“That bottom label’s the thing, Mr. Hetherwick,” remarked Matherfield. “Let me get that hiatus filled up with the name and address of the chemist, and I’ll soon find out who C. A. blank, Esquire, is! The chemist is one in the West Central district; he’s a member of the Pharmaceutical Society; he’ll have somebody whose initials are C. A. on his books; he’ll recognise the number A.1152 of the prescription. It’s a decided clue; and even if there are, as there undoubtedly are, scores of chemists in the West Central district, I’ll run this one down!”
Hetherwick handed back the photograph and began to pace up and down the room. Suddenly he turned on his visitor, his mind made up to tell him what he himself had been doing.
“Matherfield,” he said, dropping into his chair again and adopting a tone of confidence, “what do you make of this? I mean—what’s your theory? Is it your opinion that the deaths of these two men are—so to speak—all of a piece?”
“That is my opinion!” answered Matherfield with an emphatic nod. “I’ve no more doubt about it than I have that I see you, Mr. Hetherwick. All of a piece, to be sure! Whoever poisoned Hannaford poisoned Granett! I’ll tell you how I’ve figured it out since the doctors told me, only a couple of hours since, what their opinion is about Granett. This way: Hannaford and Granett knew each other at Sellithwaite ten years ago. That night when Granett left Appleyard in Horseferry Road and turned into Victoria Street, he met Hannaford—accidentally.”
“Why accidentally?” asked Hetherwick.
“Well, that’s what I think,” said Matherfield. “I’ve figured in that way. Of course, it may have been by appointment. But anyway, they met—we know that. Now then, where did they spend their time between then and the time they got into your carriage at St. James’s Park? We don’t know. But here comes in an unknown factor—what about the strange man at Victoria, the man muffled to his eyes? Two things suggest themselves to me, Mr. Hetherwick. Did Hannaford take Granett to see that man, or did Hannaford and Granett meet at that man’s? For I think that man, whoever he is, is at the bottom of everything.”
“Why should they meet at that man’s?” asked Hetherwick.
“Well,” answered Matherfield, “I think that secret of Hannaford’s has something to do with it. He had the sealed packet on him when he left Malter’s Hotel; it had disappeared when we searched his clothing after his death. Now, the granddaughter says it had to do with chemicals. Suppose the tall, muffled man was a chap whose business opinion on this secret Hannaford wanted, and that they met at Victoria and went to the man’s rooms somewhere in that district? Suppose Granett—another man in the chemistry line—came there, knowing both? Supposing the muffled man poisoned both of ’em, to keep the secret to himself? Do you see what I’m after? Very well! There you are. The thing is to hunt out that man, whoever he is. I wish I knew what Hannaford’s secret was, though—its precise nature.”
“Matherfield,” said Hetherwick, “I’ll tell you! You’ve been very confidential with me; I’ll be equally so with you, on condition that we work together from this. The fact is, I’ve been at work. I’m immensely interested in this case. Ever since I saw Hannaford die in that train and in that awfully mysterious fashion it’s fascinated me, and I’m going to the very end of it. Now I’ll tell you all I’ve been doing, and what I’ve discovered. Listen carefully.”
He went on to tell his visitor the whole details of his visit to Sellithwaite, of the results of his investigations there, and of Rhona’s doings and observations at Riversreade Court. Matherfield listened in absorbed silence.
“Is Miss Hannaford going to this secretaryship, then?” he demanded abruptly, at the end of Hetherwick’s story. “Is it settled?”
“Practically, yes,” replied Hetherwick. “I heard from Lady Riversreade this morning; so did Mr. Kenthwaite. We gave Miss Hannaford—to be known to Lady Riversreade as Miss Featherstone—very good recommendations for the post, and I expect that as soon as she’s had our letters, Lady Riversreade will telephone to Miss Hannaford that she’s to go at once. Then—she’ll go.”
“To act as—spy?” suggested Matherfield.
“If you put it that way, yes,” assented Hetherwick. “Though, from what she saw of her yesterday, Miss Hannaford formed a very favourable opinion of Lady Riversreade. However, I’m so certain that somehow or other, perhaps innocently, she’s connected with this affair, that we mustn’t lose any chance.”
“And Miss Hannaford will report anything likely to you?” asked Matherfield.
“Just so! Miss Hannaford’s duties don’t include any Sunday work; on Sunday she’ll come to town, and if there’s anything to tell, she’ll tell it—to me. She’s a smart, clever girl, Matherfield, and she’ll keep her eyes open.”
Matherfield nodded, and for a while sat silent, evidently lost in his own thoughts.
“Oh, she’s a clever girl, right enough!” he said suddenly. “Um! I wonder who this Lady Riversreade really is, now?”
“This Lady Riversreade!” laughed Hetherwick. “A multi-millionairess!”
“Aye, just so; but who was she before her marriage? If she is the woman who was known as Mrs. Whittingham—”
“Can there be any doubt about it after what I found out?”
“You never know, Mr. Hetherwick! Lord bless you! they talk about the long arm of coincidence. Why, in my time I’ve known of things that make me feel there’s nothing wonderful about the most amazing coincidence! But—if Lady
