“Let’s have the news,” said Allery, crossly.
“I am thankful to say that Watson is safe and hardly injured at all. I saw him, and he is coming on as soon as he has made his statement to the Police. Your Inspector came along, and he is bringing Watson back.”
“And the other,” said Allery, almost in a whisper.
“Dead!” said Sanders solemnly.
The silence was broken by a woman’s sobs. Mabel had thrown herself down on the sofa, and was weeping bitterly. Sanders was going to her, but Allery motioned him back. “Let her alone,” he said. “She has had an awful time of it.”
“You will be better in bed,” he said gently to her. “Let me fetch your old nurse.”
The faithful old servant had been hovering about all the evening. She came in and put her arm about the weeping girl, and led her from the room.
“Here he is,” said Allery, jumping to his feet, as the sound of a car was heard. Watson and the Inspector came in, the former looking very white and shaken.
“A bad smash, sir,” said the Inspector to Sinclair, “they must have been going at a cracking pace. I have a full statement from witnesses.”
“Thank you, Miles,” said Sinclair, handing him a drink. “I will send for you tomorrow, and there will be a report to draw up. The matter is more serious than you know. At present a discreet silence is best, you understand.”
“Very good, sir,” said the other, almost giving a wink, and withdrew. There was an awkward silence in the room.
“Whatever is the meaning of the whole business,” said Watson. “I am all in the dark.”
“Did Collins tell you nothing on the way?” said Sinclair.
“No, he came and said that it was absolutely necessary for us to get to London at once. He said the honour of my father’s name was involved, and that the matter must be kept secret, especially from the police. He hinted that there was some secret connected with my father’s past life. He was so insistent that I went blindly with him.”
“You have had a lucky escape,” said Sinclair. “Collins, in my view, was the murderer of your father.”
“What!” said Watson, starting forward in his seat.
“The others here are sceptical, they cannot believe it. It all hangs on a document which your father said he had hidden. He wrote and told me.” He took the letter from his pocket, and handed it to Watson, who read it with a puzzled air.
“But I don’t understand. He says he hid it where he once put his will in my presence.”
“Exactly.”
“Then why did Collins want to go to London?”
“To get it, I suppose,” said Sinclair.
“But it’s not there at all; it’s here,” said Watson.
In breathless silence he rose and walked to the fireplace. Reaching up, he turned the portrait of Sir James from the wall. Behind was the oak panelling. Sliding a panel back he put his hand and drew out some papers, and brought them to the light.
One was a dusty envelope, tied and sealed. The other was new.
Picking up the first, Watson said with some emotion:
“When we had our last interview in this room, before I went to South America, my father told me he had made a will cutting me completely out, and had left this with Mr. Allery. Isn’t that so?”
“That is quite correct,” said Allery. “I tried to persuade him not to do so, in spite of the opinion I then had of you, but he would not make any change.”
“Well, he told me here, he had made another dated after that. He said, ‘I am going to hide it here. No one knows of the existence of this place, and I am placing you on your honour. If you come back having redeemed your character, and with a clear conscience, I will bring out this will, if I am alive. If I am dead you can produce it, if you think you have made good.’ He was a strange man and had curious ideas, but he was absolutely just.”
“That accounts for the Will he made some little time ago, bringing you back,” said Allery. “I see it all now.”
“But the other document?” said Sinclair impatiently. “Of course we supposed it was in the London house. I thought he would have it with him, and so did Collins, evidently.”
Watson picked up the envelope, and broke the seal.
Within was a roll of paper, which he unfolded, and laid on the table.
The feeling in the room was intense.
The light shone full on the writing, and the men leant forward to scan the words. It seemed almost as though the dead man was with them speaking from the tomb his awful accusation.
Watson read in a firm voice.
“To my son.”
My dearest boy,
If you ever read this I will have passed forever from your sight. I have longed for you for years, and have bitterly repented the hasty action which drove you from my side, though at the time I thought I was acting for your ultimate good. I pray to God that you may be still alive, and may return to take your place here.
I can write no more as to this as the time is short. A great menace hangs over me, and I feel that my life may be taken at any time. I will be brief.
In my capacity of Home Secretary it was necessary for me to be acquainted with the most dreadful secrets of crime, and criminals.
Among the most baffling problems of modern times has been the personality of a master criminal, a blackmailer, forger and rogue, whose diabolical cunning had eluded the police completely. Even his name and residence were entirely unknown, though he had gone under several aliases for blackmailing purposes. He seemed to know every shady secret in Society.
“Webb or Atkins,” said Sinclair excitedly. “The man we have been trying to find for years.”
“Go on,” said Allery.
Some few days ago I received a letter from Sylvester
