“I say, is this a joke?”
“No, it isn’t. I saw a light under the door, and I heard voices. You remember the cupboard where we used to play, across the room of the passage between the bedroom and sitting-room?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I got in there and looked through the hole we used to keep corked up, and there was a gentleman in a grey rubber mask and gloves giving orders to a very pretty lot of scoundrels.”
“Charles, you are jokin’.”
“I’m not-it happened.”
“What were they doin’-”
“Well, I rather gathered they’d destroyed a will, and it wouldn’t very much surprise me to hear that they’d made away with the man who’d made it. They seemed to be thinking about murdering his daughter if another will turned up, or some certificate-I didn’t quite understand about that.”
“Charles, you don’t mean to say you’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“You weren’t drunk, and you weren’t dreamin’?”
“I was not.”
Archie heaved a sigh.
“Why on earth wasn’t I there? What did you do?-bound from your place of concealment, hissin’ ‘All is discovered,’ or what?”
“I went on listening,” said Charles. He proceeded to give Archie a very accurate account of the things he had listened to and the things he had seen. He left Margaret Langton out of the story, and in consequence found himself making rather a poor figure at the finish.
“You didn’t bound from your place of concealment!” Archie’s tone was incredulous.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You let them get away and just trickled round to the police station?”
“Well-no,” said Charles, “I didn’t go to the police station.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t want to.” He paused. “As a matter of fact I used to know one of the crowd pretty well, and I thought I’d keep the police out of it if I could.”
Archie considered this.
“I say, that’s bad! I mean destroyin’ wills and plannin’ to murder people isn’t the sort of game you expect to find your pals mixed up in-is it? Did you know the fellow well?”
“Fairly well,” said Charles.
“Well, d’you know him well enough to put it to him that it isn’t exactly the sort of show to be mixed up in?”
“That’s what I was thinking of doing.”
“I see. Then there’s the girl. They won’t be getting up to any murderin’ games for the moment, I take it.”
“No,” said Charles, “that was only if this certificate turned up.”
“And you don’t know what it is? And for all you now it may be turnin’ up any day of the week. Pity you don’t know her name-isn’t it?”
“Her Christian name is Margot. I heard that.”
Archie upset his coffee.
“Charles, you’ve been pullin’ my leg.”
“I haven’t.”
“Honest Injun?”
“Honest Injun.”
“Not about the name? You swear you’re not pullin’ my leg about that?”
“No, I’m not. Why should you think I am?”
Archie leaned across the table and dropped his voice.
“You swear the girl was called Margot? You’re sure?”
“Positive. Why?”
“Because that’s the name of the girl I was talkin’ about- the Standing girl-old Standing’s daughter.”
“Margot?”
“Margot Standing,” said Archie in a solemn whisper.
CHAPTER VIII
Mr. Hale was considerably annoyed next morning by the arrival of Mr. Egbert Standing and a large leather suit-case full of unsorted papers. One of Mr. Hale’s clerks brought in the suit-case and placed it on the floor, whereupon Egbert with a wave of the hand commanded him to open it.
“It isn’t locked-I never lock things-you just slide back those what-d’you-call-its.”
The clerk slid back the what-d’you-call-its and lifted the top. A mask of crumpled paper met the eye.
“There!” said Egbert. “My man tells me that’s the lot.”
Mr. Hale looked at the suit-case, and Mr. Hale’s clerk looked at Mr. Hale. A large envelope marked Income Tax lay across a pale blue note. Mr. Hale sniffed. A surprisingly vigorous scent of patchouli arose from the suit-case. He suspected the pale blue note-income tax officials do not use patchouli.
“Go on-sort them,” said Egbert in a tone of languid encouragement.
“I should have thought you would prefer to sort them yourself.”
Egbert shook his head.
“I couldn’t be bothered.”
“Your private correspondence-” began Mr. Hale. He eyed the pale blue note.
Egbert yawned.
“I can’t be bothered. Let him get on with it.”
After receiving a nod from Mr. Hale, the clerk proceeded to get on with it. The contents of the suit-case appeared to consist chiefly of unpaid bills. There was a sprinkling of other scented notes-pink, mauve, and brown. There were two sock-suspenders, an artificial flower in a condition of extreme old age, a green satin slipper with a gold heel, and several photographs of damsels in brief skirts and a great many pearls.
“Put the letters on one side, Cassels,” said Mr. Hale. “We’re looking for a letter in the late Mr. Standing’s hand. I don’t know if you remember it.”
“I think I do, sir. Isn’t this his writing?”
Mr. Hale took it, looked at Egbert, and inquired,
“Do you wish me to read this? It seems to be part of a letter from your uncle.”
“Read away-out loud if you like-I’m sure I don’t mind.”
Mr. Hale turned the sheet in his hand, frowning.
“There is nothing about Miss Standing here. I think I will not-er-read it aloud.”
“Is it the one about blackballing me for that club I told you about?”
“No,” said Mr. Hale
Egbert looked slightly puzzled.
“What is it then?”
“Mr. Standing appears to have been refusing a request for a loan.”
“Oh, that one. He’s got a nasty way of putting it-hasn’t he?”
Mr. Cassels unfolded a piece of paper which had been crumpled into a ball. Still on his knees, he turned and laid it on the edge of the writing-table.
“Am I to read this, Mr. Standing?”
“You can read them all-it doesn’t worry me. I can’t be bothered myself.”
The letter was very badly creased indeed. Mr. Hale uttered an exclamation as his eye lighted upon the address and the date. The paper was stamped with the name of a hotel in Majorca, and the date was only a fortnight old. He read the address aloud and repeated the date; then glancing down the sheet, he spoke to the young clerk still rummaging among bills.
“That will do, Cassels. This is the letter we were looking for.”
Mr. Hale turned sharply upon Egbert.
“This letter was written the day before your uncle was drowned. It is, as far as we know, the last letter he ever wrote. It is impossible to over-rate its importance. How could you fail to realize this?”
“I don’t take any interest in business,” said Egbert. “I told you I didn’t. I told you my line was Art.”
Mr. Hale rapped the table.
“You cannot possibly fail to realize the importance of this letter.”
Egbert yawned.
“I don’t know that I read it very carefully. My uncle’s letters don’t interest me, you know.”
“Mr. Standing, I will ask you to listen attentively whilst I read you this letter.”
Egbert sprawled in the big armchair with half-shut eyes. It is possible that he listened attentively; but he had all the appearance of being asleep.
Mr. Hale’s voice was sharp as he read from the crumpled page:-
My dear Egbert,
I will neither lend you any money, nor will I give you any money. Your letter serves to remind me, not for the first time, that I had better make my will and have done with the chances to which Margot’s irregular birth exposes the fortune which I have laboured to build up. Even if she were legitimate, I would not expose her to the risks involved in the possession of so much money. I shall make a will as soon as I return to England, and I advise you not to expect too much from me. What you want is a good hard bout of honest work.