“Possibly, then, there is nothing I can do,” remarked Collingwood.
“I should say you’ll do a lot by merely going there,” answered Eldrick. “As I said just now, they’ve few friends, and no relations, and I hear that Mrs. Mallathorpe is absolutely knocked over. Go, by all means—a bit of sympathy goes a long way on these occasions. I say!—what a regular transformation an affair of this sort produces. Do you know, that young fellow, just like his uncle, had not made any will! Fact!—I had it from Robson, their solicitor, this very morning. The whole of the estate comes to the sister, of course—she and the mother will share the personal property. By that lad’s death, Nesta Mallathorpe becomes one of the wealthiest young women in Yorkshire!”
Collingwood made no reply to this communication. But as he drove off to Normandale Grange, it was fresh in his mind. And it was not very pleasant to him. One of the wealthiest young women in Yorkshire!—and he was already realizing that he would like to make Nesta Mallathorpe his wife: it was because he felt what he did for her that he had rushed down to do anything he could that would be of help. Supposing—only supposing—that people—anybody—said that he was fortune-hunting! Somewhat unduly sensitive, proud, almost to a fault, he felt his cheek redden at the thought, and for a moment he wished that old John Mallathorpe’s wealth had never passed to his niece. But then he sneered at himself for his presumption.
“Ass!” he said. “She’s never even thought of me—in that way, most likely! Anyway, I’m a stupid fool for thinking of these things at present.”
But he knew, within a few minutes of entering the big, desolate-looking house, that Nesta had been thinking of him. She came to him in the room where they had first met, and quietly gave him her hand.
“I was not surprised when they told me you were here,” she said. “I was thinking about you—or, rather, expecting to hear from you.”
“I came at once,” answered Collingwood, who had kept her hand in his. “I—well, I couldn’t stop away. I thought, perhaps, I could do something—be of some use.”
“It’s a great deal of use to have just—come,” she said. “Thank you! But—I suppose you’ll have to go?”
“Not for two days, anyway,” he replied. “What can I do?”
“I don’t know that you can actually do anything,” she answered. “Everything is being done. Mr. Eldrick sent his clerk, Mr. Pratt—who found Harper—he’s been most kind and useful. He—and our own solicitor—are making all arrangements. There’s got to be an inquest. No—I don’t know that you can do actual things. But—while you’re here—you can look in when you like. My mother is very ill—she has scarcely spoken since Saturday.”
“I’ll tell you what I will do,” said Collingwood determinedly. “I noticed in coming through the village just now that there’s quite a decent inn there. I’ll go down and arrange to stay there until Wednesday evening—then I shall be close by—if you should need me.”
He saw by her look of quick appreciation and relief that this suggestion pleased her. She pressed his hand and withdrew her own. “Thank you again!” she said. “Do you know—I can’t quite explain—I should be glad if you were close at hand? Everybody has been very kind—but I do feel that there is nobody I can talk to. If you arrange this, will you come in again this evening?”
“I shall arrange it,” answered Collingwood. “I’ll see to it now. Tell your people I am to be brought in whenever I call. And—I’ll be close by whenever you want me.”
It seemed little to say, little to do, but he left her feeling that he was being of some use. And as he went off to make his arrangements at the inn he encountered Pratt, who was talking to the butler in the outer hall.
The clerk looked at Collingwood with an unconcern and a composure which he was able to assume because he had already heard of his presence in the house. Inwardly, he was malignantly angry that the young barrister was there, but his voice was suave, and polite enough when he spoke.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Collingwood,” he said quietly. “Very sad occasion on which we meet again, sir. Come to offer your sympathy, Mr. Collingwood, of course—very kind of you.”
“I came,” answered Collingwood, who was not inclined to bandy phrases with Pratt, “to see if I could be of any practical use.”
“Just so, sir,” said Pratt. “Mr. Eldrick sent me here for the same purpose. There’s really not much to do—beyond the necessary arrangements, which are already pretty forward. Going back to town, sir?” he went on, following Collingwood out to his motorcar, which stood waiting in the drive.
“No!” replied Collingwood. “I’m going to send this man to Barford to fetch my bag to the inn down there in the village, where I’m going to stay for a few days. Did you hear that?” he continued, turning to the driver. “Go back to Barford—get my bag from the Station Hotel there—bring it to the Normandale Arms—I’ll meet you there on your return.”
The car went off, and Collingwood, with a nod to Pratt, was about to turn down a side path towards the village. But Pratt stopped him.
“Would you care to see the place where the accident happened, Mr. Collingwood?” he said. “It’s close by—won’t take five minutes.”
Collingwood hesitated a moment; then he turned
