He looked round from one listener to another, seeking opinion from each. Mr. Pawle maintained a professional imperturbability; Mrs. Killenhall looked mildly excited on hearing this new theory. But from Miss Wickham, Viner got a flash of intelligent comprehension.
“The real thing is this,” she said, “none of us know anything about Mr. Ashton, really. He may have had enemies.”
Pawle rubbed his chin; the action suggested perplexity.
“Miss Wickham is quite right,” he said. “Mr. Ashton is more or less a man of mystery. He had been here in England two months. His ward knows next to nothing about him, except that she was left in his guardianship many a year ago, that he sent her to England, to school, and that he recently joined her here. Mrs. Killenhall knows no more than that he engaged her as chaperon to his ward, and that they exchanged references. His references were to his bankers and to me. But neither his bankers nor I know anything of him, except that he was a very well-to-do man. I can tell precisely what his bankers know. It is merely this: he transferred his banking-account from an Australian bank to them on coming to London. I saw them this morning on first getting the news. They have about two hundred thousand pounds lying to his credit. That’s absolutely all they know about him—all!”
“The Australian bankers would know more,” suggested Viner.
“Precisely!” agreed Mr. Pawle. “We can get news from them, in time. But now, what do I know? No more than this—Mr. Ashton called on me about six or seven weeks ago, told me that he was an Australian who had come to settle in London, that he was pretty well off, and that he wanted to make a will. We drafted a will on his instructions, and he duly executed it. Here it is! Miss Wickham has just seen it. Mr. Ashton has left every penny he had to Miss Wickham. He told me she was the only child of an old friend of his, who had given her into his care on his death out in Australia, some years ago, and that as he, Ashton, had no near relations, he had always intended to leave her all he had. And so he has, without condition, or reservation, or anything—all is yours, Miss Wickham, and I’m your executor. But now,” continued Mr. Pawle, “how far does this take us toward solving the mystery of my client’s death? So far as I can see, next to nowhere! And I am certain of this, Mr. Viner: if we are going to solve it, and if this old school friend of yours is being unjustly accused, and is to be cleared, we must find out more about Ashton’s doings since he came to London. The secret lies—there!”
“I quite agree,” answered Viner. “But—who knows anything?”
Mr. Pawle looked at the two ladies.
“That’s a stiff question!” he said. “The bankers tell me that Ashton only called on them two or three times; he called on me not oftener; neither they nor I ever had much conversation with him. These two ladies should know more about him than anybody—but they seem to know little.”
Viner, who was sitting opposite to her, looked at Miss Wickham.
“You must know something about his daily life?” he said. “What did he do with himself?”
“We told you and the police-inspector pretty nearly all we know, last night,” replied Miss Wickham. “As a rule, he used to go out of a morning—I think, from his conversation, he used to go down to the City. I don’t think it was on business: I think, he liked to look about him. Sometimes he came home to lunch; sometimes he didn’t. Very often in the afternoon he took us for motor-rides into the country—sometimes he took us to the theatres. He used to go out a good deal, alone at night—we don’t know where.”
“Did he ever mention any club?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“No, never!” replied Miss Wickham. “He was reticent about himself—always very kind and thoughtful and considerate for Mrs. Killenhall and myself, but he was a reserved man.”
“Did he ever have anyone to see him?” inquired the solicitor. “Any men to dine, or anything of that sort?”
“No—not once. No one has ever even called on him,” said Miss Wickham. “We have had two or three dinner-parties, but the people who came were friends of mine—two or three girls whom I knew at school, who are now married and live in London.”
“A lonely sort of man!” commented Mr. Pawle. “Yet—he must have known people. Where did he go when he went into the City? Where did he go at night? There must be somebody somewhere who can tell more about him. I think it will be well if I ask for information through the newspapers.”
“There is one matter we haven’t mentioned,” said Mrs. Killenhall. “Just after we got settled down here, Mr. Ashton went away for some days—three or four days. That, of course, may be quite insignificant.”
“Do you know where he went?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“No, we don’t know,” answered Mrs. Killenhall. “He went away one Monday morning, saying that now everything was in order we could spare him for a few days. He returned on the following Thursday or Friday—I forget which—but he didn’t tell us where he had been.”
“You don’t think any of the servants would know?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“Oh, dear me, no!” replied Mrs. Killenhall. “He was the sort of man who rarely speaks to his servants—except when he wanted something.”
Mr. Pawle looked at his watch and rose.
“Well!” he said. “We shall have to find out more about my late client’s habits and whom he knew in
