something or other. And when Lord Market Stoke was about twenty-five or twenty-six, there was a great quarrel between them. It broke out one night, after dinner, the servants heard angry words between them. That night, gentlemen, Lord Market Stoke left the house instead of to London, and from that day to this he has never been heard of or seen again, hear about at any rate. Mr. Paul, who was listening with the deepest interest and attention, glanced at Viner as if to entreat the same care in his part. I do remember something of this, now I come to think of it, he said. There were some legal proceedings in connection with this disappearance, I believe, some years ago. Yes, sir, they were in the newspapers, asserted the old landlady. But, of course, those of us about here knew of how things stood long before that. Lord Market Stoke went away, as I have said. It was known that he had money of his own, that had come to him from his mother, who had died years before all this, but it wasn't known where he went. Some said he had gone to the colonies, some said to America, and at one time there was a rumour that he had taken another name and joined some foreign army and been killed in its service. Anyway, nobody ever heard a word of him. Mr. Marcherson, who was steward at Ellingham Park for over forty years—he died last year, very old man—assured me that from the day on which Lord Market Stoke left his father's house, not one word of him, not a breath, ever reached any of those he had left behind him. There was absolute silence. He couldn't have disappeared more completely if they had laid him in the family vault in Market Stoke Church. And, evident intention to disappear, observed Mr. Paul. You mark that finer, it's important. Well, ma'am, he added, turning again to Mrs. Summers. And, what happened next? Well, sir, there was nothing much happened, continued the landlady. Matters went on in pretty much the usual way. The old Earl got older, of course, and his temper got worse. Mr. Marcherson assured me that he was never known to mention his missing son to anybody. And in the end, perhaps about fifteen years after Lord Market Stoke had gone away, he died. And then there was no end of trouble and bother. The Earl had left no will at any rate, no will could be found, and no lawyer could be heard of who had ever made one. And, of course, nobody knew where the new Earl was, nor even if he was alive or dead. There were advertisements sent out all over the world. Mr. Marcherson told me that they were translated into, I don't know how many foreign languages, and published in every quarter of the globe, asking for news of him and stating that his father was dead. That was done for some time. With no result, asked Mr. Paul. No result, whatever, sir. I understand that the family solicitors never had one single reply. Answer to Mrs. Summers. I understand, too, that for some time before the old Earl's death they'd been trying to trace Lord Market Stoke from his last known movements. But that had failed, too. He had chambers in London, and he kept a man-servant there. The man-servant could only say that on the night on which his young master left Ellingham Park, he returned to his chambers, went to bed, and had gone, when he, the man-servant, rose in the morning. No, sir, all the efforts had advertisements were no good, whatever, and after some time, some considerable time, the younger brother, the honourable Charles Cave Gray. Cave Gray? Is that the family name? interrupted Mr. Paul. That's the family name, sir, Cave Gray, replied Mrs. Summers. One of the oldest families in these parts, sir, the Earl dumbdates from Queen Anne. Well, the honourable Charles Cave Gray and his solicitors, of course, came to the conclusion that Lord Market Stoke was dead, and so I don't understand the legal niceties, gentlemen, but they went to the courts to get something done which presumed his death, and let Mr. Charles come into the title and estates, and in the end that had been done, and Mr. Charles became the eighth Earl of Ellingham. I remember it now, muttered Mr. Paul, yes, curious case, but it was proved to the court, I recollect, that everything possible had been done, to find the missing heir, and without result. Just so, sir, and so Mr. Charles succeeded, asserted Mrs. Summers. He was a very nice, pleasant man, not a bit like his father, a very good and considerate landlord, and much respected, but he's gone now, dead three years ago, and his son, a young man of twenty-two or three, succeeded him. That's the present Earl, gentlemen, and of him we see very little. He scarcely ever stayed at Ellingham Park except for a bit of shooting since he came to the title. And now, she concluded with a chute glance at the old lawyer, I wonder if you see, sir, that it was that came into my mind when this Mr. John Ashton came here a few weeks ago, especially after I heard him say what he did, and after I saw how he was spending his time here. I have no inkling, ma'am, I have no inkling, said Mr. Paul, you wandered. I wandered, murmured Mrs. Summers, bending closer to her listeners, if the man who called himself John Ashton wasn't in reality the long-lost Lord Market Stoke. End of Chapter 9 Looking Backward Chapter 10 The Parish Register Mr. Paul, after a glance at Finer, which seemed to be full of many meanings, bent forward in his chair and laid a hand on the old landlady's arm. Now, have you said as much as that to anybody before? he asked, aching her significantly. Have you mentioned it to your neighbors, for instance, or to anyone in the town? No, sir, declared Mrs. Summers promptly, not to a soul. I am given to keeping my ideas to myself, especially on matters of importance. There is no one here in Market Stoke that I would have mentioned such a thing, too, now that the late steward Mr. Marterson is dead. I shouldn't have mentioned it to you, too, gentlemen, if it hadn't been for this dreadful news in the papers. No, I have kept my thoughts at home. Wise woman, said Mr. Paul, but now let me ask you a few questions. Did you know this Lord Market Stoke before he disappeared? I only saw him two or three times, replied the landlady. It was seldom that he came to Ellingham Park after his majority. Of course, I saw him a good deal when he was a mere boy, but after he was grown up only, as I say, a very few times. But you remember him, suggested Mr. Paul. Oh, very well indeed, said Mrs. Summers. I saw him last a day or two before he went away for good. Well, now, did you think you recognized anything of him, making allowance for the difference in age in this man who called himself John Ashton? Asked Mr. Paul. For that, of course, is important. Mr. Ashton, answered Mrs. Summers, was just such a man as Lord Market Stoke might have been expected to become. Height, build, all the cave grays that I have known were big men, color were alike. Of course, Mr. Ashton had a beard, slightly gray, but he was a gray-haired man. All the family had crown hair. The present Lord Ellingham is crown-haired, and Mr. Ashton had gray eyes. Every cave gray that I remember was gray-eyed. I should say that Mr. Ashton was just what I should have expected Lord Market Stoke to be at 60. I suppose Ashton never said or did anything here to reveal his secret if he had one. Asked Mr. Paul, after a moment's thoughtful pause. Oh, nothing! replied Mrs. Summers. He occupied himself, as I tell you, while he was here, and finally he went away in the car in which he had come, saying that he had greatly enjoyed his stay, and that we should see him again sometime. No, he never said anything about himself, that is. But he asked me several questions. I used to talk to him sometimes of an evening about the present Lord Ellingham. What sort of questions? Inquired Mr. Paul. Oh, as to what sort of young man he was, and if he was a good landlord and so on, replied Mrs. Summers. And I purposely told him about the disappearance of 35 years ago, just to see what he would say about it. Ah, and what did he say? asked Mr. Paul. Nothing except that it was extraordinary how people could disappear in this world, said Mrs. Summers, whether he was interested or not he didn't show it. He probably felt that he knew more about it than you did, chuckled the old solicitor. Well, ma'am, we're much obliged to you. Now take my advice and keep to your very excellent plan of saying nothing. Tomorrow morning we will just have a look into certain things, and see if we can discover anything really pertinent, and you shall know what conclusion we come to. Viner. Paul went on when the old landlady had left them alone. What do you think of this extraordinary story? Upon my word, I think it quite possible that the old lady's theory might be right, and that Ashton may really have been the missing Lord Marketstoke. You think it probable that a man who was heir to an English earldom and to considerable estates could disappear like that for so many years, and then reappear? asked Viner. I won't discuss the probability, answered Mr. Paul, but that it's possible I should steadily affirm. I've known several very extraordinary cases of disappearance. In this particular instance granting things to be, as Mrs. Summers suggests, see how easy the whole thing is. This young man disappears. He goes to a far off colony under an assumed name. Nobody knows him. It is ten thousand to one against his being recognized by visitors from home. All the advertising in the world will fail to reveal his identity. The only person who knows who he is is himself, and if he refuses to speak, there you are. What surprises me, remarked Viner, is that a man who evidently lived a new life for thirty-five years and prospered most successfully in it, should want to return to the old one. Ah, but you never know, said the old lawyer. Family feeling, old associations, loss of the old place, eh? As men get older, their thoughts turn fondly to the scenes and memories of their youth, Viner. If Ashton was really the Lord Marketsdoke who disappeared, he may have come down here with no other thought than that of just revisiting his old home for sentimental reasons. He may not have had the slightest intention, for instance, of setting up a claim to the title in his states. I don't understand much about the legal aspect of this, said Viner, but I've been wondering about it while you and the landlady talked. Supposing Ashton to be the long-lost Lord Marketsdoke, could he have established a claim such as you speak of? To be sure, answered Mr. Paul, had he been able to prove that he was the real Simon Pure, he would have stepped into title and estates at once. Didn't the old lady say that the Seventh Earl died in Testate? Very well, the holders since this time, that is to say, Charles, who, his brother's death being presumed, became Eighth Earl, and his son, the present holder, would have had to account for everything since the day of the Seventh Earl's death. When the Seventh Earl died, his elder son, Lord Marketsdoke, Ipsofacto, stepped into his shoes, and if he were, or is still alive, he's in them still. All he had to do at any moment after his father's death, no matter who had come into title and estates, was to step forward and say, Here I am, now I want my rights. A queer business altogether, commented Weiner, but whoever Ashton was, he's dead, and the thing that concerns me is this. If he really was Earl of Ellingham, do you think that fact's got anything to do with his murder? That's just what we want to find out, answered Mr. Paul eagerly. It's quite conceivable that he may have been murdered by somebody who had a particular interest in keeping him out of his rights. Such things have been known, I want to go into all that, but now here's another matter. If Ashton really was the missing Lord Marketsdoke, who is this girl whom he put forward as his ward, to whom he's left his considerable fortune, and about whom nobody knows anything? I've already told you there isn't a single paper or document about her that I can discover. Was he really her guardian? Has this anything to do with it? Asked Weiner, does it come into things? Mr. Paul did not answer for a moment. He appeared to have struck a new vein of thought and to be exploring it deeply. In certain events it would come into it pretty strongly, he muttered at last. I'll tell you why later on. Now I'm for bed and first thing after breakfast in the morning. Weiner will go to work. Weiner had little idea of what the old solicitor meant as regards going to work. It seemed to him that for all practical purposes they were already in a maze out of which there seemed no easy way, and he was not at all sure of what they were doing when, breakfast being over next morning. Mr. Paul conducted him across the square to the old four-square churchyard, and for half an hour walked him up one path and down another, and in and around the ancient yew trees and gravestones. Do you know what I've been looking for, Weiner? Asked Mr. Paul at last, as he turned towards the church porch. I was looking for something, you know. Not the faintest notion, answered Weiner dismally. I wandered. I was looking, replied Mr. Paul, with a faint chuckle, to see if I could find any tombstones or monuments in this churchyard bearing the name Ashton. There isn't one. I take it from that significant fact, that Ashton didn't come down here to visit the graves of his kindred. But now come into the church. Mrs. Summers told me this morning that there is a chapel here in which the cave-grave family have been interred for two or three centuries. Let's have a look at it. Finer, who had a dilettante love of ancient architecture, was immediately lost in admiration of the fine old structure into which he and his companion presently stepped. He stood staring at the high root, the fine old root screen, the beauty of the clustered columns, had he been alone, and on any other occasion he would have spent the morning in wandering around nave and aisles and transeps. But Mr. Paul, severely practical at once, made for the north-east chapel, and Finer, after another glance, round was forced to follow him. The Ellingham Chapel. Whispered the old solicitors, they passed a fine old stone screen which Finer mentally registered as fifteenth century. No end of cave graze laid there, what a profusion of monuments. Finer began to examine those monuments, as well as the gloom of the November morning and the dark painted glass of the windows would permit. And before very long he turned to his companion, who was laboriously reading the inscription on a great box tomb which stood against the north wall. I say, he whispered, here's a curious fact which in view of what we heard last night may be of use to us. What's that? demanded Mr. Paul. Finer took him by the elbow and led him over to the south wall on which was arranged a number of ancient tablets grouped around a great altar tomb, whereupon were set up the painted effigies of a gentleman, his wife and several sons and daughters, all in ruffs, kneeling one after the other, each growing less in size and stature in the attitude of prayer. He pointed to the inscription on this and from it to several of the smaller monuments. Look here, he said, there are cave graze commemorated here from 1570 until 1820. No end of men and women. And now, see, there is a certain Christian name, a woman's name which occurs over and over again. There it is, and there, and here, and here, and here again. It's evidently been a favorite family name among the cave gray women for 300 years at least. You see what it is? Advice. Mr. Paul appeared at the various places which his companions finger pointed. Yes, he answered, I see it several times as you say. Advice, yes? Miss Wickham's Christian name is Advice, said Viner. Mr. Paul started. God bless me, he exclaimed. So it is, I'd forgotten that. Dear me, now that's very odd. Too odd perhaps to be a coincidence. Very interesting indeed. Favorite family name without a doubt? Viner silently went round the chapel, inspecting every monument its four walls sheltered. It occurs just 19 times, he announced at last. Now, is it a coincidence that Miss Wickham's name should be Advice, or is it that there's some connection between her and all these dead and gone avices? Very strange, admitted Mr. Paul. Viner will go next and have a look at the parish registers. But look here, not a word to parse in our clerk about our business. We merely wish to make a search for a certain legal purpose, eh? Three hours later, Viner, heartily weary of turning over old registers full of crabbed writing, was glad when Mr. Paul closed the one in which he was engaged, intimated that he had seen all he wanted, paid the fees for his search, and whispered to his companion that they would go to lunch. Well, asked Viner, as they walked across the square to the Ellington arms, have we done anything? Probably, answered Mr. Paul, for you never know how these little matters might help. We have established two facts, anyway. One, that there has never been any folk of the name of Ashton in this town, since the registers came into being in 1567. The other, that the name Avice, was a very favorite, one indeed among the women of the Cave Grave family, and there's just another little fact which I discovered and said nothing about while the vicar and clerk were about. It may be nothing, and it may be something. What is it? asked Viner. Well, answered Mr. Paul, pausing a few yards away from the porch of the hotel, and speaking in a confidential voice. It's this, in turning up the records of the Cave Grave family, as far as they are shown in their parish registers. I've found that Stefan John Cave Grave, sixth Earl of Ellingham, married one Georgina Wickham. Now, is that another coincidence? There you get the two names in combination. Avice, Wickham. That particular Countess of Ellingham would, of course, be the grandmother of the Lord Market Stoke, disappeared. Did he think of her maiden name Wickham when he wanted a new one for himself? Possibly. And when he married and had a daughter, did he think of the Christian name so popular with his own women folk of previous generations and call his daughter Avice? And are Market Stoke and Wickham and Ashton all one and the same men? Upon my word, it's a strange muddle, exclaimed Viner. Nothing is yet to what it will be, remarked Mr. Paul sententiously. Come on, I'm famishing. Let's lunch, and then we'll go back to town. Another surprise awaited them when they walked into Mr. Paul's office in Bedford Row at four o'clock that afternoon. A card lay on the old lawyer's blotting pad, and after glancing at it he passed it to Viner. See that, he said, now who on earth is Mr. Armistead Ashton, Armistead of Rwandael House, wrought in stall? Who left this? He went on as a clerk entered the room with some letters. A gentleman who called at three o'clock, sir, replied the clerk. He said he's travelled specially from Lancashire to see about the Ashton affair. He's going to call again, sir, in fact. Concluded the clerk glancing into the ante-room. I think he's here now. Bring him in, commanded Mr. Paul. He made a grimace at Viner as the clerk disappeared. You see how things develop, he murmured. What are we going to hear next? End of chapter 10 The Parish Register Chapter 11 of The Middle of Things The man who presently walked in, a tall, gray-bearded, evidently prosperous person, dressed in the height of fashion, glanced keenly from one to the other of the two men who awaited him. Mr. Paul? He inquired as he dropped into the chair, which the old lawyer silently indicated at the side of his desk. One of your partners, no doubt? He added, looking again at Viner. No, sir, replied Mr. Paul. This is Mr. Viner, who gave evidence in the case you want to see me about. You can speak freely before him. What is it you have to say, Mr. Armistead? Not perhaps very much, but it may be of use, answered the visitor. The fact is that, like most folk, I read the accounts of this Ashton murdering the newspapers, and I gave particular attention to what was said by the man hired at the inquest the other day. It was what he said in regard to the man whom he alleges he saw leaving Lonsdale Passage that made me come specially to town to see you. I don't know. He went on glancing at the card which was still laid on Mr. Paul's blotting-pad. If you know my name at all. I'm a pretty well-known Lancashire manufacturer, and I was a member of parliament for some years. For the Richetail Valley division, I didn't put up again at the last general election. Mr. Paul bowed. Just so, Mr. Armistead, he answered, and there's something you know about this case. I know this, replied Mr. Armistead, and that John Ashton in Paris some weeks ago. We were at the Hotel Bristol together. In fact, we met and introduced ourselves to each other in an odd way. We arrived at the Hotel Bristol at the same time. He from Italy, I from London, and we registered at the same moment. Now I have a habit of always signing my name in full. Armistead Ashton Armistead. I signed first. He followed. He looked at me and smiled. You've got one of my names anyway, sir, he remarked, and I see you hailed from where I hailed from many a long year ago. Then you're a Lancashire man, I said. I left Lancashire more years ago than I like to think of, he answered with a laugh. And then we got talking, and he told me that he had emigrated to Australia when he was young, and that he was going back to England for the first time. We had more talk during the two or three days that we were at the Bristol together, and we came to the conclusion that we were distantly related, along way back. But he told me that, as far as he was aware, he had no close relations living, and when I suggested to him that he ought to go down to Lancashire and look up old scenes and old friends, he replied that he had no intention of doing so. He must, he said, have been completely forgotten in his native place by this time. Did he tell you what his native place was, Mr. Armistead? asked Mr. Paul, who had given vine or two or three expressive glances during the visitor's story. Yes, replied Mr. Armistead, he did. Blackburn. He left it as a very young man. Well, said Mr. Paul, there is a considerable amount of interest in what you tell us from Mr. Viner and myself have been making certain inquiries during the last twenty-four hours, and we formed, or nearly formed, a theory which your information upsets. Ashtons of Blackburn. We must go into that, for we particularly want to know who Mr. John Ashton was. There is a great deal depending on it. Did he tell you more? About himself, no, replied the visitor, except that he had been exceedingly fortunate in Australia and had made a good deal of money and was going to settle down here in London. He took my address and said he could write and ask me to dine with him as soon as he got a house to his liking, and indeed write, only last week, inviting me to call next time I was in town. Then I saw the accounts of his murder in the papers, a very sad thing. A very mysterious thing, remarked Mr. Paul, I wish we could get some light on it. The visitor looked from one man to the other and lowered his voice a little. It's possible I can give you a little, he said, that indeed is the real reason why I set off to see you this morning. You will remember that Hyde, the man who was charged with the murder, said before the coroner that as he turned into long-stale passage he saw coming out of it, a tall man in black clothes who was swathed to the very eyes in a big white muffler. Yes, said Mr. Paul, well, I saw such a man with Ashton in Paris, and said Mr. Armistead, Hyde's description exactly tall is with what I myself should have said. Mr. Paul looked at his visitor with still more interest and attention. Now that really is of importance, he exclaimed, if Hyde saw such a man as I believe he did, and you saw such a man, then that man must exist, and the facts that you saw him with Ashton and that Hyde saw him in close proximity to the place where Ashton was murdered are of the highest consequence. But you can tell us more, Mr. Armistead. Unfortunately, very little, replied the visitor. What I saw was on the night before I left Paris, after it I never saw Ashton again to speak of. It was late at night. Do you know the Rue Royale? There is, at the end of it, a well-known restaurant close to the Plaza de Concorde. I was sitting outside this about a quarter to eleven when I saw Ashton, and the man I am speaking of passed along the pavement in the direction of the meadowline. What made me particularly notice the man was the fact that, although it was an unusually warm night, he was closely muffled in a big white silk handkerchief. It was swathed about his throat, his chin, his mouth. It reached, in fact, right up to his eyes. An odd thing on such a warm night. Ashton, who was in evening-dress, had his light overcoat thrown well back. He was talking very volubly as they passed me. The other man was listening with evident attention. Would you know the man if you saw him again? asked the viner. I should most certainly know him if I saw him dressed and muffled in the same way, asserted Mr. Armistead, and I believe I could recognize him from his eyes, which indeed were all that I could really see of him. He was so muffled, I tell you, that it was impossible to see if he was a clean-shaven man or a bearded man. But I did see his eyes, for he turned them for an instant full on the light of the restaurant. They were unusually dark, full and brilliant, his glance would best be described as flashing. And I should say, from my impression at the time, and from what I remember of his dress, that he was a foreigner, probably an Italian. You didn't see this man at your hotel? asked Mr. Paul. No, I never saw him except on this one occasion, replied Mr. Armistead, and I did not see Ashton after that. I left Paris very early the next morning, for a ruin, where I had some business. You think this matter of the man in the muffler important? Now that you've told us what you have, Mr. Armistead, I think it's of the utmost importance and consequence to hide, answered Mr. Paul. You must see, Solicitor, his Mr. Viner Solicitor too, and offer to give evidence when Hyde is brought up again. It will be of the greatest help. There's no doubt to me at any rate that the man Hyde saw leaving the scene of the murder is the man you saw with Ashton in Paris. But now, who is he? Ashton, as we happen to know, left his ship at Naples, and traveled to England through Italy and France. Is this man some fellow that he picked up on the way? His general appearance now. How did that strike you? He was certainly a man of great distinction of manner, declared Mr. Armistead. He had the air and bearing of, well, of a personage. I should say it was somebody, you know what I mean, a man of superior position and so on. Viner, exclaimed Mr. Paul, that man must be found. There must be people in London who saw him that night. People can't disappear like that. We'll set to work on that track. Find him, we must. Now, all the evidence goes to show that he and Ashton were in company that night. Probably they'd been dining together, and he was accompanying Ashton to his house. How is it that no one at all has come forward to say that Ashton was seen with this man? It's really extraordinary. Mr. Armistead shook his head. There's one thing you're forgetting, aren't you? He said, Ashton and this man mayn't have been in each other's company many minutes when the murder took place. Ashton may have been trapped. I don't know much about criminal affairs, but in reading the accounts of the proceedings before the magistrate and the coroner, an idea struck me which, so far as I could gather from the newspapers, didn't seem to have struck anyone else. What's that? demanded Mr. Paul. All ideas are welcome. Well, this replied Mr. Armistead. In one of the London newspapers there was a plan, a rough sketch-map of the passage in which the murder took place. I gathered from it that on each side of that passage there are yards or gardens at the backs of houses. The houses on one side belonged to some terrorists, on the other to the square, Markendale Square, in which Ashton lived. Now, may it not be that that murder itself was actually committed in one of those houses, and that the body was carried out through a yard or garden to where it was found? Ashton was a big and heavy man, observed finer. No man could ever carry him. Just so, agreed Mr. Armistead. But don't you think there's a probability that more than one man was engaged in this affair? The man in the muffler, hurrying away, may have only been one of several. I, said Mr. Paul, with a deep sigh. There's something in all that. It may be, as you say, a conspiracy, if we only knew the real object of the crime. But it appears to be becoming increasingly difficult to find it. What is it, he asked, as his clerk came into the room with a card. I'm engaged. The clerk came on, however, laid the card before his employer and whispered a few words to him. A moment, then. I'll ring, said Mr. Paul. He turned to his two companions as the clerk retired and closed the door, and smiled as he held up the card. Here is another man who wants to tell me something about the Ashton case, he exclaimed. It's been quite a stroke of luck having that paragraph in the newspapers asking for information from anybody who could give it. What's this? asked a viner. Mr. Jan Van Horan, Diamond Merchant, read Mr. Paul from the card. Five A. Three Hatten Garden. Ah! Mr. Armistead exclaimed. Diamonds! I shouldn't wonder, if you're right, remarked Mr. Paul. Diamonds, I believe, are to Hatten Garden what cabbages and carers are to Covent. He touched his bell, and the clerk appeared. Bring Mr. Van Horan this way, he said. There entered Hatten Hand, bowing all around a little fat, beady-eyed man whose beard was blue-black and glossy, whose lips were red, whose nose was his most decided feature. His hat was new and shining, his black overcoat of superfine cloth was ornamented with a collar of undoubted sable. He carried a gold-mounted umbrella. But there was one thing on him that put all the rest of his finery in the shade. In the folds of his artistically arranged black satin stock lay a pearl, such a pearl as few folk ever have the privilege of seeing. It was as big as a moderately sized hazelnut, and the three men who looked at it knew that it was something wonderful. Take a chair, Mr. Van Horan, said Mr. Paul genially. You want to tell me something about this Ashton case? Very much obliged to you, I'm sure. This gentleman are both interested considerably in that case, and if you can give me any information that will throw any light on it. Mr. Van Horan deposited his plump figure in a convenient chair and looked around the circle of faces. One thing, there is I don't see in them newspapers, Mr. Paul, he said, in strongly nasal accents. Maybe nobody don't know nothings about it, what? So I come to tell you what I know, see? Something. Very good of you, I'm sure, replied Mr. Paul, what may it be? Mr. Van Horan made a significant grimace, it seemed to imply that there was a great deal to be told. Some of us, my way, we know Mr. Ashton, he said. In Hattengarden, you understand, dealers in diamonds, see? Me and Hass and Arons and one or two more, business. You've done business with Mr. Ashton, asked the old lawyer, just so. No, done nothing, replied Mr. Van Horan. Not a shillings worth, but we know him. He came down there and we don't see nothing in them papers, that we expected to see, and today two or three of us, we lunch together and have, he says, them lawyer men, he says, they want information, you go and give it to them, so. Well, what is it? demanded Mr. Paul. Mr. Van Horan leaned forward and looked from one face to another. Ashton, he said, was carrying a big diamond about in his pocket book. Mr. Armistead led a slight exclamation escape his lips. Viner glanced at Mr. Paul, and Mr. Paul fastened his eyes on his latest collar. Mr. Ashton was carrying a big diamond about in his pocket book. He said, ah, have you seen it? Several times I see it, replied Mr. Van Horan. My trade, don't it? Others of us, we see it too. He wanted to sell it, suggested Mr. Paul. There ain't so many people could afford to buy it, said Mr. Van Horan. Why, exclaimed Mr. Paul, was it so valuable then? The diamond merchant shrugged his shoulders and waved the gold-mounted umbrella, which he was carefully nursing in his tightly-gloved hands. Oh, well, he answered. Fifty or sixty thousand pounds it was worth, yes. Of Chapter 11. What happened in Paris? Chapter 12 of The Middle of Things This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Middle of Things by J. S. Fletcher. Chapter 12. The Grey Mare in The three men who heard this announcement were conscious that at this point the Ashton case entered upon an entirely new phase. Armistead's mind was swept clean away from the episode in Paris. Viners from the revelations at Market Stoke. Mr. Paul suddenly realized that here, at last, was something material and tangible, which opened out all sorts of possibilities. And he voiced the thoughts of his two companions as he turned in amazement on the fat little man who sat complacently nursing his umbrella. What? he exclaimed. You mean to tell me that Ashton was walking about London with a diamond worth fifty thousand pounds in his pocket? Incredible. I don't see nothing so very incredible about it, retorted Mr. Van Horan. I could show you men what Kerry's diamonds worth twice that much in their pockets about the garden. That's business, said Mr. Paul. I've heard of such things, but you all know each other over there, I'm told. Ashton wasn't a diamond emergent. God bless me. He was probably murdered for that stone. That's just what I came to see about, eh? suggested Mr. Van Horan. You see, taint nothing if you show that diamond to me and such as me. We don't think nothing of that, all in all our way, our business. But if he gets shown you to other people in public places, what? Just so, asserted Mr. Paul. Sheer tempting of Providence, I'm amazed. But how did you get to know Mr. Ashton and to hear of this diamond? Did he come to you? Called on me at my office, answered Mr. Van Horan laconically, pulled out the diamond and asked me what I thought it was worth. Well, I introduced him to some of the other boys in the garden, see? He showed them the diamond too. We reckon it's worth what I say, fifty to sixty thousand, so. Did he want to sell it? demanded Mr. Paul. Oh, well, yes, he wouldn't have minded, replied the diamond emergent. Wasn't particular about it, you know, rich man. Did he tell you anything about it, how he got it and so on? asked Mr. Paul. Was there any history attached to it? Oh, nothing much, answered Mr. Van Horan. He told me he'd had it some years, got it in Australia, where he came from to London, got it cheap, he did. Lots of things like that in our business. And carried it in his pocket, exclaimed Mr. Paul. He stared hard at Mr. Van Horan as if his mind was revolving some unpleasant idea. I suppose all the people you introduced him to are all right? he asked. Oh, they're all right! affirmed Mr. Van Horan with a laugh. Give my word for any of them, eh? But Ashton, if you pose that diamond out to show to anybody out of the trade, you understand. Well, then there's lots of fellas in this town would settle him to get hold of it, what? I think you're right, said Mr. Paul. He glanced at Viner. This puts a new complexion on affairs. He remarked, We shall have to let the police know of this. I much obliged you, Mr. Van Horan. You won't mind giving evidence about this if it's necessary? Don't mind nothing, said Mr. Van Horan. Me and the other boys, we think you ought to know about that diamond, see? He went away and Mr. Paul turned diviner and armistead. I shouldn't wonder if we're getting at something like a real clue, he said. It seems evident that Ashton was not very particular about showing his diamond to people. If he'd show it readily to a lot of hat-and-garden diamond merchants who, after all, were strangers to him, how do we know that he wouldn't show it to other men? The fact is, wealthy men like that are often very careless about their possessions. Possibly a diamond worth fifty or sixty thousand pounds wasn't of so much importance in Ashton's eyes as it would have been in—well, in mine. And how do we know that he didn't show the diamond to the man with the muffler in Paris, and that the fella followed him there and murdered him for it? Possible, said armistead. Doesn't it strike you as strange, though? suggested Viner, that the first news of this diamond comes from Van Horan. One would have thought that Ashton would have mentioned it, and shown it to Miss Wickham and Mrs. Killenhall. Yet, apparently, he never did. Yes, that does seem odd, asserted Mr. Paul. But there seems to be no end of oddity in this case, and there's one thing that must be done at once. We must have a full and thorough search and examination of all Ashton's effects. His house must be thoroughly searched for papers and so on. Viner, I suppose you're going home. Do me the favour to call at Miss Wickham's and tell her that I propose to come there at ten o'clock tomorrow morning to go through Ashton's desk and his various belongings with her. Surely there must be something discoverable that will throw more light on the matter. And in the meantime, Viner, don't say anything to her but our journey to Market Stoke. Leave that for a while. Viner went away from Crawl, Paul, and Rattenbury's in company with Armistead, outside that Lancashire businessman gave him a shrewd glance. I very much doubted that Diamond has anything whatever to do with Ashton's murder. He said, from what I saw of him, he seemed to me to be a very practical man, full of business aptitude and common sense, and I don't believe that he'd make a practice of walking about London with a Diamond of that value in his pocket. It's all very well that he should have it in his pocket when he went down to Hattengarden. He had a purpose, but that he should always carry it. No, I don't credit that, Mr. Viner. I can scarcely credit such a foolish thing myself, said Viner, but where is the Diamond? Perhaps you'll find it tomorrow, suggested Armistead. The man should be sure to have some place in his house where he kept his valuables. I shall be curious to hear. Are you staying in town? inquired Viner. I shall be at the hotel Cecil for fortnight at least, answered Armistead, and if I can't be of any use to you or Mr. Paul, you've only to ring me up there. You've no doubt yourself, I think, that the unfortunate fellow Hyde is innocent. None, said Viner, no doubt whatever, but the police have a strong case against him, and unless we can find the actual murderer, I'm afraid Hyde's in a very dangerous position. Well, said Armistead, in these cases you never know what a sudden and unexpected turn of events may do. That man with a muffler is a chap you want to get hold of, I'm sure of that. Viner went home and dined with his aunt and their two guests, Hyde's sisters, whom he endeavored to cheer up by saying that things were developing as favourable as could be expected, and that he hoped to have good news for them ere long. They were simple souls, pathetically grateful for any scrap of sympathy and comfort, and he strove to appear more confident about the chances of clearing this unlucky brother than he really felt. It was his intention to go round to number seven during the evening to deliver Mr. Paul's message to Miss Wickham. But before he rose from his own table, a message arrived by Miss Wickham's parlor maid. Would Mr. Viner be kind enough to come to the house at once? At this, Viner excused himself to his guests and hurried round to number seven to find Miss Wickham and Mrs. Killinghall now in mourning garments, in company with a little man whom Viner had once recognised as a well-known tradesman of Westbourne Grove, a florist and fruiterer named Barleyfield who was patronised by all the well-to-do folk of the neighbourhood. He smiled and bowed as Viner entered the room and turned to Miss Wickham as if suggesting that she should explain his presence. Oh, Mr. Viner, said Miss Wickham, I am so sorry to send for you so hurriedly, but Mr. Barleyfield came to tell us that he could give some information about Mr. Ashton, and as Mr. Paul isn't available and I don't like to send for police inspector, I thought that you, perhaps, to be sure, said Viner. What is it, Mr. Barleyfield? Mr. Barleyfield, who had obviously attired himself in his Sunday raiment for the purposes of his call, and had further shown respect for the occasion by wearing a black cravat, smiled as he looked from the two ladies to Viner. Well, Mr. Viner, he answered, I'll tell you what it is, it may help a bit in clearing up things, for I understand there's a great deal of mystery about Mr. Ashton's death. Now I'm told, sir, that nobody, especially these good ladies, knows nothing about what the deceased gentleman used to do with himself of an evening, as a rule. Just so, well, you know Mr. Viner, a tradesman like myself, generally knows a good deal about the people of his neighborhood. I knew Mr. Ashton very well indeed. He was a good customer of mine, and sometimes he'd stop and have a bit of chat with me, and I can tell you where he very often spent an hour or two of an evening. Yes, where? asked Viner. At the Greymare Inn, sir, answered Barleyfield promptly. I have often seen him there myself. The Greymare Inn? exclaimed Viner. Well, Mrs. Killenhall and Miss Wickham looked at each other, wonderingly. Where is that? It sounds like the name of some village tavern. Ah, but you don't know this part of London as I do, sir, said Barleyfield with a knowing smile. If you did, you'd know the Greymare Inn well enough. It's an institution. It's a real old-fashioned place. Between Westbourne Grove and Notting Hill, one of the very last of the old taverns with a tea garden behind it and a bar parlor of a very comfortable sort, were various old foggies of the neighborhood gather at an evening and smoke churchwarden pipes and tell tales of the olden days. I rather gathered from what I saw that it was the old atmosphere that attracted Mr. Ashton, made him think of bygone England, you know, Mr. Viner. And you say he went there regularly? asked Viner. I've seen him there a great deal, sir, for I usually turn in there for half an hour or so myself of an evening, when business is over and I've had my supper, answered Barleyfield. I should say that he went there four or five nights a week. And, no doubt, conversed with the people he met there, suggested Viner. He was a friendly sociable man, sir, said Barleyfield. Yes, he was fond of a talk, but there was one man there that he seemed to associate with, an elderly superior gentleman, whose name I don't know, though I'm familiar enough with his appearance. Him and Mr. Ashton I've often seen, sitting in a particular corner, smoking their cigars and talking together. And, if it's of any importance, I saw them talking like that, at the gray mare, the very evening, that—well, that Mr. Ashton died, Mr. Viner. What time was that? asked Viner. About the usual time, sir, nine-thirty or so, replied Barleyfield. I generally look in about that time, nine-thirty to ten. Did you leave them talking there? inquired Viner. They were there when I left, sir, at a quarter past ten, answered Barleyfield, talking in the usual corner. And you say you don't know who this man is. I don't. I know him by sight, but he's a comparatively recent comer to the gray mare. I've noticed him for a year or so, not longer. Viner glanced at the two ladies. I suppose you never heard Mr. Ashton mention the gray mare, he asked. We never heard Mr. Ashton say anything about his movements, answered Miss Wickham. We used to wander sometimes, if he'd joined a club, or if he had friends that we knew nothing about. Well, said Viner, turning to the florist, do you think you could take me to the gray mare, Mr. Barleyfield? Nothing easier, sir, open to one and all. Then, if you have the time to spare, we'll go now, said Viner. He lingered behind a moment to tell Miss Wickham of Mr. Paul's appointment for the morning, and then went away with Barleyfield in the knotting-hill direction. I suppose you've been at the gray mare since Mr. Ashton's death, he asked, as they walked along. Once or twice, sir, replied Barleyfield, and you've no doubt heard the murder disgust? suggested Viner. I've heard disgust hard enough, sir, there and elsewhere, replied the florist, but at the gray mare itself I don't think anybody knew that this man who had been murdered was the same as a gray beard, a gentleman who used to drop in there sometimes. They didn't when I was last in any way. Perhaps this gentleman I've mentioned to you might know. Mr. Ashton might have told his name to him. But you know how it is in these places, Mr. Viner. People drop in even regularly, and fellow customers may have a bit of talk with them without having the least idea who they are. Between you and me, sir, I came to the conclusion that Mr. Ashton was a man who liked to see a bit of what we'll call informal, old-fashioned tavern life, and he hit on this place by accident in one of his walks around, and took to coming where he could be at his ease amongst strangers. No doubt, agreed Viner. He followed his guide through various squares and streets until they came to the object of their pilgrimage, a four-square old-fashioned house set back a little from the road with a swinging sign in front and a garden at the side. Barley Field led him through this garden to a side door whence they passed into a roomy, low-silling parlor which reminded Viner of old coaching-prints. He could scarcely have believed it possible that such a pre-Victorian room could be found in London. There were several men in it, and he nudged his companion's elbow. Let us sit down in a quiet corner and have something to drink, he said. I just wanted to take a look at this place, and its frequenters. Barley Field led him to a nook near the chimney corner in Beckington, a print boy who hung about with a tray under his arm. But before Viner could give an order, his companion touched his arm and motioned towards the door. Here's the gentleman Mr. Ashton used to talk to. He whispered, the tall man just coming in. Chapter 13 The Japanese Cabinet Remembering that Barley Field had said that the man who now entered had been in Ashton's company in that very room on the evening of the murder, Viner looked at him with keen interest in speculation. He was a tall, well-built, clean-shaven man of professional appearance and of a large, heavy solemn face, the evidently usual powder of which was deepened by his black overcoat and cravat. An eminently respectable, slow-going, unimaginative man, in Viner's opinion, and of a type which one may see by the dozen in the presence of the temple, a man who would be content to do a day's work in a placid fashion, and who cherished no ambition to set the thames on fire. Certainly, so Viner thought from appearances, not the man to commit a peculiarly daring murder. Nevertheless, knowing what he did, he watched him closely. The newcomer, on entering, glanced at once at a quiet corner of the room, and seeing it unoccupied turn to the bar where the landlord, who was as old-fashioned as his surroundings, was glancing over the evening paper. He asked for whiskey and soda, and when he took up the glass drank slowly and thoughtfully. Suddenly he turned to the landlord. Have you seen that gentleman lately that I have sometimes talked to in the corner there? He asked. The landlord glanced across the room and shook his head. Can't say that I have, sir, he answered. The tallest gentleman with a gray beard? No, he hasn't been in this last night or two. The other man sat down his glass and drew something from his pocket. I promised to bring him a specimen of some cigars I bought lately, he said, laying an envelope on the counter. I can't stop tonight. If you should come in, will you give him that? He'll know what it is. Good heavens! muttered Weiner, as he turned in surprise to Barleyfield. This man evidently don't know that the man they're talking about is murdered. Whispered Barleyfield with a grim smile. Nothing wonderful in that, Mr. Weiner. They haven't connected Mr. Ashton with the man they're mentioning, that's all. And yet Ashton's portrait has been in the papers. Exclaimed Weiner, it amazes me. I just so, sir, said Barleyfield, but a hundred yards in London takes you into another world, Mr. Weiner. For all practical purposes, Lonsdale Passage, though it's only a mile away, is as much separated from the spot as New York is from London. Well, that's the man I told you of, sir. The man in question drank off the remaining contents of his glass, nodded to the landlord and walked out, and Weiner was suddenly minded to do something towards getting information. Look here, he said. I'm going to ask that landlord a question or two. Come with me. He went up to the bar, Barleyfield following in close attendance, and gave the landlord a significant glance. Can I have a word with you in private? he asked. The landlord looked his questioner over and promptly opened a flap in the counter. Step inside, sir, he said, indicating a door in the rear. Private room there, sir. Weiner and Barleyfield walked into a little snugly furnished sitting room. The landlord followed and closed the door. Do you happen to know the name of the gentleman who was speaking to you just now? Asked Weiner, going straight to his point. I have a very particular reason for wishing to know it. No more idea than I have of yours, sir, replied the landlord with a shrewd glance. Weiner pulled out a card and laid it on the table. That is my name, he said. You and the gentleman who has just gone out were speaking just now of another gentleman whom he used to meet here, who used to sit with him in that far corner. Just so. You don't know the name of that gentleman, either? No more than I know the others, sir, replied the landlord shaking his head. Lord bless you. Folks may come in here for a year or two, and unless they happen to be neighbors of mine, I don't know who they are. Now there's your friend there. He went on indicating Barley Field with a smile. I know his face is that of a customer, but I don't know who he is. That gentleman who's just gone out, he's been in the habit of dropping in here for a twelfth month, maybe, but I never remember hearing his name. Asked for the gentleman he referred to. Why? I know him as one. There's come in here pretty regular for the last few weeks, but I don't know his name, either. Have you heard of the murder in Lonsdale Passage? Asked Weiner. Markendale Squareway? Yes. Answered the landlord with awakening interest. Why is it anything to do? Viner saw an illustrated paper lying on a side table and caught it up. There was a portrait of Ashton in it, and he held it up before the landlord. Don't you recognize that? He asked. The landlord started and stared. Bless my life and soul! He exclaimed, Why, surely, that's very like the gentleman I just referred to. I should say it was the very man. It IS the very man, said Weiner with emphasis, the man for whom your customer who's just gone out left the envelope. Now, this man who was murdered in Lonsdale Passage was here near Parler for some time on the evening of the night on which he was murdered, and he was then in conversation with the man who has just gone out. Naturally, therefore, I should like to know that man's name. You're not a detective? suggested the landlord. Not at all, replied Weiner. I was a neighbor of Mr. Ashton's, and I am interested, deeply interested, in an attempt to clear up the mystery of his death. Things kept coming out. I didn't know until this evening that Ashton spent some time here at your house the night he was killed, but when I got to know, I came along to make one or two inquiries. Bless me! said the landlord, who was still staring at the portrait. Yes, that's a gentleman, sure enough. I've often wondered who he was. Pleasant sociable sort he was, poor fellow. Now I come to think of it. I remember him being in here that night. Last time, of course, he was ever in. He was talking to that gentleman who's just gone. In fact, they left together. They left together, did they? exclaimed Weiner with a sharp glance at Barleyfield. Ah! what time was that now? As near as I can recollect, about 10.15 to 10.30, answered the landlord, they'd been talking together for good hour in that corner where they usually sat. But, dear me, he went on, looking from one to the other of his two visitors. I'm quite sure that gentleman who's just left doesn't know of this murder. Why, you heard him ask for the other gentleman and leave him some cigars that he'd promised. Just so, which makes it all a stranger, said Weiner. Well, I'm much obliged to you, landlord, and for this time being just keep the matter of this talk strictly to yourself. You understand? As you wish, sir, assented the landlord. I shan't say anything. You wouldn't like me to find out this gentleman's name? Somebody'll know him. My own idea is that he lives in this part. He began coming in here of an evening about a year since. No, do nothing at present, said Weiner. The inquiries are only beginning. He impressed the same obligation of silence on Barleyfield as they went away and the florist readily understood. No hard work for me to hold my tongue, Mr. Weiner, he said. We tradespeople are pretty well trained to that, sir. There's things and secrets I could tell. But upon my word I don't ever remember quite such a case as this, and I'll expect it'll be like most cases of the sort. What do you mean? asked Weiner. Oh, there'll be a sudden flash of light on it, sir, all of a sudden, replied Barleyfield, and then it'll be as clear as noonday. I don't know where it's coming from, muttered Weiner. I don't even see a rift in the clouds yet. He had been at work for an hour or two with Miss Wickham and Mr. Paul next morning, searching for whatever might be discovered among Ashton's effects, before he saw any reason to alter this opinion. The bunch of keys discovered in the murdered man's pocket had been duly delivered to Miss Wickham by the police, and she handed them over to the old solicitor with full license to open whatever they secured. But both Mr. Paul and Weiner sought once that Ashton had been one of those men who have no habit of locking up things. In all that roomy house he had but one room which he kept himself, a small twelve-foot square apartment on the ground floor in which they said he used to spend an hour or two of a morning. It contained little in the way of ornament or comfort, a solid writing desk with a hard chair, an easy chair by the fireplace, a sofa against the wall, a map of London and a picture or two, a shelf of old books, a collection of walking sticks and umbrellas, these made up all there was to see. And upon examination the desk yielded next to nothing. One drawer contained a cash box, a checkbook, a passbook, some sixty or seventy pounds in notes, gold and silver lay in the cash box, the stubs of the checks revealed nothing but the payment of tradesmen's bills. The passbook showed that an enormous balance lay at the bank. In another drawer rested a collection of tradesmen's books. Mr. Ashton, said Mrs. Kirlenhal, used to pay his tradesmen every week. These books had been handed to him on the very evening of his death for settlement next morning. Evidently a most methodical man remarked Mr. Paul, which makes it all the more remarkable that so few papers are discoverable, you'd have thought that in his longish life he'd have accumulated a good many documents that he wanted to keep. But documents there were next to none. Several of the drawers of the desk were empty, save for stationery. One contained a bunch of letters tied up with blue ribbon. These on examination proved to be letters written by Miss Wickham at school in England to her guardian in Australia. Miss Wickham present while Mr. Paul and Viner searched showed some emotion at the sight of them. I used to write to him once a month, she said. I had no idea that he had kept the letters though. The two men went silently on with their search. But there was no further result. Ashton did not appear to have kept any letters or papers relative to his life or doings prior to his coming to England. Private documents of any sort he seemed to have none, and whatever business had taken him to market-stoke they could find no written reference to it, nor could they discover anything about the diamond of which Mr. Van Horan has spoken. They went upstairs to his bedroom and examined the drawers, cabinets, and dressing-case. They found nothing. This is distinctly disappointing, remarked Mr. Paul, when he and Viner returned to the little room. I never knew a man who left such small evidence behind him. It's quite evident to me that there's nothing whatever in this house that's going to be of any use to us. I wonder if he rented a box at any of the safe deposit places. He must have had documents of some sort. In that case we should surely have found a key and perhaps a receipt for the rent of the box, suggested Viner. I should have thought he'd have had a safe in his own house, he added, but we don't hear of one. Mr. Paul looked around the room as if suspicious that Ashton might have hidden papers in the stuffing of the sofa or the easy chair. I wonder if there's anything in that, he said suddenly. It looks like a receptacle of some sort. Viner turned and saw the old lawyer pointing to a curious Japanese cabinet, which stood in the middle of the marble mantelpiece, the only really notable ornament in the room. Mr. Paul laid hold of it in uttered a surprised exclamation. That's a tremendous weight for so small a thing, he said, feel it. Viner took hold of the cabinet, an affair of some eight and inches in height and twelve in depth, and came to the conclusion that it was heavily weighted with lead. He lifted it down to the desk, giving it a slight shake. I took it for a cigar cabinet, he remarked. How does it open? Have you a key that will fit it? But upon examination there was no keyhole, and nothing to show how the door was opened. I see what this is, said Viner, after looking closely over the cabinet, back front and sides. It opens by a trick, a secret. Probably you press something somewhere and the door flies open. But where? Try, counseled Mr. Paul, there's something inside. I heard it when you shook the thing. It took Viner ten minutes to find out the secret. He would not have found it at all but for accident. But pressing here and pulling there, he suddenly touched, what appeared to be no more than a cleverly inserted rivet in the ebony surface. There was a sharp click, and the panelled front flew open. There is something, exclaimed Mr. Paul. Papers! He drew out a bundle of papers folded in a strong sheet of cartridge paper and sealed back and front. The enveloping cover was old and faded. The ribbon which had been tied round the bundle was discoloured by age. The wax of the seals was cracked all over the surface. No inscription, no writing, said Mr. Paul. Now I wonder what's in here. Shall I fetch, Miss Wickham? suggested Viner. Mr. Paul hesitated. No, he said at last. I think not. Let us first find out what this packet contains. I'll take the responsibility. He cut the ribbons beneath the seals and presently revealed a number of letters, old and yellow, in a woman's handwriting. And after a hasty glance at one or two of the uppermost, he turned to Viner with an exclamation that signified much. Viner, he said. Here is indeed a find. These are letters written by the Countess of Ellingham to her son, Lord Marketstoke, when he was a schoolboy at Eaton. End of Chapter 13. The Japanese Cabinet Chapter 14 of The Middle of Things This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Middle of Things by J. S. Fletcher Chapter 14 The Ellingham Modo Viner looked over Mr. Paul's shoulder at the letters. There were numbers of them all neatly folded and arranged. A faint scent of dried flowers rose from them as the old lawyer spread them out on the desk. Which Countess of Ellingham? And which Lord Marketstoke? asked Viner. There have been, must have been, several during the last century. The Lord Marketstoke, I mean, is the one who disappeared, answered Mr. Paul, with no concern with any other. Look at these dates. We know that if he were living he would now be a man of sixty-one or so. Therefore he'd be at school about forty-five years ago. Now look here. He went on, rapidly turning the letters over. Compare these dates. They run through two or three years. They were all of forty-three to forty-six years since. You see how they're signed. You see how they're addressed. There's no doubt about it, Viner. This is a collection of letters written by the seventh Countess of Ellingham to her elder son, Lord Marketstoke, when he was at Eden. How came they into Ashton's possession, I wonder? asked Viner. It's all of a piece, exclaimed Mr. Paul. All of a piece with Ashton's visit to Marketstoke. All of a piece with the facts, that Avis was a favorite name with a cave-grey family, and that one of the holders of the title married a wickham. Viner, there's no doubt whatever, in my mind, that either Ashton was Lord Marketstoke or that he knew the man who was. You remember what Armistead told us, remarked Viner, that Ashton told him in Paris that he, Ashton, hailed from Lancashire? Then he knew the missing man and got these papers from him, declared the old lawyer. But why? Ah, now, I have an idea. It may be that Marketstoke, dying out there in Australia, handed these things to Ashton and asked him to give them to some members of the cave-grey family, perhaps an aunt or a cousin or so on, and that Ashton went down to Marketstoke to find out what relations were still in existence. That may be it. That would solve the problem. No, said Viner, with sudden emphasis. He made sure the door of the little room was closed, and then went up to the old lawyer's elbow. Is that really all you can think of? He asked, with a keen glance. As for me, why, I'm thinking of something that seems absolutely obvious. What then, demanded Mr. Paul, tell me. Viner pointed towards the door. Haven't we heard already that a man named Wickham handed over his daughter Avis to Ashton's care and guardianship? He asked. Doesn't that seem to be an established fact? No doubt of it, assented Mr. Paul well. In my opinion, said Viner quietly, Wickham was the missing lord of Marketstoke. Mr. Paul, who was still turning over the letters, examining their dates, let them slip out of his hands and gasped. By George, he exclaimed in a wandering voice. It may be, possibly is. Then, in that case, that girl outside there? Well, asked Viner after a pause. Mr. Paul made a puzzled gesture and shook his head as if in amazement. In that case, if Wickham was the missing lord of Marketstoke, and this girl is his daughter, she's— He broke off and became still more puzzled. Upon my honour, he exclaimed, I don't know who she is. What do you mean? asked Viner. She's his daughter, of course, Wickham's. Only in that case, I mean, if he was really Lord Marketstoke, her proper name, I suppose, is Cave Gray. Mr. Paul looked his young assistant over with an amused expression. You haven't the old practitioner's flair, Viner, my boy? He said. When one's got to my age and seen a number of queer things and happenings, one's quick to see possible cases. Look here, if Wickham was really Lord Marketstoke, and that girl across the hall is his daughter, she's probably— I say probably, for I don't know if the succession in this case goes with the female line— Countess of Ellingham in her own right. Viner looked surprised. Is that really so? Would it be so? he asked. It may be, I'm not sure, replied Mr. Paul. As I say, I don't know how the succession runs in this particular instance. There are, as you are aware, several appearances in their own rights, twenty-four or five at least. Some are very ancient peerages. I know that three, Forneveil and Fakkenburg and Conyers, go right back to the thirteenth century. Three others, Bumont, Darcy de Gneith, and Zorch of Haringworth, date from the fourteenth. I'm not sure of this Ellingham peerage, but I'll find out when I get back to my office. However, granting the premises and if the peerage does continue in the female line, it will be, as I say, this girl's the rightful holder of the title. Viner made no immediate answer, and Mr. Paul began to put up the letters in their original wrappings. Regular romance, isn't it? If it is so, he exclaimed, extraordinary. Shall you tell her? asked Viner. Mr. Paul considered the direct question while he completed his task. No, he said at last, not at present. She evidently knows nothing, and she'd better be left in complete ignorance for a while. You see, Viner, as I've pointed out to you several times, there isn't a paper or a document of any description, extent, which refers to her. Nothing in my hands. Nothing in the banker's hands. Nothing here. And yet, supposing her father, Wickham, to have been Lord Marketstoke and to have entrusted his secret to Ashton at the same time that he gave him the guardianship of his daughter, he must have given Ashton papers to prove his and her identity. Must! Where are they? Do you know what I think, said Viner? I think, if I'm to put it in plain language, that Ashton carry those papers on him, and that he was murdered for the possession of them. Mr. Paul nodded and put the packet of letters in his pocket. I shouldn't be surprised, he answered. It's a very probable theory, my boy, but it presupposes one thing and makes one horribly suspicious of another. Yes, inquired Viner. It presupposes that Ashton let somebody into the secret, replied Mr. Paul, and it makes one suspect that the person to whom he did reveal it had such personal interest in suppressing it, that he went to the length of murdering Ashton before Ashton could tell it to anyone else. How does that strike you, Viner? It's this, and not the diamond, declared Viner doggedly. I have a sort of absolute intuition that I'm right. I think so too, assented the old lawyer dryly. The fifty-thousand-pound diamond is a side mine. Very well, now we know a lot do you and I. And we're going to solve matters, and we're not going to say a word to this young lady at present. That's settled. But I want to ask her some questions. Come along. He led the way across the hall to the dining-room, where a reminder of Ashton's death met his and Viner's view as soon as they had crossed the threshold. The funeral was to take place next day, and Mrs. Killenhall and Miss Wickham were contemplating a massive wreath of flowers which had evidently just arrived from the florists and been deposited on the center-table. All we can do for him, you know, murmured Mrs. Killenhall with a glance at the two men. He… he has so few friends here, poor man. That remark, ma'am, observed Mr. Paul, is apropos of a subject that I want to ask Miss Wickham two or three questions about. Friends, now, Miss Wickham, you always understood that Mr. Ashton and your father were very close friends, I believe? I always understood so, yes, Mr. Paul, replied Miss Wickham. Did he ever tell you much about your father? No, very little indeed. He never told me more than that they knew each other very well, in Australia, that my father died out there comparatively young, and that he left me in his, Mr. Ashton's care. Did he ever tell you whether your father left you any money? Demanded the old lawyer. Miss Wickham looked surprised. Oh yes, she answered. I thought you'd know that. My father left me a good deal of money. Didn't Mr. Ashton tell you? Never a word, said Mr. Paul. Now, where is it then? In my bank, replied Miss Wickham promptly, the London and Universal. When Mr. Ashton fetched me away from school and brought me here, he told me that he had twelve thousand pounds of mine, which my father had left me, and handed it over to me then and there, and took me to the London and Universal bank, where I opened an account with it. Spent any of it? asked Mr. Paul dryly. Only a few pounds? answered Miss Wickham. The old solicitor glanced at Viner, who, while these private matters were being inquired to, was affecting to examine the pictures on the walls. Most extraordinary! he muttered. All these convinces me that Ashton must have had papers and documents. These must have been, however, we don't know where they are. But there would surely be, for instance, your father's will, Miss Wickham, I suppose. You've never seen such a document? No, to be sure. You left all to Ashton? Well, now, do you remember your father? Only just, and very faintly, Mr. Paul, replied Miss Wickham, you must remember I was little more than five years old. Can you remember what he was like? I think he was a big, tall man, but it's a mere impression. Listen, said Mr. Paul, did you ever at any time hear Mr. Ashton make any reference? I'm talking now of the last few weeks to the Ellingham family, or to the Earl of Ellingham. Never! replied Miss Wickham. Never heard of them! He never— Mrs. Killenhall was showing signs of a wish to speak, and Mr. Paul turned to her. Have you, ma'am? he asked. Yes, said Mrs. Killenhall. I have. It was one night when Miss Wickham was out. You were at Mrs. Murray's in Claire's, my dear, and Mr. Ashton and I dined alone. He asked if I remembered the famed Ellingham case some years ago, something about the succession to the title. He said he'd read it in the colonial papers. Of course I remembered it very well. Well, ma'am, said Mr. Paul, and what then? I think that was all, answered Mrs. Killenhall. He merely remarked that it was an odd case and said no more. What made him mention it? asked Mr. Paul. Oh, we'd been talking about romances of the peerage. Replied Mrs. Killenhall. I had told him of several. You're well up in the peerage, ma'am, suggested the old lawyer. I know my Burke and my Debraette pretty thoroughly, said Mrs. Killenhall. Very interesting, of course. Mr. Paul, who was sitting close to Miss Wickham, suddenly pointed to a gold locket which she wore. Where did you get that, my dear? He asked. Unusual device, isn't it? Mr. Ashton gave it to me a few weeks ago, and said Miss Wickham. He said it had belonged to my father. The old lawyer bent nearer, looked more closely at the locket, and got up. Elegant old thing, he said. Not made yesterday that. Well, ladies, you will see me for this very sad occasion. He whipped a hand at the wreath of flowers tomorrow. In the meantime, if there is anything you want done, our young friend hears close at hand. Just now, however, I want him. Viner observed Paul when they had left the house. It's very odd how unobservant some people are. Now there's that woman we've just left, Mrs. Killenhall, who says that she's well up in her Debraette and her Burke, and there, seen by her many a time. Is that locket which Miss Wickham is wearing? And she's never noticed it. Never, I mean, noticed what's on it. Why, I saw it, and its significance instantly just now, which was the first time I'd seen it. What is it that's on it? Asked Viner. After we came back from Market Stoke, replied Mr. Paul, I looked up the cave-grave family and their peerage. That locket bears their device and motto. The device is a closed fist, grasping a handful of blades of wheat. The motto is, have and hold. Viner assures fate. That girl's father was the missing Lord Market Stoke, and Ashton knew the secret. I'm convinced of it. I'm positive of it. And now, see the extraordinary position in which we are all placed. Ashton's dead, and there isn't one scrap of paper to show what it was that he really knew. Nothing. Not one written line. Because, as I said before, he was murdered for his papers. Affirmed Viner. I'm sure of that, as you are of the rest. I dare say you're right, agreed Mr. Paul. But, as I've said before, that presupposes that Ashton told somebody the secret. Now, who? Was it the man he was within Paris? And if so, who is that man? But it's useless speculating. I've made up my mind to a certain course, Viner. Tomorrow, after the funeral, I'm going to call on the present Lord Ellingham. His townhouse is in Hartford Street, and I know he's in town, and ask him if he has heard anything of a mysterious nature relating to his long missing uncle. We may hear something. You come with me. Next day, toward the middle of the afternoon, Mr. Paul and Viner got out of a taxi cab in Park Lane and walked down Hartford Street. The old lawyer explaining the course he was about to take. This is a young man, not long come of age. He said he'll be quite well acquainted, however, with the family history, and if anything's happened lately, I dare say I can get him to talk. He—what is it? Viner had suddenly gripped his companion's arm and pulled him to a halt. He was looking ahead at the house, at which they were about to call. And there, just being shown out by a footman, was the man whom he had seen at the old-fashioned tavern in Notting Hill, and with him a tall, good-looking man, whom he had never seen before.