“I should advise you to interview the gaoler at Marylebone. These fellows have extraordinary memories for faces, and besides, there is certain to be a record of the conviction at the court. You had better ask Salter to apply; they will give permission to a lawyer.”
But this was the very thing Jim did not want to do.
X
Eunice Weldon was rapidly settling down in her new surroundings. The illness of her employer, so far from depriving her of occupation, gave her more work than she had ever expected. It was true, as Digby Groat had said, that there were plenty of small jobs to fill up her time. At his suggestion she went over the little account books in which Mrs. Groat kept the record of her household expenses, and was astounded to find how parsimonious the old lady had been.
One afternoon when she was tidying the old bureau, she stopped in her work to admire the solid workmanship which the old furniture builders put into their handicraft.
The bureau was one of those old-fashioned affairs, which are half desk and half bookcase, the writing-case being enclosed by glass doors covered on the inside with green silk curtains.
It was the thickness of the two side-pieces enclosing the actual desk, which, unlike the writing-flap of the ordinary secretaire, was immovable, that arrested her attention. She was rubbing her hand admiringly along the polished mahogany surface when she felt a strip of wood give way under the pressure of her fingertips. To her surprise a little flap about an inch wide and about six inches long had fallen down and hung on its invisible, hinges leaving a black cavity. A secret drawer in a secretaire is not an extraordinary discovery, but she wondered whether she ought to explore the recess which her accidental touch had revealed. She put in her fingers and drew out a folded paper. There was nothing else in the drawer, if drawer it could be called.
Ought she to read it, she wondered? If it had been so carefully put away, Mrs. Groat would not wish it to be seen by a third person. Nevertheless, it was her duty to discover what the document was, and she opened it.
To the top a piece of paper was attached on which a few words were written in Mrs. Groat’s hand:
“This is the will referred to in the instructions contained in the sealed envelope which Mr. Salter has in his possession.”
The word “Salter” had been struck out and the name of the firm of solicitors which had supplanted the old man had been substituted.
The will was executed on one of those forms which can be purchased at any law stationer’s. But apart from the preamble it was short:
“I give to my son, Digby Francis Groat, the sum of £20,000 and my house and furniture at 409, Grosvenor Square. The remainder of my estate I give to Ramonez, Marquis of Estremeda, of Calle Receletos, Madrid.”
It was witnessed by two names unknown to the girl, and as they had described themselves as domestic servants it was probable that they had long since left her employment, for Mrs. Groat did not keep a servant very long.
What should she do with it? She determined to ask Digby.
Later, when going through the drawers of her desk she discovered a small miniature and was startled by the dark beauty of the subject. It was a head and shoulders of a girl wearing her hair in a way which was fashionable in the late seventies. The face was bold, but beautiful, the dark eyes seemed to glow with life. The face of a girl who had her way, thought Eunice as she noted the firm round chin. She wondered who it was and showed it to Digby Groat at lunch.
“Oh, that is a picture of my mother,” he said carelessly.
“Your mother,” said Eunice in astonishment, and he chuckled.
“You’d never think she was ever like that; but she was, I believe, a very beautiful girl”—his face darkened—“just a little too beautiful,” he said, without explaining what he meant.
Suddenly he snatched the miniature from her and looked on the back.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, and a sudden pallor had come to his face. “Mother sometimes writes things on the back of pictures, and I was rather—” he was going to say “scared”—“and I was rather embarrassed.”
He was almost incoherent, an unusual circumstance, for Digby Groat was the most self-possessed of men.
He changed the subject by introducing an inquiry which he had meant to make some time before.
“Miss Weldon, can you explain that scar on your wrist?” he asked.
She shook her head laughingly.
“I’m almost sorry I showed it to you,” she said. “It is ugly, isn’t it?”
“Do you know how it happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “mother never told me. It looks rather like a burn.”
He examined the little red place attentively.
“Of course,” she went on, “it is absurd to think that the sight of my birthmark was the cause of your mother’s stroke.”
“I suppose it is,” he nodded, “but it was a remarkable coincidence.”
He had endeavoured to find from the old woman the reason of her sudden collapse, but without success. For three days she had laid in her bed speechless and motionless and apparently had neither heard nor seen him when he had made his brief visits to the sick room.
She was recovering now, however, and he intended, at the first opportunity, demanding a full explanation.
“Did you find anything else?” he asked suspiciously. He was never quite sure what new folly his mother might commit. Her passion for other people’s property might have come to light.
Should she tell him? He saw the doubt and trouble in her face and repeated his question.
“I found your mother’s will,” she said.
He had finished his lunch, had pushed back his chair and was smoking peacefully. The cigar dropped from his hand and she saw his face go black.
“Her will!” he said. “Are you sure? Her will is at the lawyer’s.
