“And that is all you know of her?” asked Mr. Millington-Bywater.
“All!”
“Can you describe her?”
“A tallish, rather well-built woman, but so veiled that I could see nothing of her features; it was, moreover, nearly dark on both occasions. From her speech and manner, she was, I should say, a woman of education and refinement.”
“Did you try to trace her, or her principals, through the district messenger who brought the letter?”
“Certainly not! I told you, just now, that I gave my word of honour: I couldn’t.”
Mr. Millington-Bywater turned to the magistrate.
“I can, if Your Worship desires it, put a witness in the box who can prove beyond doubt that the papers of which we have just heard this remarkable story, were recently in the possession of John Ashton,” he said. “He is Mr. Cecil Perkwite, of the Middle Temple—a member of my own profession.”
But the magistrate, who appeared unusually thoughtful, shook his head.
“After what we have heard,” he said, “I think we had better adjourn. The prisoner will be remanded—as before—for another week.”
When the magistrate had left the bench, and the court was humming with the murmur of tongues suddenly let free, Mr. Pawle forced his way to the side of the last witness.
“Whoever you are, sir,” he said, “there’s one thing certain—nobody but you can supply the solution of the mystery about Ashton’s death! Come with me and Carless at once.”
XXIV
The Broken Letter
The man whose extraordinary story had excited such intense interest had become the object of universal attention. Hyde, hitherto the centre of attraction, was already forgotten, and instead of people going away from the court to canvass his guilt or his innocence, they surged round the witness whose testimony, strange and unexpected, had so altered the probabilities of the case. It was with difficulty that Methley got his client away into a private room; there they were joined by Mr. Carless, Mr. Pawle, Mr. Perkwite, Lord Ellingham and Viner, and behind a locked door these men looked at each other and at this centre of interest with the air of those to whom something extraordinary has just been told. After a moment of silence Mr. Carless spoke, addressing the man whose story had brought matters to an undeniable crisis.
“I am sure,” he said gravely, and with a side glance at Lord Ellingham, “that if your story is true, sir—and after what we have just heard, I am beginning to think that my first conclusions may have been wrong ones—no one will welcome your reappearance more warmly than the young gentleman whom you will turn out of title and property! But you must see for yourself that your claims must be thoroughly investigated—and as what you have now just told affects other people, and we must invite you to full discussion, I propose that, for the time being, we address you as Mr. Cave.”
The claimant smiled, and nodded genially to the young man whose uncle he alleged himself to be.
“I wish to remain Mr. Cave,” he said. “I don’t want to turn my nephew out of title and property, so long as he will do something for his old uncle. Call me Mr. Cave, by all means.”
“We must talk—and at once,” said Mr. Carless. “There are several points arising out of your evidence on which you must give me information. Whoever is at the back of that woman who handed you those papers is probably the murderer of John Ashton—and that is what must be got at. Now, where can we have a conference—immediately?—Your office, Methley, is not far away, I think.”
“My house is nearer,” said Viner. “Come—we shall be perfectly quiet in my study, and there will be nothing to interrupt us. Let us go now.”
A police official let them out by a side-door, and Viner and Mr. Pawle led the way through some side-streets to Markendale Square, the others coming behind, conversing eagerly about the events of the morning. Mr. Pawle, on his part, was full of excitement.
“If we can only trace that woman, Viner!” he exclaimed. “That’s the next thing! Get hold of her, whoever she is, and then—ah, we shall be in sight of the finishing-part.”
“What about tracing the whole lot through the check he has given?” suggested Viner. “Wouldn’t that be a good way?”
“We should have to wait nearly a month,” answered Mr. Pawle. “And even then it would be difficult—simple though it seems at first sight. There are folk who deal in postdated checks, remember! This may have been dealt with already—aye, and that diamond too; and the man who has got the proceeds may already be many a mile away. Deep, cunning folk they are who have been in this, Viner. And now—speed is the thing!”
Viner led his guests into his library, and as he placed chairs for them round a centre table, an idea struck him.
“I have a suggestion to make,” he said with a shy smile at the legal men. “My aunt, Miss Penkridge, who lives with me, is an unusually sharp, shrewd woman. She has taken vast interest in this affair, and I have kept her posted up in all its details. She was in court just now and heard Mr. Cave’s story. If no one has any objection, I should like her to be present at our deliberations—as a mysterious woman has entered into the case, Miss Penkridge may be able to suggest something.”
“Excellent idea!” exclaimed Mr. Carless. “A shrewd woman is worth her weight
