“That you, Roger?” he demanded.
“No, this is Jefferson,” Roger said, hastily shutting the door behind him. “And very nicely you’d have given things away if it had been, Alexander Watson. And you might try and moderate your voice a bit. The sound of a foghorn in the middle of the night is bound to make people wonder. Ready?”
Alec got out of bed and put on his dressing-gown.
“Right-ho.”
As quietly as possible they stole downstairs and into the morning room. Roger drew the thick curtains together carefully before switching on the light.
“Now for it!” he breathed excitedly, eyeing the crowded table with eagerness. “That little pile there I’ve already been through, so you needn’t bother about those.”
“Already?” Alec asked in surprise.
“Yes, in company with my excellent friend, Major Jefferson,” Roger grinned, and proceeded to explain what he had been doing.
“You’ve got some cheek,” Alec commented with a smile.
“Yes, and I’ve got something more than that,” Roger retorted. “I’ve got a thoroughly sound working idea as to who killed Stanworth and under what circumstances. I can tell you, friend Alec, I’ve been uncommonly busy these last two hours or so.”
“You have?” said Alec eagerly. “Tell me.”
Roger shook his head. “Not at the moment,” he said, sitting down in Jefferson’s chair. “Let’s get this little job safely done first. Now look here, you go through these miscellaneous documents, will you? I want to study the passbooks first of all. And I’ll tell you one thing I’ve discovered. The income from those various businesses of his didn’t amount to a quarter of what he must have been spending. He cleared just over two thousand out of all five of them last year, and I should say that he’s been living at the rate of at least ten thousand a year. And besides all that, he’s been investing heavily as well. Where does all the extra cash come from? That’s what I want to find out.”
Alec began to wade obediently through the sheaf of papers that Roger had indicated, while the latter picked out the passbooks and glanced at them.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Two of these accounts are in his own name, and the other three appear to be in three different names. Jefferson never said anything about that. Now I wonder what the devil that means?”
He began to pore over them methodically, and for some time there was silence in the room. Then Roger looked up with a frown.
“I don’t understand these at all,” he said slowly. “The dividends are all shown in his own two passbooks, and various checks and so on; but the other three seem to be made up entirely of cash payments, on the credit side at any rate. Listen to this: Feb. 9th, £100; Feb. 17th, £500; Mar. 12th, £200; Mar. 28th, £350; and then April 9th, £1,000. What on earth do you make of that? All in cash, and such nice round sums. Why a thousand pounds in cash?”
“Seems funny, certainly,” Alec agreed.
Roger picked up another of the books, and flicked the pages through carefully.
“This is just the same sort of thing. Hullo, here’s an entry of £5,000 paid in cash. £5,000 in cash! Now why? What does it mean? Does your pile throw any light on it?”
“No, these are only business letters. There doesn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary here at all.”
Roger still held the book mechanically in his hand, but he was staring blankly at the wall.
“Nothing but cash,” he murmured softly; “all sorts of sums between £10 and £5,000; each sum a multiple of ten, or some other round figure; no shillings or pence; and cash! That’s what worries me. Why cash? I can’t find a single check marked on the credit side of these three books. And where in the name of goodness did all this cash come from? There’s absolutely nothing to account for it, as far as I can make out. It’s not the proceeds of any sort of business, apparently. Besides, the debit side shows nothing but checks drawn to self. He paid it in as cash and he drew it out himself. Now what on earth does all this mean?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Alec helplessly.
Roger stared at the wall in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly, his mouth opened, and he whistled softly.
“By—Jove!” he exclaimed, transferring his gaze to Alec. “I believe I’ve got it. And doesn’t it simplify things, too? Yes, it must be right. It makes everything as clear as daylight. Good lord! Well, I’m damned!”
“Out with it, then!”
Roger paused impressively. This was the most dramatic moment he had yet encountered, and he was not going to spoil it by any undue precipitation.
He smote the table softly with his fist by way of preparation. Then:
“Old Stanworth was a professional blackmailer!” he said in vibrant tones.
XXII
Mr. Sheringham Solves the Mystery
It was past ten o’clock on the following morning, and Roger and Alec were engaged in taking a constitutional in the rose garden after breakfast before the inquest proceedings opened. Roger had refused to say anything further on the previous evening—or, rather, in the small hours of the same morning. All he had done was to remark that it was quite time they were in bed, and that he wanted a clear head before discussing the affair in the light of this new revelation of Stanworth’s character. He remarked this not once, but many times; and Alec had perforce to be contented with it.
Now, with pipes in full blast, they were preparing to go further into the matter.
Roger himself was complacently triumphant.
“Mystery?” he repeated, in answer to a question of Alec’s. “There isn’t any mystery now. I’ve solved it.”
“Oh, I know the mystery about Stanworth is cleared up,” said Alec impatiently; to tell the truth, Roger in this mood irritated him not a little. “That is, if your explanation is the right one, which I’m not disputing at the moment.”
“Thank you very much.”
“But what about the mystery of his death?
