The butler was not sharp, he fell at once.
“Oh, no, sir, not at all, it was only when he was at Oxford. He went off to the ‘Derby’ without leave, and lost a lot of money there. It was what he had for the term, and when he was sent down he had to tell Sir James. He had been rather wild before, and that’s what happened,” he concluded lamely.
“Hum,” muttered Collins. “I see, and nothing has been heard from him for some time?”
“No, sir, he seems to have quite disappeared. I don’t think he is dead, or we should have heard. Still, if you were to advertise for him he might come back. He ought to be here to look after Miss Mabel till she is married.”
Collins looked up sharply.
“Is she engaged, then?” he said.
“Well, not exactly, but how my tongue does go. I must get back to the house.” He moved to go.
“One moment,” said Collins quietly. “You can trust me; who is the fortunate gentleman who is—well—nearly, eh?”
The butler looked at him doubtfully. Had he offered a bribe he would have refused information, but Collins was too old a hand for that.
“Well, seeing as poor Sir James is gone, I don’t think it matters. It is Mr. Eric.”
“Mr. Eric what?”
“I thought you would know, being a friend of the family. Mr. Eric Sanders, Sir James’ private secretary,” and he looked at Collins with suspicion.
He saw the look. “Oh, that’s it,” said he. “Of course, I ought to have guessed, and how does his suit prosper?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said the other.
“I mean are they engaged, or just likely to become so?”
“Sir James wouldn’t hear of it, and last time Mr. Eric was here they had words over it, for I heard them, but I must really be going.”
“All right, John, I will wait here till Miss Mabel wants to see me. You might bring me any papers you have.” The butler bowed and made his way to the house.
“So that’s it, is it?” he said to himself. “There are at least two candidates for honours. We are getting on.” The papers told him nothing. Sinclair had been to work, and apart from a bald statement of the facts, and obituary notices, there was nothing striking. Of course, there were leading articles on the perils of foreign anarchists and on the saintly character of the deceased, but this was old stock-in-trade, kept ready for any assassination of a notable person which might occur, and adapted to circumstances.
“As long as this country continues to harbour, etc.,” said one Daily. He tossed them aside, one by one. Sir James, of course, had a good selection of papers sent to his house, and they arrived whether he was there or not.
He sat long in deep thought, smoking continuously. Presently he put his hand into his pocket, and drew out his pocket book. He looked round with his habitual caution, and then took out a visiting card. On one side was the name of Mr. Eric Sanders, and the address of a well-known London Club, and on the other was written in pencil—
“For God’s sake, see me. I will not detain you.”
“Sinclair, my friend, you would have liked to get this—pushed under the door. Mrs. Simmons, you were not telling the whole truth. I think this requires further investigation.”
He rose from his seat and strolled through the old garden with its gorgeous, herbaceous beds of late summer, where delphiniums and hollyhocks and the bright blue of borage made a dream of colour.
It was all very fair, and quiet after the dust and sweat of London. He returned to the house filled with a vague disquiet. Entering the hall, he was met by a maid.
“Miss Mabel would like to see you in her own room,” she said, and on his nodding assent she conducted him to a sweet sitting room, fragrant with flowers and furnished with the taste of a girl who had the means to gratify her every wish.
She was seated on a sofa, white faced, and dressed all in black.
She had conquered her emotion. Her old nurse stood by her like a sentry on duty.
“Mr. Collins,” she said: “I am puzzled to know why you undertook this long journey to break this sad news to me. Were you a friend of my father’s? I am very grateful,” she continued hastily, as though fearing she was too frigid in her manner.
“Really, to tell the truth, I don’t know myself why I came,” he answered. “When this terrible event happened, your old housekeeper was quite unnerved, and there seemed no one to undertake the job. It did not seem right that you should see it first in the papers, or get a telegram.”
“I am much obliged to you. You must not think me ungrateful, but of course I am rather upset at present. I have read what the newspapers have to say. Perhaps you can tell me more?” and she motioned him to sit.
“I won’t go into details, Miss Watson,” he said. “The accounts in the papers are accurate as far as they go. I can, however, tell you this. Your father did not suffer at all. His look was most peaceful, and it appears that he was shot while asleep.”
A look of pain crossed her face, but she mastered her emotion.
“I am thankful for even that,” she said. “Have the police any idea at all who can have done this cruel thing. I do not believe my father had any enemies, he was such a good and upright man that no one could have a grudge against him.”
“At present all is dark,” he replied, “but of course you must remember that as Home Secretary your father was brought in contact with the worst criminals in the country, and one of them may have
