“In a way I hope it was,” she said. “One could feel that it was the sort of accident that might happen to anyone. It is so dreadful to think that someone has deliberately murdered him.”
She stumbled over the ill-omened word, and nearly broke down. The watchful nurse came near and laid a hand on her head. A look of gratitude shone for a moment in her eyes, and she reached up and took the hand in hers.
It was a pathetic picture.
“You will forgive me asking,” she continued, “but I do not quite see what you were doing there, Mr. Collins, you are not in the Police Force?”
“I am a barrister by profession,” he replied, “and had gone there with Superintendent Sinclair, who is an old friend of mine. Now, can I do anything for you before I go? You will forgive a stranger saying so, but you seem so entirely alone. Oh, I know you have the most loyal and faithful servants,” he added hastily, “but you don’t seem to have a friend to help you. Haven’t you some relation I can wire for?”
“I have no near relative. We have led a very secluded life. You see we are so much in town. My father had many acquaintances, but no real friends. Those who did not know him thought him very reserved. He was not really so, you know.”
“You were an only child?” he said carelessly.
“Mr. Collins, I am going to tell you. It will all come out now. I had a brother, ten years older than I. He quarrelled with my father. It was nothing very dreadful, but father thought he was doing no good and getting into bad company, so he sent him off to South America. For some years now we have lost sight of him. It was a great grief to father. He had hoped that Ronald would have come back and settled down here.”
“Well, we must find him now, as he will be the new Baronet, and there will be advertisements everywhere for him. I suppose there is no reason why he should not come back?”
“None whatever,” she said proudly. “What he did was only a boy’s escapade when at Oxford, there was nothing criminal.”
“Well, I expect there will be little difficulty in finding him now,” he said hopefully; “but it will take some time. Meanwhile, isn’t there anyone who could help?”
The colour rose to her pale face.
“I think you ought to wire for Mr. Sanders,” she said, “he was my father’s private secretary, and knows more about his affairs than anyone else.”
Collins gave her one keen look. “Certainly,” he said. “He is obviously the man to come. Where shall I find him?”
“At the Home Office,” she said. “He is certain to be there, but I expect he has been round to Leveson Square this morning.”
“I will send off a wire at once, and then I will take my leave.”
“Certainly not,” she said. “You must stay to lunch, if you don’t mind a house of mourning,” she added sadly.
At that moment a knock came at the door, and the butler entered.
“The post, Miss,” he said, presenting a salver, “and the postman brought this telegram at the same time. Is there any answer?”
She broke the envelope and read, a look of pleasure passing over her face.
“This is from Eric—Mr. Sanders, he is coming down here today. I am so glad. It will save you the trouble of wiring.”
Collins said nothing. The butler had handed him a letter in Sinclair’s writing. He put it into his pocket, and rose to his feet. “I am very glad for your sake,” he said. “You will be glad to have a man’s advice. I suppose you will be coming to Town?”
“Of course. I ought to go at once, but it is such a shock. I think I must wait till tomorrow.”
“If you will excuse me, I will just go and read this letter, then,” he said, and took his departure.
He went into the garden and to his old seat, and broke the seal of the letter.
It was short, and he read it twice, a puzzled look on his face. It ran:
Dear Collins,
If you are expecting to find out anything in Devonshire, you are on a wild goose chase. Lewis has fled, and we have damning evidence against him. Come at once if you want to be in at the death. What’s your game, anyway?
“I must get back,” he muttered to himself. “Whatever is Sinclair after?”
A gong sounded within the house, and he slowly rose to his feet and went in. Miss Watson was waiting for him, and they sat down. She was lost in her own mournful thoughts, and would scarcely eat anything. She tried hard to rouse herself. Collins was a brilliant conversationalist, and had a charm of manner which few could resist. He set himself to interest her, not without success.
At the end of the meal he told her he must get back at once, and noticed that she gave a look almost of relief, though she tried to hide it.
“I am deeply grateful to you for coming down here, and for your offer of help,” she said.
“Not at all,” he answered. “I will go to your house and do anything I can in London. Of course, there will have to be an inquest, but we will spare you all we can.”
“We?” she said, in surprise. “Then you are mixed up in this?”
“Oh, there is no secret,” he said. “I am a barrister, as I told you, but I do a little in helping in an amateur way with these sort of cases. It is my hobby.”
“A rather horrible hobby,” she said, “but of course it is necessary. I hope you find out the criminal—and yet, I don’t know, in some ways I hope you don’t.”
“The
