“It’s decidedly odd!” said Mr. Pawle. “This affair seems to be getting more mysterious than ever.”
“What’s to be done next?” inquired Viner.
“Well, the newspapers are always very good about that,” answered the solicitor. “I’m getting them to insert paragraphs asking the two men, Fosdick and Stephens, to come forward and tell us if they’ve seen anything of Ashton since he came to England; I’m also asking if anybody can tell us where Ashton was when he went away from home on that visit that Mrs. Killenhall spoke of. If—”
Just then a clerk came into Mr. Pawle’s room, and bending down to him, whispered a few words which evidently occasioned him great surprise.
“At once!” he said. “Bring them straight in, Parkinson. God bless me!” he exclaimed, turning to Viner. “Here are the two men in question—Fosdick and Stephens! Saw our name in the paper as Ashton’s solicitors and want to see me urgently.”
VII
What Was the Secret?
The two men who were presently ushered in were typical Colonials—big, hefty fellows as yet in early middle age, alert, evidently prosperous, if their attire and appointments were anything to go by, and each was obviously deeply interested in the occasion of his visit to Mr. Pawle. Two pairs of quick eyes took in the old solicitor and his companion, and the elder of the men came forward in a businesslike manner.
“Mr. Pawle, I understand?” he said. “I’m Mr. Fosdick, of Melbourne, Victoria; this is my friend Mr. Stephens, same place.”
“Take a seat, Mr. Fosdick—have this chair, Mr. Stephens,” responded Mr. Pawle. “You wish to see me—on business?”
“That’s so,” answered Fosdick as the two men seated themselves by the solicitor’s desk. “We saw your name in the newspapers this morning in connection with the murder of John Ashton. Now, we knew John Ashton—he was a Melbourne man, too—and we can tell something about him. So we came to you instead of the police. Because, Mr. Pawle, what we can tell is maybe more a matter for a lawyer than for a policeman. It’s mysterious.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Pawle, “I’ll be frank with you. I recognized your names as soon as my clerk announced them. Here’s a cablegram which I have just received from Melbourne—you’ll see your names mentioned in it.”
The two callers bent over the cablegram, and Fosdick looked up and nodded.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “We came over with John Ashton in the Maraquibo. We knew him pretty well before that—most folk in Melbourne did. But of course, we were thrown into his company on board ship rather more than we’d ever been before. And we very much regret to hear of what’s happened to him.”
“You say there is something you can tell?” observed Mr. Pawle. “If it’s anything that will help to solve the mystery of this murder—for there is a mystery—I shall be very glad to hear it.”
Fosdick and Stephens glanced at each other and then at Viner, who sat a little in Mr. Pawle’s rear.
“Partner of yours?” asked Fosdick.
“Not at all! This gentleman,” replied Mr. Pawle, “is Mr. Viner. It was he who found Ashton’s dead body. They were neighbours.”
“Well, you found the body of a very worthy man, sir,” remarked Fosdick gravely. “And we’d like to do something toward finding the man who killed him. For we don’t think it was this young fellow who’s charged with it, nor that robbery was the motive. We think John Ashton was—removed. Put out of the way!”
“Why, now?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Fosdick. “My friend Stephens, here, is a man of few words; he credits me with more talkativeness than he’ll lay claim to. So I’m to tell the tale. There mayn’t be much in it, and there may be a lot. We think there’s a big lot! But this is what it comes to: Ashton was a close man, a reserved man. However, one night, when the three of us were having a quiet cigar in a corner of the smoking saloon in the Maraquibo, he opened out to us a bit. We’d been talking about getting over to England—we’d all three emigrated, you’ll understand, when we were very young—and the talk ran on what we’d do. Fosdick and Stephens, d’ye see, were only on a visit—which is just coming to an end, Mr. Pawle; we sail home in a day or two—but Ashton was turning home for good. And he said to us, in a sort of burst of confidence, that he’d have plenty to do when he landed. He said that he was in possession—sole possession—of a most extraordinary secret, the revelation of which would affect one of the first families in England, and he was going to bring it out as soon as he’d got settled down in London. Well—you may be surprised, but—that’s all.”
“All you can tell?” exclaimed Mr. Pawle.
“All! But we can see plenty in it,” said Fosdick. “Our notion is that Ashton was murdered by somebody who didn’t want that secret to come out. Now, you see if events don’t prove we’re right.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Pawle, “allow me to ask you a few questions.”
“Many as you please, sir,” assented Fosdick. “We’ll answer anything.”
“He didn’t tell you what the secret was?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“No. He said we’d know more about it in time,” replied Fosdick. “It would possibly lead to legal proceedings, he said—in that case, it would be one of the most celebrated cases ever known.”
“And romantic,” added Stephens, speaking for the first time. “Romantic! That was the term he used.”
“And romantic—quite so,” assented Fosdick. “Celebrated and romantic—those were the words. But in any case, he said, whether it got to law matters or not, it couldn’t fail to be in the papers, and we should read all about it in due time.”
“And you know no more than that?” inquired Mr. Pawle.
“Nothing!” said Fosdick with decision.
Mr. Pawle looked at Viner as if to seek some inspiration. And Viner took up the work of examination.
“Do you
