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Lindsey, who knew that what we had read in the Dundee Advertiser had also appeared in the Newcastle Daily Chronicle. "Evidently not, Portlethorpe, or you'd have known, in part at any rate, what my wire meant. But I'll tell you in a hundred words and then I'll ask you a couple of questions before we go any further." He gave Mr. Portlethorpe an epitomized account of the situation, and Mr.
He took out of his package a heart-shaped pendant, with a much-worn gold chain attached to it, and turned it over to show an engraved inscription on the reverse side. "There's the motto," he said. "You see Who Will, Shall. Whose is it?" "God bless us!" exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe. "The Carstairs motto! Aye! their motto for many a hundred years! Lindsey, this is an extraordinary thing!
Portlethorpe. And, gentlemen, the family jewels! all of which had been reset. They've got all those!" "You mean to say of your own knowledge they're not at Hathercleugh?" suddenly inquired Mr. Lindsey. "I mean to say they positively are not, sir," replied the butler. "They were kept in a certain safe in a small room used by Lady Carstairs as her boudoir.
Lindsey and I then went to the office, and we had not been there long when a telegram arrived from Newcastle. Mr. Portlethorpe himself was coming on to Berwick immediately. And in the middle of the afternoon he arrived a middle-aged, somewhat nervous-mannered man, whom I had seen two or three times when we had business at the Assizes, and whom Mr.
Portlethorpe, being naturally a nervous man, given to despondency, was greatly upset, and manifested his emotions in sundry ejaculations of a dark nature; I, being young, was full of amazement at the news just given us and of the excitement of hunting down the man we knew as Sir Gilbert Carstairs. But I am not sure that Mr.
What, Portlethorpe, do you know of Sir Gilbert Carstairs?" Mr. Portlethorpe hesitated a moment. Then he replied, frankly and with evident candour. "To tell you the truth, Lindsey," he said, "beyond knowing that he is Sir Gilbert Carstairs nothing!" Mr. Lindsey made no remark on this answer, and for a minute or two he and Mr. Portlethorpe sat looking at each other. Then Mr.
"You've got the idea into your head now that this young man's father, whom he's always heard of as one Martin Smeaton, was in strict truth the late Michael Carstairs, elder son of the late Sir Alexander in fact, being the wilful and headstrong man that you are, you're already positive of it?" "I am so!" declared Mr. Lindsey. "That's a fact, Portlethorpe." "Then what follows?" asked Mr.
Lindsey had pointed out, rubbed his hands, and looked at us with an undeniable expression of cunning and slyness. "Well, sir!" he said in a low, suggesting tone of voice. "A man in my position naturally gets to know things whether he wants to or not, sometimes. I have had ideas, gentlemen, for some time." "That something was wrong?" asked Mr. Portlethorpe.
One man was approaching the matter from one standpoint; the other from one diametrically opposed to it. Mr. Portlethorpe was all for minimizing things, Mr. Lindsey all for taking the maximum attitude. Mr. Portlethorpe said that even if we had not come to Edinburgh on a fool's errand which appeared to be his secret and private notion we had at any rate got the information which Mr.
"The solicitor who sent us formal proof of his death, from Havana, previous to Sir Alexander's death, said distinctly that Michael had never been married," interrupted Mr. Portlethorpe. "And surely he would know!" "And I say just as surely that from all I've heard of Michael Carstairs there'd be a lot of things that no solicitor would know, even if he sat at Michael's dying bed!" retorted Mr.
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