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The curtains had not yet been drawn aside, and the electric light cast a cold glare on the various well-known objects and fittings. He glanced at the evidences of the supper tray; then at the blotting-pad on Herapath's desk; there he might have left a note for his butler or his secretary. But there was no note to be seen.
There was something mysterious in Herapath's manner which disturbed his friend. It was bad enough not to be backed up in his own schemes, but to feel that his chum knew something that he did not, was very hard on Sir Digby. Now he recalled it, Arthur had all along been somewhat reserved about the business. He had made sport of other fellows' theories, but he had never disclosed his own.
"Yes?" he said, closing the door behind them and motioning the man to a seat. "You wish to tell us something! This lady is Miss Wynne Mr. Herapath's niece. You can tell us anything you think of importance. Do you know anything, then?" The taxi-cab driver lifted the Argus. "This here newspaper, sir," he answered. "I've just been reading of it about Mr. Herapath, sir." "Yes," said Mr.
I thought it might be necessary to prove my bona fides," she continued, with a laugh, "so I brought some letters of Jacob Herapath's with me letters written to me you recognize his big, bold hand, of course." There was no mistaking Jacob Herapath's writing, and the two young people, after one glance at it, exchanged glances with each other. "Now you want to know why I am here," said Mrs. Engledew.
Burchill? she had been thinking of him only a few minutes before the butler's entrance; thinking a good deal. And her thoughts had been disquieted and unhappy. Burchill was the last man in the world that she wished to have anything to do with, and the fact that his name appeared on Jacob Herapath's will had disturbed her more than she would have cared to admit. Mr. Halfpenny, conducting Mr.
No call came to Selwood over that telephone until half-past seven one November morning, just as he was thinking of getting out of bed. And the voice which then greeted him was not Herapath's. It was a rather anxious, troubled voice, and it belonged to one Kitteridge, a middle-aged man, who was Herapath's butler.
"I have Mr. Burchill's address," said Peggie, with an effort. "He left his card here on the day of my uncle's death the address is on it. And I put it in this drawer." Selwood watched Peggie curiously, and with a strange, vague sense of uneasiness as she went over to a drawer in Jacob Herapath's desk and produced the card.
"The answer is plain if astonishing. I have managed to get mixed up in this matter of Jacob Herapath's murder! That sounds odd, doesn't it? nevertheless, it's true. But we can't go into that now. And I cannot do more than tell you that I simply bring a message and want an answer. My dear!" she continued, laying a hand on Peggie's arm, "you do not wish to see Barthorpe Herapath hanged?"
Only two of these have survived, for the other two railway newspapers which still exist were established before that memorable madness fell upon the nation. Of these, Herapath's Journal is the oldest and best, and is the oracle of the Stock Exchange on railway matters.
Herapath's employ to know how much he went in for that sort of thing." "That is immaterial," continued Burchill. "We establish the fact that he did. Now we come to the first chapter of our story. This lady, Mrs. Engledew, a tenant of this flat since the Herapath Estate was built, is an old acquaintance I am permitted to say, friend of the late Jacob Herapath.
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