"Is my friend, Mr. Reginald Brett. He is engaged in unravelling the manner and cause of poor Alan's death. He has my full sanction, Robert, and was brought here, in the first instance, by David. I hope, therefore, you will treat him more civilly."

"I will treat him as he treats me. I owe him nothing, at any rate."

They were talking in the ill-fated library, having entered the house through the centre window. The unbidden guest faced the others, and although the cloud of suspicion hung heavily upon him, the barrister was far too shrewd an observer of human nature to attribute his present defiant attitude to other than its true origin—a feeling of humiliated pride.

Brett understood that to question him further was to risk a scene—a thing to be avoided at all costs.

"No doubt," he said, "you wish to speak privately to Mrs. Capella. I was on the point of escorting Miss Layton to her house. Shall I return and drive you back to Stowmarket? I will be here in fifteen minutes."

"It would be better than walking," replied Robert wearily, settling into a chair with the air of a man physically tired and mentally perturbed.

Again there was a dramatic pause. Helen, more alarmed than she wished to admit, gave Margaret a questioning look, and received a trained but reassuring smile.

"Then I will go now—" she began, but instantly stopped. Like the others, she heard the quick trot of a horse, and the sound of rapid wheels approaching from the lodge.

"Who on earth can this be?" cried Margaret, blanching visibly,

The vehicle, a dog-cart, drew nearer. They all went to the window. Even the indifferent Robert rose and joined them.

Helen startled them by running out to the side of the drive.

"This time I am not mistaken," she cried hysterically. "It is Davie!"

The proceedings of the gentleman who jumped from the dog-cart left no doubt on the point. He brazenly kissed her, and in her excitement she seemed to like it.

She evidently whispered something to him, for his first words to Brett were:

"How did you find out—"

But the barrister was not anxious to let the cousin from Argentina into the secret of the search for him.

"I have found out nothing," he interrupted. "I have been at Beechcroft all the afternoon and evening. Meanwhile, you must be surprised to meet Mr. Robert Hume-Frazer here so unexpectedly."

David luckily grasped his friend's intention. Such information as he possessed must wait until they were alone. "How d'ye do, Bob?" he said, frankly holding out his hand. "Why have you left us alone all those years, to turn up at last in this queer way?"

The young man's kind greeting, his manly attitude, had an unlooked-for effect.

Robert ignored the proffered hand. He reached for his hat.

"I feel like a beastly interloper," he growled huskily. "Accept my apologies, Margaret, and you, Miss Layton. I will call in the morning. Mr. Brett, if you still hold to your offer, I will await you at the lodge, or any other place you care to name."

With blazing eyes, and mouth firmly set, he endeavoured to reach the open window. Brett barred his way.

"Sit down, man," he said sternly. "Why are you such a fool as to resist the kindness offered to you? I tried to make matters easy for you. Now I must speak plainly. You are weak with hunger."

He had seen what the others had missed. The colour in Robert's face was due to exposure, but he was otherwise drawn and haggard. His clothes were shabby. He had walked from Stowmarket because he could not afford to hire any means of conveyance.

The abject confession compelled by Brett's words was too much for him. He again collapsed into a chair and covered his face with his hands.



CHAPTER XVI

THE COUSINS

Brett was the only person present who kept his senses. Margaret was too shocked, the lovers too amazed, to speak coherently.

"Mr. Hume-Frazer has allowed himself to become run down," said the barrister, with the nonchalance of one who discussed the prospects of to-morrow's weather. "What he needs at the moment is some soup and a few biscuits. You, Mrs. Capella, might procure these without bringing the servants here, especially if Miss Layton were to help you."

Without a word, the two ladies quitted the room.

Robert looked up.

"You ring like good metal," he said to the barrister. "Is there any liquor in the dining-room? I feel a trifle hollow about the belt. A drink would do me good."

"Not until you have eaten something first," was the firm answer. "Are you so hard up that you could not buy food?"

"Well, the fact is, I have been on my beam ends during the past week. To-day I pawned a silver watch, but unfortunately returned to my lodgings, where my landlady made such a fiendish row about the bill that I gave her every penny. Then I pawned my overcoat, raising the exact fare to Stowmarket. I could not even pay for a 'bus from Gower Street to Liverpool Street. All I have eaten to-day was a humble breakfast at 8.30 a.m., and I suppose the sun and the journey wore me out. Still, you must be jolly sharp to see what was the matter. I thought I kept my end up pretty well."

David sat down by his side.

"Forgive me, old chap," continued Robert. "It broke me up to see that you were happy after all your troubles. You are engaged to a nice girl; Alan is dead; I am the only unlucky member of the family."

The man was talking quite sincerely. He even envied his murdered cousin. Nothing in his words, his suspicious mode of announcing his presence, the vague doubts that shadowed his past career, puzzled Brett so greatly as that chance phrase.

The ladies came back, laden with good things from the kitchen, which they insisted on carrying themselves, much to the astonishment of the servants.

All women are born actresses. Their behaviour before the domestics left the impression that some huge joke was toward in the library.

The tactful barrister drew Hume and Helen outside to discuss immediate arrangements. David promised faithfully to return from the rectory in fifteen minutes, and Brett re-entered the library.

Robert Hume-Frazer gave evidence of his semi-starvation. He tried to disguise his eagerness, but in vain. Biscuits, sandwiches, and soup vanished rapidly, until Margaret suggested a further supply.

"No, Rita," said her cousin; "I have fasted too often on the Pampas not to know the folly of eating too heartily. I will be all right now, especially when Mr. Brett produces the whisky he spoke about."

The barrister brought a decanter from the dining-room. The stranger was still an enigma. He placed bottle and glass on the table, wondering to what extent the man would help himself.

The quantity was small and well diluted. So this member of the family was not a drunkard.

"How did you come to be in such a state?" asked Margaret nervously. "It is hardly six months since I sent you L500; not a very large sum, I admit, but all you asked me for, and more than enough to live on for a much longer period."

Robert laughed pleasantly. It was the first token of returning confidence. He reached for a cigar, and sought Margaret's permission to smoke.

"My dear girl," he answered, "I am really a very unfortunate person. I own a hundred thousand acres of the best land in South America, and I have been in England nearly two years trying to raise capital to develop it. If I owned a salted reef or an American brewery I could have got the money for the asking. Because my stock-raising proposition is a sound paying concern, requiring a delay of at least three years before a penny of profit can be realised, I have worn my boots out in climbing up and down office stairs to no purpose. Out of your L500, nearly L400 went out at once to pay arrears of Government taxation to save my property. Of the remaining hundred I spent fifty in a fortnight on dinners and suppers given to a gang of top-hatted scoundrels, who, I found subsequently, were not worth a red cent. They hoped to fleece me in some way, and their very association discredited me in the eyes of one or two honest men. Oh, I have had a bad time of it, I can assure you!"

"Why did you not write to me again?"

He looked at her steadily before he explained:

"Because you are a woman."

"What has that got to do with it? I am your relative, and rich. How much do you want? If your scheme is really sound, I imagine my solicitors might sanction my co-operation."

Again he hesitated.

"Thank you, Rita. You are a good sort. But I am not here on a matter of high finance. I want you to lend me, say, L250. I will return to the Argentine, and take twenty years to accomplish what I could do in five with the necessary capital."

"Come and see me in the morning. The sum you name is absurdly small, in any case. Perhaps Mr. Brett will accompany you. His advice will be useful to both of us. Come early. I leave here to-morrow."

"Going away! Where to?"

"To Whitby, in Yorkshire."

"Well, that is curious," said Robert, who clearly did not like to question her about her husband.

"Mr. Capella is in Naples," she added. "I cannot say when he will return."

Her cousin's look was eloquent of his thoughts. He did not like the Italian, for some inexplicable reason, for to Margaret's knowledge they had never met.

The barrister naturally did not interfere in this family conclave. He listened intently, and had already drawn several inferences from the man's words. For the life of him he could not classify Robert Hume-Frazer. The man was either a consummate scoundrel, the cold-blooded murderer of Margaret's brother, or a maligned and ill-used man.

Within a few minutes he would be called upon to treat him in one category or the other. A few questions might elucidate matters considerably.

The hiatus in the conversation created by the mention of Capella gave him an opportunity.

"Did you endeavour to raise the requisite capital for your estate in London only?" he inquired.

"No; I tried elsewhere," was the quick rejoinder.

"Here, for instance, on the New Year's Eve before last?"

"Now, how the blazes did you learn that?" came the fierce demand, the speaker's excitement rendering him careless of the words he used.

"It is true, then?"

"Yes, but—"

"Robert!—" Margaret's voice was choking, and her face was woefully white once more—"were you—here—when Alan—was killed?"

"No, not exactly. This thing bewilders me. Let me explain. I saw him that afternoon. We had a furious quarrel. I never told you about it, Rita. It was a family matter. I do not hold you responsible. I—"

"Hold me responsible! What do you mean? Did you kill my brother?"

She rose to her feet. Her eyes seemed to peer into his soul. He, too, rose and faced her.

"By God," he cried, "this is too much! Why didn't you ask your husband that question?"

"Because my husband, with all his faults, is innocent of that crime. He was with me in London the night that Alan met his death."

"And I, too, was in London. I left Stowmarket at six o'clock."

"Having reached the place at 2.20?" interposed Brett.

The other turned to him with eager pleading.

"In Heaven's name, Mr. Brett, if you know all about my movements that day, disabuse Margaret's mind of the terrible idea that prompted her question."

"Why did you come here on that occasion?"

"The truth must out now. My two uncles swindled my father—that is, Margaret, your father led my Uncle David with him in a most unjust proceeding. My father took up some risky business in City finance, on the verbal understanding with his brothers that they would share profits or bear losses equally. The speculation failed, and your father basely withdrew from the compact, persuading the other brother to follow his lead. Perhaps there may have been some justification for his action, but my poor old dad was very bitter about it. The affair killed him. I made my own way in the world, and came here to ask Alan to undo the wrong done years ago, and help me to get on my feet. He was not in the best of tempers, and we fell out badly, using silly recriminations. I went back to London, and next day travelled to Monte Carlo, where I lost more money than I could afford. Believe me, I never even knew of Alan's death until I saw the reports of Davie's trial."

"Why did you not come forward then?"

"Why? No man could have better reasons. First, it seemed to me that Davie had killed him. Then, when the second trial ended, I came to the conclusion—Lord help my wits—that there was some underhanded work about the succession to the property, and my doubts appeared to receive confirmation by the news of Margaret's marriage. In any case, if I turned up to give evidence, I could only have helped to hang one of my own relatives."

"It never occurred to you that you might be suspected?"

"Never, on my honour! The suggestion is preposterous. You seem to know everything. Tell Margaret that I did leave Stowmarket by the train I named, that I stayed in the Hotel Victoria the same night, and left for the Riviera at 11 a.m. next day. Margaret, don't you believe me? You and I were sweethearts as children. Can you think I murdered your brother? Why, dear girl, I refrained from seeing your husband lest I should wound you by revealing my thoughts."

He placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her with such genuine emotion that she lifted her swimming eyes to his, and faltered:

"Forgive me, Robert, though I can never forgive myself. Your words shocked me. I am sorry. I am not mistaken now. You are innocent as I am."

"You have also convinced me, Mr. Frazer," said Brett quietly.

Robert gazed quickly from one to the other. Then he laughed constrainedly.

"I have been accused of several offences in my time," he said, "but this notion that got into your heads licks creation."

"What is the matter now?" said David Hume, entering through the window.



CHAPTER XVII

"CHERCHEZ LA FEMME"

The three men drove to Stowmarket in the same vehicle, the grooms returning in the second dog-cart.

On the way Robert Frazer—who may be designated by his second surname to distinguish him from his cousin—was anxious to learn what had caused the present recrudescence of inquiry into Alan's death. This was easily explained by David, and Brett took care to confine the conversation to general details.

Frazer was naturally keen to discover how the barrister came to be so well posted in his movements, and David listened eagerly whilst Brett related enough of the stationmaster's story to clear up that point.

Hume broke in with a laugh:

"That shows why he was so unusually attentive when I arrived this evening. He spotted me getting out of the train, and would not leave me until I was clear of the station. He was evidently determined to ascertain my exact identity without any mistake, for he began by asking if I were not Mr. David Hume-Frazer, laying stress on my Christian name. It surprised me a little, because I thought the old chap knew me well."

"Are you both absolutely certain that there are no other members of your family in existence?" asked Brett.

"It depends on how many of our precious collection you are acquainted with," said Robert.

"The only person Mr. Brett is not acquainted with is my father," exclaimed David stiffly.

"I was not alluding to him, of course. Indeed, I had no individual specially in my mind."

"Surely you had some motive for your remark?" questioned David. "The only remaining relative is Mrs. Capella."

"There again—how do you define the word 'relative.' I suppose, Mr. Brett, you are fairly well posted in the history of our house?"

"Yes."

"Well, has it never struck you that there was something queer about the manner of my Uncle Alan's marriage—Margaret's father, I mean?"

"Perhaps. What do you know about it?"

"Nothing definite. When I was a mid-shipman on board the Northumberland I have a lively recollection of a fiendish row between a man named Somers and another officer who passed some chaffing remark about my respected uncle's goings on in Italy. The officer in question had forgotten, or never knew, that Sir Alan married Somers's sister—they were Bristol people, I think—but he stuck to it that Sir Alan had an Italian wife. He had seen her."

Brett was driving, Frazer sitting by his side, and David leaning over the rail from the back seat. Had a bombshell dropped in their midst the two others could not have been more startled than by Robert's chance observation.

"Good Heavens!" cried Hume, "why has Capella gone to Italy?"

"That question may soon be answered," said Brett.

"Was that one of the other reasons you hinted at in the library when telling us why you did not volunteer evidence at the trial?" he asked Robert.

"It was. The cat is out of the bag now. I did not know where the affair might end, so I held my tongue. It also accounts for my unwillingness to meet Capella. I am very fond of Margaret. She is straight as a die, and I would not do anything to cause her suffering. In a word, I let sleeping dogs lie. If you can manage your matrimonial affairs without all this fuss, Davie, I should advise you to do the same."

"What are you hinting at? What new mystery is this?" cried Hume.

"Let us keep to solid fact for the present," interposed the barrister. "I wish I had met you sooner, Mr. Frazer. I would be nearing Naples now, instead of entering Stowmarket Have you any further information?"

"None whatever. Even what I have told you is the recollection of a boy who did not understand what the row was about. Where does it lead us, anyhow? What is known about Capella?"

"Very little. Unless I am much mistaken, he will soon tell us a good deal himself. I am beginning to credit him with the possession of more brains and powers of malice than I was at first inclined to admit. He is a dangerous customer."

"Look here," exclaimed Robert angrily. "If that wretched little Italian annoys Margaret in any way I will crack his doll's head."

They reached the hotel, where a room was obtained for Frazer, and David undertook to equip him out of his portmanteau. Brett left the cousins to arrange matters, and hurried to his sitting-room, where a number of telegrams awaited him.

Those from Hume he barely glanced at. David could tell his own story.

There were three from Winter. The first, despatched at 1.10 p.m., read:

"Capella and valet left by club train. Nothing doing Japanese."

The second was timed 4.30 p.m.:

"Jap, accompanied by tall, fat man, left home 2.45. They separated Piccadilly Circus. Followed Jap—("Oh, Winter!" groaned Brett)—and saw him enter British Museum. Four o'clock he met fat man again outside Tottenham Court Road Tube Station. They drove west in hansom. Heard address given. Am wiring before going same place."

This telegram had been handed in at an Oxford Street office.

The third, 7.30., p.m.:

"Nothing important. All quiet. Wiring before your local office closes."

The facetious Winter had signed these messages "Snow."

Brett promptly wrote a telegram to the detective's private address:

"Your signature should have been 'Frost.' If that fat man turns up again follow him. Call on Jap and endeavour to see his wife. You may be sadder but wiser. Meet me Victoria Street, 5 p.m. to-day."

He called a waiter and gave instructions that this message should be sent off early next morning. Then he lit a cigar to soothe his disappointment.

"I cannot emulate the House of Commons bird," he mused, "or at this moment I would be close to Jiro's flat in Kensington, and at the same time crossing Lombardy in an express. What an ass Winter is, to be sure, whenever a subtle stroke requires an ingenious guard. Jiro dresses his wife in male attire and sends her on an errand he dare not perform himself. The fact that they depart together from their residence is diplomatic in itself. If they are followed, the watcher is sure to shadow Jiro and leave his unknown friend. Just imagine Winter dodging Jiro around the Rosetta Stone or the Phoebus Apollo, whilst the woman is visiting some one or some place of infinite value to our search. It is positively maddening."

Perhaps, in his heart, Brett felt that Winter was not so greatly to blame. The sudden appearance on the scene of a portly and respectable stranger was disconcerting, but could hardly serve as an excuse for leaving Jiro's trail at the point of bifurcation.

Moreover, it is difficult to suspect stout people of criminal tendencies. Winter had the best of negative evidence that they are not adapted for "treasons, spoils, and stratagems." Even a convicted rogue, if corpulent, demands sympathy.

But Brett was very sore. He stamped about the room and kicked unoffending chairs out of the way. His unfailing instinct told him that a rare opportunity had been lost. It was well for Winter that he was beyond reach of the barrister's tongue. A valid defence would have availed him naught.

David entered.

"I just seized an opportunity—" he commenced eagerly, but Brett levelled his cigar at him as if it were a revolver.

"You want to tell me," he cried, "that before you were two hours in Portsmouth you ascertained Frazer's address from an old friend. You caught the next train for London, went to his lodgings, encountered a nagging landlady, and found that your cousin had taken his overcoat to the pawnbroker's to raise money for his fair to Stowmarket You drove frantically to Liverpool Street, interviewed a smart platform inspector, and he told you—"

"That all I had to do was to ask Brett, and he would not only give me a detailed history of my own actions, but produce the very man he sent me in search of," interrupted David, laughing. Nothing the barrister said or did could astonish him now.

"What has upset you?" he went on. "I hope I made no mistakes."

"None. Your conduct has been irreproachable. But you erred greatly in the choice of your parents. There are far too many Hume-Frazers in existence."

"Please tell me what is the matter?"

"Read those." Brett tossed the detective's telegrams across the table.

Hume puzzled over them.

"I think we ought to know who that fat man was," he said.

"We do know. She is a fat woman, the ex-barmaid from Ipswich. Next time, they will send out the youthful Jiro in a perambulator."

"But why are you so furious about it?" demanded Hume. "Was it so important to ascertain what she did during that hour and a quarter?"

"Important! It is the only real clue given us since 'Rabbit Jack' saw a man like you standing motionless in the avenue."



CHAPTER XVIII

FURTHER COMPLICATIONS

Brett devoted half an hour to Frazer's business affairs next morning. David was present, and the result of the conclave is shown by the following excerpt from a letter the barrister sent by them to Mrs. Capella, incidentally excusing his personal attendance at the Hall:

"In my opinion, your cousin David and you should guarantee the payment of the land-tax on Mr. Frazer's estate—L650 per annum—for five years. You should give him a reasonable sum to rehabilitate his wardrobe and pay the few small debts he has contracted, besides allowing him a weekly stipend to enable him to live properly for another year. I will place him in touch with sound financial people, who will exploit his estate if they think the prospects are good, and you can co-operate in the scheme, if you are so advised by your solicitors, with whom the financiers I recommend will carry weight. Failing support in England, Mr. Frazer says he can make his own way in the Argentine if helped in the manner I suggest."

He explained to the two young men that his movements that day would be uncertain. If the ladies still adhered to their resolve to proceed to London forthwith, the whole party would stay at the same hotel. In that event they should send a telegram to his Victoria Street chambers, and he would dine with them. Otherwise they must advise him of their whereabouts.

Left to himself, he curled up In an arm-chair, knotting legs and arms in the most uncomfortable manner, and rendering it necessary to crane his neck before he could remove a cigar from his lips.

In such posture, alternated with rapid walking about the room, he could think best.

The waiter, not knowing that the barrister had remained in the hotel, came in to see what trifles might be strewed about table or mantelpiece in the shape of loose "smokes" or broken hundreds of cigarettes.

Like most people, his eyes could only observe the expected, the normal. No one was standing or sitting in the usual way—therefore the room was empty.

A box of Brett's Turkish cigarettes was lying temptingly open. He advanced.

"Touch those, and I slay you," snapped Brett. "Your miserable life is not worth one of them."

The man jumped as if he had been fired at. The barrister, coiled up like a boa-constrictor, glared at him in mock fury.

"I beg pardon, sir," he blurted out, "I didn't know you was in."

"Evidently. A more expert scoundrel would have stolen them under my very nose. You are a bungler."

"I really wasn't goin' to take any, sir—just put them away, that is all."

"In that packet," said Brett, "there are eighty-seven cigarettes. I count them, because each one is an epoch. I don't count the cigars in the sideboard."

"I prefer cigars," grinned the waiter.

"So I see. You have two of the landlord's best 'sixpences' in the left pocket of your waistcoat at this moment."

"Well, if you ain't a fair scorcher," the man gasped.

"What, you rascal, would you call me names?"

Brett writhed convulsively, and the waiter backed towards the door.

"No, sir, I was callin' no names. We don't get too many perks—we waiters don't, sir. I was out of bed until one o'clock and up again at six. That's wot I call hard work, sir."

"It is outrageous. Take five cigars."

"Thank you kindly, sir."

"What kept you up till one o'clock?"

"Gossip, sir—just silly gossip. All about Mrs. Capella, an' Beechcroft, an' I don't know wot"

"Indeed, and who was so interested in these topics as to spoil your beauty sleep?"

"The new gentleman, who is so like Mr. David."

"How very interesting," said the barrister, who certainly did not expect this revelation.

"It seemed to be interesting to 'im, sir. You see, the 'ouse is pretty full, and when you brought 'im 'ere last night, sir, the bookkeeper gev' 'im the room next to mine. Last thing, I fetched the gentleman a Scotch an' soda an' a cigar. 'E said 'e couldn't sleep, and 'e was lookin' at a fotygraf. I caught a squint at it, an' I sez, 'Beg parding, sir, but ain't that Mrs. Capella—Miss Margaret as used to be?' That started 'im."

"You surprise me."

"And the gentleman surprised me," confided the waiter, whose greatest conversational effects were produced by quickly adapting remarks made to him. "P'r'aps you are not aware, sir, that the lady's Eye-talian 'usbin' ain't no good?"

"I have heard something of the sort."

"Then you've heard something right, sir. They do say as 'ow 'e beats her."

"The scoundrel!"

"Scoundrel! You should 'ave seen No. 18 last night when I tole 'im that. My conscience! 'E went on awful, 'e did. 'E seemed to be mad about Mrs. Capella."

"He is her cousin."

"Cousin! That won't wash, sir, beggin' your pardon. You an' me knows better than that"

"I tell you again he is her cousin."

The waiter absent-mindedly dusted the back of a chair.

"Well, sir, it isn't for the likes of me to be contradictious, but I've got two sisters an' 'arf-a-dozen cousins, an' I don't go kissin' their pictures an' swearin' to 'ave it out with their 'usbin's."

"Oh, come now. You are romancing."

"Not a bit, sir. When I went to my room I—er—'eard 'im."

"Is there a wooden partition between No. 18 and your room?"

"Yes, sir."

"And cracks—large ones?"

"Yes, sir. But why you should—oh, I see! Excuse me, sir; I thought I 'eard a bell."

The waiter hurried off, and Brett unwound himself.

"So Robert is in love with Margaret," he said, laughing unmirthfully. "Was there ever such a tangle! If I indulge in a violent flirtation with Miss Layton, and I persuade Winter to ogle Mrs. Jiro, the affair should be artistically complete."

The conceit brought Ipswich to his mind. He was convinced that the main line of inquiry lay in the direction of Mr. Numagawa Jiro and the curious masquerading of his colossal spouse.

He had vaguely intended to visit the local police. Now he made up his mind to go to Ipswich and thence to London. Further delay at Stowmarket was useless.

Before his train quitted the station he made matters right with the stationmaster by explaining to him the identity of the two men who had attracted his attention the previous evening. Somehow, the barrister imagined that the third visitant of that fateful New Year's Eve two years ago would not trouble the neighbourhood again. Herein he was mistaken.

At the county town he experienced little difficulty in learning the antecedents of Mrs. Numagawa Jiro.

In the first hotel he entered he found a young lady behind the bar who was not only well acquainted with Mrs. Jiro, but remembered the circumstances of the courtship.

"The fact is," she explained, "there are a lot of silly girls about who think every man with a dark skin is a prince in his own country if only he wears a silk hat and patent leather boots."

"Is that all?" said Brett.

"All what?" cried the girl. "Oh, don't be stupid! I mean when they are well dressed. Princess, indeed! Catch me marrying a nigger."

"But Japanese are not niggers."

"Well, they're not my sort, anyhow. And fancy a great gawk like Flossie Bird taking on with a little man who doesn't reach up to her elbow. It was simply ridiculous. What did you say her name is now?"

He gave the required information, and went on:

"Had Mr. Jiro any other friends in Ipswich to your knowledge?"

"He didn't know a soul. He was here for the Assizes, about some case, I think. Oh, I remember—the 'Stowmarket Mystery'—and he stayed at the hotel where Flossie was engaged. How she ever came to take notice of him, I can't imagine. She was a queer sort of girl—used to wear bloomers, and get off her bike to clout the small boys who chi-iked at her."

"Do her people live here?"

"Yes, and a rare old row they made about her marriage—for she is married, I will say that for her. But why are you so interested in her?"

The fair Hebe glanced in a mirror to confirm her personal opinion that there were much nicer girls than Flossie Bird left in Ipswich.

"Not in her," said Brett; "in the example she set."

"What do you mean?"

"If a little Japanese can come to this town and carry off a lady of her size and appearance, what may not a six-foot Englishman hope to accomplish?"

"Oh, go on!"

He took her advice, and went on to the hotel patronised by Mr. Jiro during his visit to Ipswich. The landlord readily showed him the register for the Assize week. Most of the guests were barristers and solicitors, many of them known personally to Brett. None of the other names struck him as important, though he noted a few who arrived on the same day as the Japanese, "Mr. Okasaki."

He took the next train to London, and reached Victoria Street, to find Mr. Winter awaiting him, and carefully nursing a brown paper parcel.

"I got your wire, Mr. Brett," he explained, "and this morning after Mr. Jiro went out alone—"

"Where did he go to?"

"The British Museum."

"What on earth was he doing there?"

"Examining manuscripts, my assistant told me. He was particularly interested in—let me see—it is written on a bit of paper. Here it is, the 'Nihon Guai Shi,' the 'External History of Japan,' compiled by Rai Sanyo, between 1806 and 1827, containing a history of each of the military families. That is all Greek to me, but my man got the librarian to jot it down for him."

"Your man has brains. What were you going to say when I interrupted you?"

"Only this. No fat companion appeared to day, so I called at No. 17 St. John's Mansions in my favourite character as an old clo' man."

The barrister expressed extravagant admiration in dumb show, but this did not deceive the detective, who, for some reason, was downcast.

"I saw Mrs. Jiro, and knew in an instant that she was the stout gentleman who left her husband at Piccadilly Circus yesterday. I was that annoyed I could hardly do a deal. However, here they are."

He began to unfasten the string which fastened the brown paper parcel.

"Here are what?" cried Brett.

"Mrs. Jiro's coat, and trousers, and waistcoat," replied Winter desperately. "She doesn't want 'em any more; sold 'em for a song—glad to be rid of 'em, in fact."

He unfolded a suit of huge dimensions, surveying each garment ruefully, as though reproaching it personally for the manner in which it had deceived him.

Then Brett sat down and enjoyed a burst of Homeric laughter.



CHAPTER XIX

THE THIRD MAN APPEARS

The Rev. Wilberforce Layton raised no objection to his daughter's excursion to London with Mrs. Capella. Indeed, he promised to meet them in Whitby a week later, and remain there during August. Mrs. Eastham pleaded age and the school treat.

It was, therefore, a comparatively youthful party which Brett joined at dinner in one of the great hotels in Northumberland Avenue.

Someone had exercised rare discretion in ordering a special meal; the wines were good, and two at least of the company merry as emancipated school children.

The barrister soon received ample confirmation of the discovery made by the Stowmarket waiter.

Robert Hume-Frazer was undoubtedly in love with his cousin, or, to speak correctly, for the ex-sailor was a gentleman, he had been in love with her as a boy, and now secretly grieved over a hopeless passion.

Whether Margaret was conscious of this devotion or not Brett was unable to decide. By neither word nor look was Robert indiscreet. When she was present he was lively and talkative, entertaining the others with snatches of strange memories drawn from an adventurous career.

It was only when she quitted their little circle that Brett detected the mask of angry despair that settled for a moment on the young man's face, and rendered him indifferent to other influences until he resolutely aroused himself.

Yet, on the whole, a great improvement was visible in Frazer. Attired in one of David's evening dress suits, carefully groomed and trimmed, he no sooner donned the garments which gave him the outward semblance of an aristocrat than he dropped the curt, somewhat coarse, mannerisms which hitherto distinguished him from his cousin.

Beyond a more cosmopolitan style of speech, he was singularly like David in person and deportment. They resembled twins rather than first cousins. They were both remarkably fine-looking men, tall, wiry, and in splendid condition. It was only the slightly more attenuated features of Robert that made it possible, even for Brett, to distinguish one from the other at a little distance.

Helen was pleased to be facetious on the point.

"Really, Davie," she said, "now that your cousin has come amongst us, you must remove your beard at once."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you are so alike that some evening, in these dark corridors, I shall mistake Mr. Frazer for you."

"That won't be half bad," laughed Robert.

Nellie blushed, and endeavoured to evade the consequences of her own remark.

"I meant," she exclaimed, "that you would be sure to laugh at me if I treated you as Davie."

"Not at all. I would consider it a cousinly duty to make you believe I was David, and not myself."

"Then," she cried, "I will guard against any possibility of error by treating both of you as Mr. Robert Hume-Frazer until I am quite sure."

"Waiter!" said David, "where is the barber's shop?"

Helen became redder than ever, but they enjoyed the joke at her expense. The waiter politely informed his questioner that the barber would not be on duty until the morning at 8 a.m.

"Then book the first chair for me!" said David.

"And the second for me!" joined in Robert.

"Mr. Brett," said Margaret, "don't you consider this competition perfectly disgraceful?"

"I am overjoyed," he replied. "It appears to me that the result must be personally most satisfactory."

"In what way?"

"It is obvious that you have no resource but to accept my willing slavery, Miss Layton having monopolised the attentions of your two cousins."

"Hello!" cried Frazer. "This is an unexpected attack. Miss Layton, I resign. Have no fear. In the darkest corridor I will warn you that my name is 'Robert.'"

Though the words were carelessly good-humoured, they were just a trifle emphatic. The incident passed, but they recalled it subsequently under very different circumstances.

Brett went home about ten o'clock. Next day at noon he was arranging for the immediate delivery of a type-writer machine, sold by Mr. Numagawa Jiro to a West End exchange, when a telegram reached him:

"Come at once. Urgent.—HUME."

He drove to the hotel, where David and Helen were sitting in the foyer awaiting his arrival.

Hume had kept his promise anent the barber. He no longer desired to alter his appearance in any way, and had only grown a beard on account of his sensitiveness regarding his two trials at the Assizes.

But the fun of the affair had quite gone.

Helen was pale, David greatly perturbed.

"A terrible thing has happened," he said, in a low voice, when he grasped the barrister's hand. "Someone tried to kill Bob an hour ago."

The blank amazement on Brett's face caused him to add hurriedly:

"It is quite true. He had the narrowest escape. He is in bed now. The doctor is examining him. We have secured the next room to his, and Margaret is there with a nurse."

The barrister made no reply, but accompanied them to Frazer's apartment. In the adjoining room they found Margaret, terribly scared, but listening eagerly to the doctor's cheery optimism.

"It is nothing," he was saying, "a severe squeeze, some slight abrasions, and a great nervous shock, quite serious in its nature, although your friend makes light of it, and wishes to get up at once. I think, however—"

A nurse entered.

"The patient insists upon my leaving the room," she cried angrily. "He is dressing."

They heard Robert's voice:

"Confound it, I have been rolled on three times in one day by a bucking broncho, and thought nothing of it. I absolutely refuse to stop in bed!"

The doctor resigned professional responsibility; and the nature of Margaret's cheque caused him to admit that, to a man accustomed to South American ponies, unbroken, the nervous shock might not amount to much.

Indeed, Robert appeared almost immediately, and in a bad temper.

"I lost my wind," he explained, "when that horse fell on me, and everyone promptly imagined I was killed. I hope, Margaret, the needless excitement of my appearance on a stretcher did not alarm you. They were going to whip me off to the hospital when I managed to gurgle out the name of the hotel."

"What happened?" said Brett.

"The most extraordinary thing. Have you told him, Davie?"

"No, I attributed your first words to me as being due to delirium. I had no idea you were in earnest."

"Well, Mr. Brett," said Frazer, sitting down, for notwithstanding his protests, he was somewhat shaky, "it began to rain after breakfast."

"Excellent!" cried the barrister, "An Englishman, in his sound mind, always starts with the state of the weather."

"I am sound enough, thank goodness, but I had a very close shave. Don't laugh, Davie. My ribs are sore. As the ladies decided not to go out until the weather took up, Davie said he would keep them company whilst I seized the opportunity to visit a tailor. I left the hotel and walked quickly to the corner of Whitehall. It was hardly worth while taking a cab to Bond Street, and I intended to cross in front of King Charles's statue. It is an awkward place, and a lot of 'buses, cabs, and vans were bowling along downhill from the Strand and St. Martin's Church. I waited a moment on the kerbstone, watching for a favourable opportunity, when suddenly I was pitched head foremost in front of a passing 'bus. My escape from instant death was solely due to the splendid way in which the driver handled his horses and applied his brake. The near horse was swung round so sharp that he fell and landed almost, not quite, on the top of me. I could feel his hot, reeking body against my face, and although the greater part of his impact was borne by the road, I got enough to knock the breath out of me. You will see by the state of my clothes in the other room how I was flattened in the mud. By the way, Davie, it is your suit."

Helen choked back something she was going to say, and Frazer continued:

"A policeman pulled me from under the horse, and I kept my senses sufficiently to note how the near front wheel had gouged a channel in the mud within an inch or so of my head. It went over my hat. Where is it?"

Hume ran into the bedroom, and returned with a bowler hat torn to shreds.

"There you are," said Robert coolly, "Fancy my head in that condition."

"You used the word 'pitched.' Do you mean that someone cannoned against you?"

"Not a bit of it. It was no accident of a hurrying man blindly following an umbrella. I have been a sailor, Mr. Brett, and am accustomed to maintaining my balance in a sudden lurch. I do it intuitively. It is as much a part of my second self as using my eyes or ears with unconscious accuracy. Some man—a big, powerful man—designedly threw me down, and did so very scientifically, first pressing his knee against the tendons of my left leg, and then using his elbow. Not one in a thousand Londoners would know the trick."

"You are a first-rate witness. Pray go on," said Brett.

"Being a sailor, however, I did manage to twist round slightly as I fell, and I'm blessed if I didn't think it was Davie here who did it."

The barrister's keen face lighted curiously. The others, closely watching him, afterwards agreed that he reminded them of a greyhound straining after a luckless hare.

"That seems to interest you, Mr. Brett," said Frazer. "I assure you the momentary impression was very distinct. My assailant was dressed like Davie, too, in dark blue serge, and wore a beard. For the moment I forgot that Davie had visited the barber this morning, and I blurted out something when he met me being carried in through the hall."

"Yes," exclaimed Hume. "You said: 'Davie, why did you try to murder me?' I was sure you were delirious, as I had not left Nellie and Margaret for an instant since you went out."

"That is so," cried Helen.

Margaret uttered no word. She sat, with hands clasped, and pale, set face, watching her cousin as if his story had a mesmeric effect.

"I'm awfully sorry," said Frazer penitently. "I knew at once I was a fool, but you see, old chap, I remembered you best as I had seen you during the previous twenty-four hours, and not as you looked at breakfast this morning. Do forgive me."

But Brett broke in impatiently:

"My dear fellow, your natural mistake is the most important thing that has happened since your cousin Alan met his death. The man who attacked you mistook you, in turn, for David. He will try again. I wonder if your accident will be reported in the papers?"

"Yes," said Hume. "A youngster came to me, inquired all about Robert, and seemed to be quite sorry he was not mangled."

"Then it will be your affair next time. Keep a close look-out whenever you are alone. If anyone resembling yourself lays a hand on you, try and detain him at all costs."

"Mr. Brett!" shrieked Helen, "you surely cannot mean it."

His enthusiasm had caused him to ignore her presence. For the next five minutes he was earnestly engaged in explaining away his uncanny request.



CHAPTER XX

THE TRAIL

Standing on the steps of the hotel, Brett cast a searching glance along the line of waiting hansoms. He wanted a strong, sure-footed horse, one of those marvellous animals, found only in the streets of London, which trots like a dog, slides down Savoy Street on its hind legs, slips in and out among the traffic like an eel, and covers a steady eight miles an hour for a seemingly indefinite period.

"Shall I whistle for a cab, sir?" said the hall-porter.

"No. You whistle without discrimination," replied the barrister.

He found the stamp of gee-gee he needed fourth on the rank.

"How long has your horse been out of the stable?" he asked the driver.

"I've just driven him here, sir."

"Is he up to a hard day's work?"

"The best tit in London, sir."

"Pull him up to the pavement."

The man obeyed. Instantly his three predecessors on the rank began a chorus:

"'Ere! Wot th'—"

"All right, Jimmy. Wait till—"

"Well, I'm—"

"What is the matter?" inquired Brett, "You fellows always squeal before you are hurt. Here is a fare each for you," and he solemnly gave them a shilling a-piece.

Even then they were not satisfied. They all objurgated Jimmy for his luck as he drove off.

It was an easy matter to find the constable who had been on point duty at the crossing when the "accident" happened. This man produced his note-book containing the number of the Road Car Company's Camden Town and Victoria 'bus, the driver of which had so cleverly avoided a catastrophe. The policeman knew nothing of events prior to the falling of the horse. There was the usual crowd of hurrying people; the scream of a startled woman; a rush of sightseers; and the rescue of Frazer from beneath the prostrate animal.

"Did you chance to notice the destination of the omnibus immediately preceding the Road Car vehicle?" said Brett.

"Yes, sir. It was an Atlas."

"Have you noted the exact time the accident occurred?"

"Here it is, sir—10.45 a.m."

At Victoria he was lucky in hitting upon the Camden Town 'bus itself, drawn up outside the District Railway Station, waiting its turn to enter the enclosure.

The driver was a sharp fellow, and disinclined to answer questions. Brett might be an emissary of the enemy. But a handsome tip and the assurance that a very substantial present would be forwarded to his address by the friends of the gentleman whose life he saved unloosed his tongue.

"I never did see anything like it, sir," he confided. "The road was quite clear, an' I was bowlin' along to get the inside berth from a General just behind, when this yer gent was chucked under the 'osses' 'eds. Bli-me, I would ha' thort 'e was a suicide if I 'adn't seed a bloke shove 'im orf the kerb."

"Oh, you saw that, did you?"

"Couldn't 'elp it, sir. I was lookin' aht for fares. Jack, my mate, sawr it too."

The conductor thus appealed to confirmed the statement. They both described the assailant as very like his would-be victim in size, appearance, and garments.

Jack said he could do nothing, because the sudden swerving of the 'bus, the fall of the horse, and the instant gathering of a crowd, prevented him from making the attempt to grab the other man, who vanished, he believed, down Whitehall.

"You did not tell the police about the assault?" inquired Brett.

"Not me, guv'nor," said the driver. "The poor chap in the road was not much 'urt. I knew that, though the mob thort 'e was a dead 'un. An' wot does it mean? A day lost in the polis-court, an' a day lost on my pay-sheet, too."

"Well," said Brett, "the twist you gave to the reins this morning meant several days added to your pay-sheet. Would either of you know the man again if you saw him?"

This needed reflection.

"I wouldn't swear to 'im," was the driver's dictum, "but I would swear to any man bein' like 'im."

"Same 'ere," said the conductor.

The barrister understood their meaning, which had not the general application implied by the words. He obtained the addresses of both men and left them.

His next visit was to an Atlas terminus. Here he had to wait a full hour before the 'bus arrived that had passed Trafalgar Square on a south journey at 10.45.

The conductor remembered the sudden stoppage of the Road Car vehicle.

"Ran over a man, sir, didn't it?" he inquired.

"Nearly, not quite. Now, I want you to fix your thoughts on the passengers who entered your 'bus at that point. Can you describe them?"

The man smiled.

"It's rather a large order, sir," he said. "I've been past there twice since. If it's anybody you know particular, and you tell me what he was like, I may be able to help you."

Brett would have preferred the conductor's own unaided statement, but seeing no help for it, he gave the man a detailed description of David Hume, plus the beard.

"Has he got black, snaky eyes and high cheek-bones?" the conductor inquired thoughtfully.

The barrister had described a fair man, with brown hair; and the question in no way indicated the colour of the Hume-Frazer eyes. Yet the odd combination caught his attention.

"Yes," he said, "that may be the man."

"Well, sir, I didn't pick him up there, but I dropped him there at nine o'clock. I picked him up at the Elephant, and noticed him particular because he didn't pay the fare for the whole journey, but took penn'orths."

"I am greatly obliged to you. Would you know him again?"

"Among a thousand! He had a funny look, and never spoke. Just shoved a penny out whenever I came on top. Twice I had to refuse it."

"Was he a foreigner?"

"Not to my idea. He looked like a Scotchman. Don't you know him, sir?"

"Not yet. I hope to make his acquaintance. Can you remember the 'bus which was in front of you at Whitehall at 10.45?"

"Yes; I can tell you that. It was a Monster, Pimlico. The conductor is a friend of mine, named Tomkins. That is the only time I have seen him to-day."

At the Monster, Pimlico, after another delay, Tomkins was produced. Again Brett described David Hume, adorned now with "black, snaky eyes and high cheek-bones."

"Of course," said Tomkins. "I've spotted 'im. 'E came aboard wiv a run just arter a hoss fell in front of the statoo. Gimme a penny, 'e did, an' jumped orf at the 'Orse Guards without a ticket afore we 'ad gone a 'undred yards. I thort 'e was frightened or dotty, I did. Know 'im agin? Ra—ther. Eyes like gimlets, 'e 'ad."

The barrister regained the seclusion of the hansom.

"St John's Mansions, Kensington," he said to the driver, and then he curled up on the seat in the most uncomfortable attitude permitted by the construction of the vehicle.

On nearing his destination he stopped the cab at a convenient corner.

"I want you to wait here for my return," he told the driver.

"How long will you be, sir?"

"Not more than fifteen minutes."

"I only asked, sir, because I wanted to know if I had time to give the horse a feed."

Cabby was evidently quite convinced that his eccentric fare was not a bilker.

Brett glanced around. In the neighbouring street was a public-house, which possessed what the agents call "a good pull-up trade." He pointed to it.

"I think," he said, "if you wait there it will be more comfortable for you and equally good for the horse."

The cabby pocketed an interim tip with a grin.

"I've struck it rich to-day," he murmured, as he disappeared through a swing door bearing the legend, "Tap," in huge letters.

Meanwhile, Brett sauntered past St. John's Mansions. Across the road a man was leaning against the railings of a large garden, being deeply immersed in the columns of a sporting paper.

The barrister caught his eye and walked on. A minute later Mr. Winter overtook him.

"Not a move here all day," he said in disgust, "except Mrs. Jiro's appearance with the perambulator. She led me all round Kensington Gardens, and her only business was to air the baby and cram it with sponge-cakes."

"Where is her husband?"

"In the house. He hasn't stirred out since yesterday's visit to the Museum."

"Who is looking after the place in your absence?"

"One of my men has taken a room over the paper shop opposite. He has special charge of the Jap. My second assistant is scraping and varnishing the door of No. 16 flat. He sees every one who enters and leaves the place during the day. If Mrs. Jiro comes out he has to follow her until he sees that I am on the job."

"Good! I want to talk matters over with you. I have a cab waiting in a side street."

"Why, sir, has anything special happened?"

A newsboy came running along shouting the late edition of the Evening News. The barrister bought a paper and rapidly glanced through its contents.

"Here you are," he said. "Someone in that office has a good memory."

The item which Brett pointed out to the detective read as follows:—

"ACCIDENT IN WHITEHALL.

"Mr. Robert Hume-Frazer, residing in one of the great hotels in Northumberland Avenue, was knocked down and nearly run over by an omnibus in Whitehall this morning. The skill of the driver averted a very serious accident. It is supposed that Mr. Hume-Frazer slipped whilst attempting to cross before the policeman on duty at that point stopped the traffic.

"The injured gentleman was carried to his hotel, where he is staying with his cousin, Mr. David Hume-Frazer, whose name will be recalled in connection with the famous 'Stowmarket Mystery' of last year."

"What does it all mean?" inquired Winter.

"It means that you must listen carefully to what I am going to tell you. Here is my cab. Jump in. Driver, I am surprised that a man of your intelligence should waste your money on a public-house cigar. Throw it away. Here is a better one. And now, Victoria Street, sharp."

Winter's ears were pricked to receive Brett's intelligence. Beyond a sigh of professional admiration at the result of Brett's pertinacity with regard to the omnibuses passing through Whitehall at 10.45, he did not interrupt until the barrister had ended.

Even then he was silent, so Brett looked at him in surprise,

"Well, Winter, what do you think of it?" he said.

"Think! I wish I had half your luck, Mr. Brett," he answered sadly.

"How now, you green-eyed monster?"

"No. I'm not jealous. You beat me at my own game; I admit it. I would never have thought of going for the 'buses. I suppose you would have interviewed the driver and conductor of every vehicle on that route before you gave in. You didn't trouble about the hansoms. Hailing a cab was a slow business, and risked subsequent identification. To jump on to a moving 'bus was just the thing. Yes, there is no denying that you are d—d smart."

"Winter, your unreasonable jealousy is making you vulgar."

"Wouldn't any man swear, sir? Why did I let such a handful as Mrs. Jiro slip through my fingers the other day? Clue! Why, it was a perfect bale of cotton. If I had only followed her instead of that little rat, her husband, we would now know where the third man lives, and have the murderer of Sir Alan under our thumb. It is all my fault, though sometimes I feel inclined to blame the police system—a system that won't even give us telephones between one station and another. Never mind. Wait till I tackle the next job for the Yard. I'll show 'em a trick or two."



CHAPTER XXI

CONCERNING CHICKENS, AND MOTIVES

The detective cooled off by the time they reached Brett's flat. On the dining-room tables they found two telegrams and a Remington type-writer.

The messages were from Holden, Naples.

The first: "Johnson arrived here this morning."

The second: "Johnson's proceedings refer to poorhouse and church registers."

"Johnson is Capella," explained Winter. "I forgot to tell you we had arranged that."

Brett surveyed the second telegram so intently that the detective inquired:

"How do you read that, sir?"

"Capella is securing copies of certificates—marriages, births, or deaths; perhaps all three. He is also getting hold of living witnesses."

"Of what?"

"He will tell us himself. He is preparing a bombshell of sorts. It will explode here. Goodness only knows who will be blown up by it."

He took the cover off the type-writer, seized a sheet of paper, and began to manipulate the keyboard with the methodical carefulness of one unaccustomed to its use.

He wrote:

"About Stowmarket. David Hume Frazer killed cousin. Cousin talked girl in road. Girl waited wood. David Hume Frazer met girl in wood after 1 a.m."

"Do you mean to say," cried the detective, "that you can remember the anonymous letter word for word? You have only seen it once, and that was several days ago."

"Not only word for word, but the spacing, the number of words in a line, the lines between which creases appear. Look, Winter. Here is the small broken 'c,' the bent capital 'D,' the letter 'a' out of register. Where is the original?"

"Here, in my pocket-book."

They silently compared the two typed sheets. It needed no expert to note that they had been written by the same machine.

"It would take a clever counsel to upset that piece of evidence," said Winter. "I wish I had hold of the writer."

"You have spoken to him several times."

"Surely you cannot mean Jiro!"

"Who else? Jiro is but the tool of a superior scoundrel. He is just beginning to suspect the fact, and trying to use it for his own benefit. I wish I was in Naples with your friend Holden."

"But, Mr. Brett, the murderer is in London! What about this morning's attempt—"

"My dear fellow, you are already constructing the gallows. Leave that to the gaol officials. What we do not yet know is the motive. The key to the mystery is in Naples, probably in Capella's hands at this moment. If I were there it would be in mine, too. Do not question me, Winter. I am not inspired. I can only indulge in vague imaginings. Capella will bring the reality to London."

"Then what are we to do meanwhile?"

"Await events patiently. Watch Jiro with the calm persistence of a cat watching a hole into which a mouse has disappeared. At this moment, eat something."

He rang for Smith, and told him to attend to the wants of the waiting cabman, whilst Mrs. Smith made the speediest arrangements for an immediate dinner.

The two men sat down, and Winter could not help asking another question.

"Why are you keeping the cab, Mr. Brett?"

"Because I am superstitious."

The detective opened wide his eyes at this unlooked-for statement.

"I mean it," said the barrister. "Look at all I have learnt to-day whilst darting about London in that particular hansom, which, mind you, I carefully selected from a rank of twenty. Abandon it until I am dropped at my starting-point! Never!"

Winter sighed.

"I never feel that way about anything on wheels," he said. "Do you really think you will be able to clear up this affair, sir? It seems to me to be a bigger muddle now than when I left it after the second trial. Don't laugh at me. That is awkwardly put, I know. But then we had a straightforward crime to deal with. Now, goodness knows where we have landed."

Smith entered, and commenced laying the table. Brett did not reply to the detective's spoken reverie. Both men idly watched the deft servant's preparations.

"Smith," suddenly cried the master of the household, "what sort of chicken have we for dinner?"

"Cold chicken, sir."

"Thank you. As you seem to demand Miltonic precision in phrase, I amend my words. What breed of chicken have we for dinner?"

"A dorking, sir."

"And how do you know it is a dorking?"

"Oh, there's lots of ways of knowin' that, sir. You can tell by the size, by its head and feet, and by the tuft of feathers left on its neck."

"Q.E.D."

"Beg pardon, sir!"

"I was only saying, 'Right you are!'"

Smith went out, and Brett turned to his companion:

"Did you note Smith's philosophy in the matter of dorkings?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"Does it convey no moral to you? I fear not. Now mark me, Winter. Just as the breed of the chicken is indelibly stamped on it in the eyes of a man skilled in chickens, so is the murder we are investigating marked by characteristics so plain that a child of ten, properly trained to use his eyes, might discern them. What you and I suffer from are defects implanted by idle nursemaids and doting mothers. Let us, for the moment, adopt the policy of the theosophists and sit in consultation apart from our astral bodies. Who killed Sir Alan Hume-Frazer? I answer, a relative. What relative? Someone we do not know, whom he did not know, or who committed murder because he was known. What sort of person is the murderer? A man physically like either David or Robert, so like that 'Rabbit Jack' would swear to the identity of either of them as readily as to the person of the real murderer. Why did he use such a weird instrument as the Ko-Katana? Because he found it under his hand and recognised its sinister purpose, to be left implanted in the breast or brain of an enemy's lifeless body. Where is the man now? In London, perhaps outside this building, perhaps watching the Northumberland Avenue Hotel, waiting quietly for another chance to take the life of the person who caused us to reopen this inquiry. To sum up, Winter, let us find such an individual, a Hume-Frazer with black, deadly eyes, with a cold, calculating, remorseless brain, with a knowledge of trick and fence not generally an attribute of the Anglo-Saxon race—let us lay hands on him, I say, and you can book him for kingdom come, via the Old Bailey."

"Yes, sir!" broke in Winter excitedly. "But the motive!"

"Et tu, Brute! Would the disciple rend his master? Have I not told you that Capella will bring that knowledge with him from Naples? I have hopes even of your long-nosed friend, Holden, giving us all the details we need."

"What did the murderer steal from Sir Alan's writing-desk, from the drawer broken open before the blow was struck?"

Smith entered, bearing a chicken.

"The motive, Winter! The motive!" laughed Brett, and in pursuance of his invariable practice, he refused to say another word about the crime or its perpetrator during the meal.



CHAPTER XXII

THE SECOND ATTACK

Mrs. Smith was accustomed to her master's occasional freaks in the matter of dinner. Her husband, aided by long experience, knew whether Brett's "immediately" meant one minute, or five, or even fifteen.

This time he gave his wife the longest limit, so, in addition to the chicken, a bird whose unhappy attribute is a facility for being devoured with the utmost speed, a mixed grill of cutlets, bacon, and French sausages appeared on the table.

The diners were hungry and the good things were appreciated. It was well that they wasted no time on mere words. They were still intent on the feast when a boy messenger brought a note. It was from Helen, written in pencil:

"David was coming to see you when he was attacked. Can you come to us at once?

"H.L.

"P.S.—David is all right—only shaken and covered with mud. It occurred five minutes ago."

"Dear me!" said Brett. "Dear me!"

There was such a hiss of concentrated fury in his voice that Winter was puzzled to account for the harmless expression the barrister had twice used. The detective knew that his distinguished friend never, by any chance, indulged in strong language, yet something had annoyed him so greatly that a more powerful expletive would have had a very natural sound.

Brett glared at him.

"It is evident," he said, "that you do not know the meaning of 'Dear me.' It is simply the English form of the Italian 'O Dio mio!' and a literal translation would shock you."

"It doesn't appear that much damage has been done to your client," gasped Winter, for Brett had unceremoniously dragged him from his chair with the intention of rushing downstairs forthwith.

They hurried out together, and dashed into the waiting hansom.

"Think of it, Winter," groaned the barrister. "Whilst we were seduced by a dorking and a French sausage—an unholy alliance—the very man we wanted was waiting in Northumberland Avenue. You are avenged! All my jibes and sneers at Scotland Yard recoil on my own head. I might have known that such a desperate scoundrel would soon make another attempt, and next time upon the right person. You followed Mrs. Jiro. I am led astray by a cooked fowl. Oh, Winter, Winter, who could suspect such depravity in a roasted chicken!"

"I'm dashed if I can guess what you're driving at," growled the detective.

"No; I understand. The blood has left your brain and gone to your stomach. You will not be able to think for hours."

Raving thus, in disjointed sentences that Winter could not make head or tail of, Brett refused to be explicit until they reached the hotel, when he discharged the cabman with a payment that caused the gentleman on the perch to spit on the palm of his hand in great glee, whilst he promptly wheeled the horse in the direction of his livery stables.

They were met by David himself, seated in the foyer by the side of Helen, who looked white and frightened.

"This chap is a terror," began Hume, once they were safe in the privacy of their sitting-room. "I would never have believed such things were possible in London if they had not actually happened to Robert and me to-day. We had dinner rather early, and dined in private, as Robert is feeling stiff now after this morning's adventure. Margaret suggested—"

"Where is Mrs. Capella?" interrupted the barrister.

Miss Layton answered:

"She is with Mr. Frazer. They have found a quiet corner of the ladies' smoking-room—I mean the smoking-room where ladies go—and we have not told them yet what has happened to Davie."

"Well," resumed Hume, "Margaret's idea is that we should all leave here for the North to-morrow. She wanted you to approve of the arrangement, so I got into a hansom and started for your chambers. It was raining a little, and the street was full of traffic. The driver asked if I would like the window closed, but I would sooner face a tiger than drive through London in a boxed-up hansom, so I refused. The middle of the road, you know, has a long line of waiting cabs, broken by occasional crossing-places. The horse was just getting into a trot when a man, wrapped in a mackintosh, ran alongside, caught the off rein in the crook of his stick, swung the poor beast right round through one of the gaps in the rank, and down we went—horse, cab, driver, and myself—in front of a brewer's dray. Luckily for me and the driver, we were flung right over the smash into the gutter, for the big, heavy van ran into the fallen hansom, crushed it like a matchbox, and killed the horse. Had the window been closed—well, it wasn't, so there is no need for romancing."

Poor Nellie clung to her lover as if to assure herself that he was really uninjured.

"Did you see your assailant clearly?"

"Unfortunately, no. The side windows were blurred with rain, and I was trying to strike a match. The first thing I was conscious of was a violent swerve. I looked up, saw a tall, cloaked figure wrenching at the reins with a crooked stick, and over we went. I fell into a bed of mud. It absolutely blinded me. I jumped up, and fancying that the blackguard ran up Northumberland Street I dashed after him. I cannoned against some passer-by and we both fell. A news-runner, who witnessed the affair, did go after the cause of it, and received such a knock-out blow on the jaw that he was hardly able to speak when found by a policeman."

"Where is this man now?"

"With the cabman in a small hotel across the road. I had not the nerve to bring them here. If we have any more adventures, the management will turn us out. I fancy they think our behaviour is hardly respectable. The instant Robert or I endeavour to leave the door we are used to clean up a portion of the roadway."

"Miss Layton, would you mind joining the others for a few minutes. Mr. Hume is going out with Mr. Winter and myself."

The barrister's request took Helen by surprise.

"Is there any need for further risk?" she faltered. "Moreover, Margaret will see at once that something has gone wrong. I am a poor hand at deception where—where Davie is concerned."

"Have no fear. Tell them everything. Mr. Hume will be very seriously injured—in to-morrow morning's papers. This expert in street accidents must be led to believe he has succeeded. In any case, aided by a miserable fowl, he is far enough from here at this moment. We will return in twenty minutes."

The girl was so agitated that she hardly noticed Brett's words. But their purport reassured her, and she left them.

The three men passed out into the drizzling rain. Owing to the Strand being "up," a continuous stream of traffic flowed through the Avenue. Hume pointed out the gap through which the horse was forced, and then they darted across the roadway.

"I fell here," he said, indicating a muddy flood of road scrapings, in which were embedded many splinters from the wreckage of the hansom.

Brett, careless of the amazement he caused to hurrying pedestrians, waded through the bed of mud, kicking up any objects encountered by his feet.

He uttered an exclamation of triumph when he produced a stick from the depths.

"I thought I should find it," he said. "When the horse fell it was a hundred to one against the stick being extricated from the reins, and its owner could not wait an instant. You and the stick, my dear Hume, lay close together."

A small crowd was gathering. The barrister laughed.

"Gentleman," he said, "why are you so surprised? Which of you would not dirty his boots to recover such a valuable article as this?"

Some people grinned sympathetically. They all moved away.

In an upper room of the neighbouring public-house were a suffering "runner" and a disconsolate "cabby." The "runner" could tell them nothing tangible concerning the man he pursued.

"I sawr 'im bring the hoss dahn like a bullick," he whispered, for the poor fellow had received a terrible blow. "I went arter 'im, dodged rahnd the fust corner, an', bli-me, 'e gev me a punch that would 'ave 'arted Corbett."

"What with—his fist?" inquired Brett.

"Nah, guv'nor—'is 'eel, blawst 'im. I could 'ave dodged a square blow. I can use my dukes a bit myself."

"What was the value of the punch?"

The youth tried to smile, though the effort tortured him. "It was worth 'arf a thick 'un at least, guv'nor."

Hume gave him two sovereigns, and the runner could not have been more taken aback had the donor "landed him" on the sound jaw.

"And now, you," said Brett to the cabman. "What did you see?"

"Me!" with a snort of indignation. "Little over an hour ago I sawr a smawt keb an' a tidy little nag wot I gev thirty quid fer at Ward's in the Edgware Road a fortnight larst Toosday. And wot do I see now? Marylebone Work'us fer me an' the missis an' the kids. My keb gone, my best hoss killed, an' a pore old crock left, worth abart enough to pay the week's stablin'. I see a lot, I do."

The man was telling the truth. He was blear-eyed with misery. Brett looked at Hume, and the latter rang a bell. He asked the waiter for a pen and ink.

"How much did your cab cost?" he said to the driver, who was so downcast that he actually failed to correctly interpret David's action. The question had to be repeated before an answer came.

"It wasn't a new 'un, mister. I was just makin' a stawt. I gev fifty-five pound fer it, an' three pun ten to 'ave it done up. But there! What's the use of talkin'? I'm orf 'ome, I am, to fice the missis."

"Wait just a little while," said David kindly. "You hardly understand this business. The madman who attacked us meant to injure me, not you. Here is a cheque for L100, which will not only replace your horse and cab, but leave you a little over for the loss of your time."

Winter caught the dazed cabman by the shoulder.

"Billy," he said, "you know me. Are you going home, or going to get drunk?"

Billy hesitated.

"Goin' 'ome," he vociferated. "S'elp me—"

"One moment," said Brett. "Surely you have some idea of the appearance of the rascal who pulled your horse over?"

The man was alternately surveying the cheque and looking into the face of his benefactor.

"I dunno," he cried, after a pause. "I feel a bit mixed. This gentleman 'ere 'as acted as square as ever man did. 'E comes of a good stock, 'e does, an' yet—I 'umbly ax yer pawdon, sir—but the feller who tried to kill you an' me might ha' bin yer own brother."



CHAPTER XXIII

MARGARET'S SECRET

The waiter managed to remove the most obvious traces of Brett's escapade in the gutter, and incidentally cleaned the stick.

It was a light, tough ashplant, with a silver band around the handle. The barrister held it under a gas jet and examined it closely. Nothing escaped him. After scrutinising the band for some time, he looked at the ferrule, and roughly estimated that the owner had used it two or three years. Finally, when quite satisfied, he handed it to Winter.

"Do you recognise those scratches?" he said, with a smile, pointing out a rough design bitten into the silver by the application of aqua regia and beeswax.

The detective at once uttered an exclamation of supreme astonishment.

"The very thing!" he cried. "The same Japanese motto as that on the Ko-Katana!"

Hume now drew near.

"So," he growled savagely, "the hand that struck down Alan was the same that sought my life an hour ago!"

"And your cousin's this morning," said Brett

"The cowardly brute! If he has a grudge against my family, why doesn't he come out into the open? He need not have feared detection, even a week ago. I could be found easily enough. Why didn't he meet me face to face? I have never yet run away from trouble or danger."

"You are slightly in error regarding him," observed Brett. "This man may be a fiend incarnate, but he Is no coward. He means to kill, to work some terrible purpose, and he takes the best means towards that end. To his mind the idea of giving a victim fair play is sheer nonsense. It never even occurs to him. But a coward! no. Think of the nerve required to commit robbery and murder under the conditions that obtained at Beechcroft on New Year's Eve. Think of the skill, the ready resource, which made so promptly available the conditions of the two assaults to-day. Our quarry is a genius, a Poe among criminals. Look to it, Winter, that your handcuffs are well fixed when you arrest him, or he will slip from your grasp at the very gates of Scotland Yard."

"If I had my fingers round his windpipe—" began David.

"You would be a dead man a few seconds later," said the barrister. "If we three, unarmed, had him in this room now, equally defenceless, I should regard the issue as doubtful."

"There would be a terrible dust-up," smirked Winter.

"Possibly; but it would be a fight for life or death. No half measures. A matter of decanters, fire-irons, chairs. Let us return to the hotel."

Whilst Hume went to summon the others, Brett seated himself at a table and wrote:

"A curious chapter of accidents happened in Northumberland Avenue yesterday. Early in the morning, Mr. Robert Hume-Frazer quitted his hotel for a stroll in the West End, and narrowly escaped being run over in Whitehall. About 8 p.m. his cousin, Mr. David Hume-Frazer, was driving through the Avenue in a hansom, when the vehicle upset, and the young gentleman was thrown out. He was picked up in a terrible condition, and is reported to be in danger of his life."

The barrister read the paragraph aloud.

"It is casuistic," he commented, "but that defect is pardonable. After all, it is not absolutely mendacious, like a War Office telegram. Winter, go and bring joy to the heart of some penny-a-liner by giving him that item. The 'coincidence' will ensure its acceptance by every morning paper in London, and you can safely leave the reporter himself to add details about Mr. Hume's connection with the Stowmarket affair."

The detective rose.

"Will you be here when I come back, sir?" he asked.

"I expect so. In any case, you must follow on to my chambers. To-night we will concert our plan of campaign."

Margaret entered, with Helen and the two men. Robert limped somewhat.

"How d'ye do, Brett?" he cried cheerily. "That beggar hurt me more than I imagined at the time. He struck a tendon in my left leg so hard that it is quite painful now."

Brett gave an answering smile, but his thoughts did not find utterance. How strange it was that two men, so widely dissimilar as Robert and the vendor of newspapers, should insist on the skill, the unerring certainty, of their opponent.

"Mrs. Capella," he said, wheeling round upon the lady, "when you lived in London or on the Continent did you ever include any Japanese in the circle of your acquaintances?"

"Yes," was the reply.

Margaret was white, her lips tense, the brilliancy of her large eyes almost unnatural.

"Tell me about them."

"What can I tell you? They were bright, lively little men. They amused my friends by their quaint ideas, and interested us at times by recounting incidents of life in the East."

"Were they all 'little'? Was one of them a man of unusual stature?"

"No," said Margaret

The barrister knew that she was profoundly distressed.

"If she would be candid with me," he mused, "I would tear the heart from this mystery to-night."

One other among those present caught the hidden drift of this small colloquy. Robert Frazer looked sadly at his cousin. Natures that are closely allied have an electric sympathy. He could not even darkly discern the truth, but he connected Brett's words in some remote way with Capella. How he loathed the despicable Italian who left his wife to bear alone the trouble that oppressed her—who only went away in order to concoct some villainy against her.

Margaret could not face the barrister's thoughtful, searching gaze. She stood up—like the others of her race when danger threatened. She even laughed harshly.

"I have decided," she said, "to leave here to-morrow morning. Helen says she does not object Our united wardrobes will serve all needs of the seaside. Robert's tailor visited him to-day, and assured him that the result would be satisfactory without any preliminary 'trying on.' Do you approve, Mr. Brett?"

"Most heartily. I can hardly believe that our hidden foe will make a further attack until he learns that he has been foiled again. Yet you will all be happier, and unquestionably safer, away from London. Does anyone here know where you are going?"

"No one. I have not told my maid or footman. It was not necessary, as we intended to remain here a week."

"Admirable! When you leave the hotel in the morning give Yarmouth as your destination. Not until you reach King's Cross need you inform your servants that you are really going to Whitby. Would you object to—ah, well that is perhaps, difficult. I was about to suggest an assumed name, but Miss Layton's father would object, no doubt."

"If he did not, I would," said Robert impetuously. "Who has Margaret to fear, and what do David and I care for all the anonymous scoundrels in creation?"

"Is there really so much danger that such a proceeding is advisable?" inquired the trembling Nellie.

"To-day's circumstances speak for themselves, Miss Layton," replied Brett. "Neither you nor Mrs. Capella run the least risk. I will not be answerable for the others. Grave difficulties must be surmounted before the power for further injury is taken from the man we seek. In my professional capacity, I say act openly, advertise your destination, make it known that Mr. Hume escaped from the wreck of the hansom unhurt. Should the would-be murderer follow you to Whitby he cannot escape me. Here in London he is one among five millions. But speaking as a friend, I advise the utmost vigilance unless another Hume-Frazer is to die in his boots."

It was not Helen but Margaret who wailed in agony:

"Do you really mean what you say? Have matters reached that stage?"

"Yes, they have."

His voice was cold, almost stern.

"Kindly telegraph your Whitby address to me," he said to Hume. Then he walked to the door, leaving them brusquely.

For once in his career he was deeply annoyed.

"Confound all women!" he muttered in anger. "They nurse some petty little secret, some childish love affair, and deem its preservation more important than their own happiness, or the lives of their best friends. They are all alike—duchess or scullery-maid. Their fluttering hearts are all the world to them, and everything else chaos. If that woman only chose—"

"Mr. Brett!" came a clear voice along the corridor.

It was Margaret. She came to him hastily

"Why do you suspect me?" she exclaimed brokenly. "I am the most miserable woman on earth. Suffering and death environ me, and overwhelm those nearest and dearest. Yet what have I done that you should think me capable of concealing from you material facts which would be of use to you?"

The barrister was tempted to retort that what she believed to be "material" might indeed be of very slight service to him, but the contrary proposition held good, too.

Then he saw the anguish in her face, and it moved him to say gently:

"Go back to your friends, Mrs. Capella. I am not the keeper of your conscience. I am almost sure you are worrying yourself about trifles. Whatever they may be, you are not responsible. Rest assured of this, in a few days much that is now dim and troublous will be cleared up. I ask you nothing further. I would prefer not to hear anything you wish to say to me. It might fetter my hands Good-bye!"



CHAPTER XXIV

THE MEETING

"There!" he said to himself, as he passed downstairs, "I am just as big a fool as she is. She followed me to make a clean breast of everything, and I send her back with a request to keep her lips sealed. Yet I am angry with her for the risk she is taking!"

He reached the hall and was about to cross the foyer when he caught the words, "Gentleman thrown out of a cab," uttered by a handsome girl, cheaply but gaudily attired, who was making some inquiry at the bureau.

He stopped and searched for a match. Then he became interested in the latest news, pinned in strips on the baize-covered board of a "ticker."

The girl explained to an official that she had witnessed an accident that evening. She was told that a gentleman who lived in the hotel was hurt. Was he seriously injured?

The hotel man, from long practice, was enabled to sum up such inquirers rapidly.

"Do you know the gentleman?" he inquired.

"No—that is, slightly."

"Well, madam, if you give me your card I will send it to his friends. They will give you all necessary information."

She became confused. She was not accustomed to the quiet elegance of a great hotel. The men in evening dress, the gorgeously attired ladies passing to elevator or drawing-room, seemed to be listening to her. Why did the bureau keeper speak so loudly? Then the assurance of the Cockney came to her aid.

"I don't see why there should be such a fuss about nothing," she said. "I don't know his people. I saw the gentleman pitched out of a cab and was sorry for him, so I just called to ask how he was."

She angrily tossed her head, and stared insolently at an old lady who came to inquire if there were any letters for the Countess of Skerry and Ness.

"No letters, your ladyship," said the man. "And you, miss, must either send a personal message or see the manager."

The young woman bounced out in a fury, and Brett followed her, silently thanking the favouring planets which had sent him down the stairs at the very moment when the girl was proffering her request to the clerk.

Fortunately, the weather was better now. There was a clear sky overhead, and the streets looked quite cheerful after the steady downpour, London's myriad lamps being reflected in glistening zigzags across the wet pavement.

The girl did not head towards the busy Strand, but walked direct to Charing Cross station on the District Railway.

The barrister thought she intended to go somewhere by train. He quickened his pace in order to be able to rapidly obtain a ticket and thus keep up with her. Herein he was lucky. To his surprise, she passed out of the station on the embankment side.

He followed, and nowhere could he see her. Then he remembered the steps leading to the footpath along the Hungerford Bridge. Running up these steps he soon caught sight of the young woman, who was walking rapidly towards Waterloo.

A man of the artisan class stared at her as she passed, and said something to her. She turned fiercely.

"Do you want a swipe on the jaw?" she demanded.

No, he did not. What had he done, he would like to know.

"You mind your own business," she said. "Where am I goin', indeed. What's it got to do with you?"

The episode was valuable to the listening barrister. It classified the anxious inquirer after Hume's health.

Her abashed admirer hung back, and the girl resumed her onward progress. The man was conscious that the gentleman behind him must have heard what passed. He endeavoured to justify himself.