CHAPTER XIX
BLACK SECRETS AND RED TAPE
Before ever Brent dropped into the chair to which Hawthwaite silently pointed him, he knew that he was about to hear revelations. He was conscious of an atmosphere in that drab, sombre little room. Hawthwaite's glance at him as he entered was that of a man who bids another to prepare himself for news; Wellesley looked unusually stern and perplexed.
"Dr. Wellesley got me to send for you, Mr. Brent," said the superintendent. "He's got something to tell which he thinks you, as next-of-kin to our late Mayor, ought to know."
Brent nodded, and turned, in silence, to Wellesley. Wellesley, who had been staring moodily at the fireless grate, looked up, glancing from one man to the other.
"You understand, Mr. Brent, and you, Hawthwaite, that whatever I tell you is told in the very strictest confidence?" he said. "As you say, Hawthwaite, I think it's something that you ought to know, both of you; but, at present, I don't know if there's anything in it—I mean anything that has real, practical relation to Wallingford's death, or not. I am to speak in confidence?"
"To me—yes," answered Brent promptly.
"It'll not go beyond me, doctor," said Hawthwaite with a smile. "I'm used to this job! Heard more secrets and private communications in my time than I can remember; I've clean forgotten most of 'em."
"Very well," agreed Wellesley. "This is strictly private, then, at present. Now, to begin with, I suppose you have both heard—it's pretty well known through the town, I understand—that Mrs. Mallett has left her husband?"
"Ay!" replied Hawthwaite. "I've heard that."
"Yes," said Brent. "I too."
"I dare say you both gathered from that evidence, of mine and of Mrs. Mallett's, at the adjourned inquest, that there was some mystery underlying her visit to me?" continued Wellesley. "Some secret, eh?"
"Couldn't very well gather anything else, doctor!" replied Hawthwaite. "Evident!"
"The fact of the case is," said Wellesley suddenly, "that wasn't the first visit Mrs. Mallett had paid to me—and to Wallingford—in that way. She'd been twice before, during that week. On the first occasion she only saw me; on the second she and I saw Wallingford together, in the Mayor's Parlour; on the third—the one we gave evidence about—she went to see Wallingford alone, but, as she told you, she found he was engaged, so she came away."
The three men looked at each other. Hawthwaite voiced what two of the three were wondering.
"Some business which concerned all three of you, then, doctor?" he suggested.
"Business which deeply concerned her, and on which she came to consult me and Wallingford," replied Wellesley. "Now I'll tell you straight out what it was. Mrs. Mallett had found out that there was some sort of an intrigue between her husband and Mrs. Saumarez!"
For a moment a deep silence fell over the room. Brent felt his brows drawing together in a frown—the sort of frown that spreads over a man's face when he tries to think quickly and clearly over a problem unexpectedly presented to him. Hawthwaite folded his arms across his braided tunic, stared at the ceiling, and whistled softly. He was the first to speak.
"Oh, oh!" he said. "Um! So that's—But she'd have some proof, doctor, for an assertion of that sort? Not mere guess-work?"
"I'm afraid there's no guess-work about it," said Wellesley. "It's not a pleasant matter to discuss, but that's unavoidable now. This is what Mrs. Mallett told Wallingford and myself; Mrs. Mallett, as you know, is a downright, plain-spoken woman, with strong views of her own, and she's just the sort to go through with a thing. Some little time ago she found, evidently through Mallett's carelessness, a receipt for a very valuable diamond ring from a London jeweller, a lady's ring. This, of course, aroused her suspicions, and without saying anything to her husband she determined to have his movements watched. She knew that Mallett was frequently going away for a day at a time, ostensibly on business connected with the bank, and she employed a private inquiry agent to watch him. This man followed Mallett from Hathelsborough to Clothford one morning, and from Clothford station to the Royal County Hotel, where, in the lounge, he was joined by Mrs. Saumarez, who had been previously pointed out to the agent here in Hathelsborough, and who had evidently cycled over to Clothford. She and Mallett lunched at the Royal County in a private room and spent the greater part of the afternoon there; the same thing occurred on two other occasions. So then Mrs. Mallett came to me and to Wallingford."
"Why to you?" demanded Brent.
"I think," replied Wellesley, with a forced smile, "she may have had a womanish feeling of revenge, knowing that Wallingford and myself had—well, both paid a good deal of attention to Mrs. Saumarez. But there were other reasons—Mrs. Mallett has few friends in the town; I was her medical attendant, and she and Wallingford frequently met each other on one or two committees—Mrs. Mallett took a good deal of interest in social affairs. Anyway, she came and confided in us about this."
"I suppose you and Wallingford discussed it?" suggested Brent.
"Yes," replied Wellesley. "Briefly, on the night before his death."
"Was that the reason of your saying at the inquest that there was no jealousy between you, at the time of his death, as regards Mrs. Saumarez?"
"Just so! There couldn't be any jealousy, could there, after what we'd heard?"
"You believed this, then?"
"We couldn't do anything else! The man whom Mrs. Mallett employed is a thoroughly dependable man. There's not the slightest doubt that Mrs. Saumarez secretly met Mallett and spent most of the afternoon with him, under the circumstances I mentioned, on three separate occasions."
"And that's the reason of Mrs. Mallett's sudden flight—if you call it so; is it, doctor?" asked Hawthwaite, who had been listening intently.
"That's the reason—yes," replied Wellesley.
"What's she going to do?" inquired Hawthwaite. "Divorce?"
"She said something about a legal separation," answered Wellesley. "I suppose it will come to the other thing."
"And how do you think this is related to Wallingford's murder?" asked Hawthwaite with sudden directness. "Let's be plain, doctor—do you suspect Mallett?"
Wellesley showed signs of indecision.
"I don't like to say that I do," he replied at last. "And yet, I don't know. I've rather wondered if there'd been any meeting between Mallett and Wallingford after Wallingford knew about this: I believe they did meet, on business, during the day. Now, to tell you the truth, Wallingford was much more—shall we say upset?—about this affair than I was: he was very much gone on Mrs. Saumarez. It's struck me that he may have threatened Mallett with exposure; and exposure, of course, would mean a great deal to a man in Mallett's position—a bank-manager, and Town Trustee, and so on. And–But I really don't know what to think."
"There's a thing I'd like to know," said Brent. "What do you think about the woman in the case? You've had chances of knowing her."
Wellesley gave his questioner a searching look.
"I would rather not say, Mr. Brent," he replied. "Discoveries of this sort, substantiated, are—well, disconcerting. Besides, they tend to a revision of opinion; they're sidelights—unfortunate ones."
"Look here," said Brent, "were you greatly surprised?"
"Well, looking back," responded Wellesley thoughtfully, "perhaps not greatly. I think she's a bit of a mystery."
Brent turned to Hawthwaite. Hawthwaite, however, looked at the doctor.
"Well, doctor," he said, "I think you've done right to tell this. There's something in the suggestion that there may have been a fatal quarrel between Mallett and Wallingford. But I don't want to go into this at present—I'm full up otherwise. Leave it until this Local Government Board inspection is over."
"Why until then?" asked Wellesley.
"Why, because, for anything we know to the contrary, something may come out at that which will dovetail into this," replied Hawthwaite. "The Inspector is coming down at once—we'll leave this over till he's been. Look here, has Mrs. Mallett let this out to anybody but you?"
"No, I'm sure of that," answered Wellesley. "It's been known in the town for some time—common knowledge—that she and Mallett weren't on good terms, but she assured me just before leaving that she hasn't mentioned the episodes I've detailed to any other person here than myself. And, of course, Wallingford."
"And he's gone, poor fellow!" said Hawthwaite. "And Mr. Brent and myself'll be secret as the grave he lies in! All right, doctor—just leave it to me."
When Wellesley had gone away, Hawthwaite turned to Brent.
"I don't believe for one moment that Mallett murdered your cousin!" he said. "I'm not surprised about this other affair, but I don't think it's anything to do with what we're after. No; that's on a side-track. But I'll tell you what, Mr. Brent—I shouldn't be astonished if I found out that Mallett knows who the murderer is!"
"I wish you'd tell me if you've any idea yourself who the murderer is!" exclaimed Brent. "I'm wearying to get at something concrete!"
"Well, if you must have it, I have an idea," answered the superintendent. "It's a strong idea too. I'm working at it. To tell you the truth, though nobody knows it but one or two of my trusted men, I've had a very clever man down from New Scotland Yard for the past fortnight—he went away yesterday—and he was of great assistance in unearthing certain facts. And I'm only waiting now for some expert evidence on a very important point, which I can't get until next week, in order to make a move. As soon as ever this Local Government Board inspection's over, I'll make that move. And how do you think that inspection'll turn out, Mr. Brent?"
"Don't know, can't say, no idea," replied Brent.
"Nor have I!" remarked Hawthwaite. "Candidly, I never expect much from so-called public inquiries. There's too much officialism about 'em. Still, every little helps."
These conversations, and the revelations which had transpired during their course led Brent into a new train of thought. He had been well aware ever since his coming to Hathelsborough of an atmosphere of intrigue and mystery; every development that occurred seemed to thicken it. Here again was more intrigue centring in a domestic imbroglio. There was nothing much to be wondered at in it, he thought; Mallett was the sort of man to attract a certain type of woman, and, from all Brent had heard in the town, a man given to adventure; Mrs. Saumarez was clearly a woman fond of men's society; Mrs. Mallett, on the other hand, was a strait-laced, hard sort, given to social work and the furtherance of movements in which her husband took no interest. The sequence of events seemed probable to Brent. First there had been Wellesley; then Wallingford; perhaps a cleverly-contrived double affair with both. But during a recent period there had been this affair with Mallett—that, from Wellesley's showing, had come to Wallingford's ears. Brent knew his cousin sufficiently well to know that Wallingford would develop an ugly frame of mind on finding that he had been deceived—all sorts of things might well develop out of a sudden discovery. But had all this anything to do with Wallingford's murder? That, after all, was, to him, the main point. And so far he saw no obvious connection. He felt like a man who is presented with a mass of tangled cord, from which protrude a dozen loose ends—which end to seize upon that, on being drawn out, would not reveal more knots and tangles he did not know, for the very life of him. Perhaps, as Hawthwaite had remarked, it all helped, but as far as Brent could see it was still difficult to lay hold of a continuous and unbroken line.
It puzzled him, being still a stranger to the habits and customs of these people, to see that life in Hathelsborough went on, amidst all these alarums and excursions, very much as usual. He had already cultivated a habit of frequenting places of public resort, such as the smoking-room of his hotel, the big bar-room at Bull's, the rooms of the Town Club, to which he had without difficulty been duly elected a member on Tansley's nomination; at all these places he heard a great deal of gossip, but found no surprise shown at its subjects. Within a day or two, everybody who frequented these places knew that there had been a domestic upheaval at Mallett's and had at least some idea of the true reason of it. But nobody showed any astonishment; everybody, indeed, seemed to take it as a matter of course. Evidently it made no difference to Mallett himself, who was seen about the town just as usual, in his accustomed haunts. And when Brent remarked on this seeming indifference to Epplewhite, whom he sometimes conversed with at the Club, Epplewhite only laughed.
"If you knew this town and its people as well as I do, Mr. Brent," he said, "you'd know that things of this sort are viewed in a light that outsiders, perhaps, wouldn't view them in. The underhand affairs, the intrigues, the secret goings-on that exist here are multitudinous. Hathelsborough folk have a fixed standard—do what you like, as long as you don't get found out! Understand, sir?"
"But in this case the thing seems to have been found out," remarked Brent.
"That, in the Hathelsborough mental economy, is the only mistake in it," replied Epplewhite dryly. "It's the only thing that Mallett'll get blamed for! Lord bless you, do you think he's the only man in the place that's had such an affair? But Hathelsborough folk, men and women, are past masters and mistresses at secrecy and deception! If you could take the top off this town, and look deep down under it—ah! there would be something to see. But, as I dare say you're beginning to find out, that's no easy job."
"Will the top be lifted at this Local Government Board inspection?" asked Brent.
Epplewhite shook his head.
"I doubt it, sir!" he answered. "I doubt it very much. I've seen a bit too much of officialism, Mr. Brent, to cherish any hopes of it. I'll tell you what'll probably happen when this inspector comes. To start with, he's bound to be more or less in the hands of the officials. We know who they are—the three Town Trustees and the staff under them. Do you think they won't prepare their books and documents in such a fashion as to ensure getting a report in their favour? Of course! And what's to stop it? Who's to interfere?"
"I suppose he will hear both sides of the question?" suggested Brent.
"Who is there to put the other side of the question, except on broad lines, such as you've taken up in your Monitor articles?" asked Epplewhite. "True, the inspector can ask for information and for criticism, and for any facts bearing on the subject. But who'll come forward to give it? Can I? Can Wellesley? Can any of our party? Not one, in any satisfactory fashion. We've nothing but impressions and suspicions to go on—we haven't access to the books and papers. The only man who could have done something was your cousin, our late Mayor; and he's gone! And talking about that, Mr. Brent, there's a matter that I've been thinking a good deal about lately, and I think it should be put to Hawthwaite. You know, of course, that your cousin and I were very friendly—that came out in my evidence when the inquest was first opened. Well, he used to tell me things about his investigation of these Corporation finances, and I happen to know that he kept his notes and figures about them in a certain memorandum book—a thickish one, with a stout red leather cover—which he always carried about with him. He'd have it on him, or on his desk in the Mayor's Parlour, when he met his death, I'm certain! Now then—where is that book?"
"That's highly important!" said Brent. "I never heard of it. It certainly wasn't on him, and it wasn't on the desk, for I examined that myself, in company with the police."
"Well, he had such a book, and search should be made for it," remarked Epplewhite. "If it could have been produced at this inquiry, some good might have come of it. But, as things are, I see little hope of any change. Vested interests and old customs aren't upset in a day, Mr. Brent."
And Brent was soon to discover that both Tansley and Epplewhite were correct in their prophecies about the investigation which he himself had so strenuously advocated in his articles. The Local Government Board inspector came. He sat in the Moot Hall for two days, in public. He examined the ancient charters and deeds. He questioned the Town Trustees. He went through the books. He invited criticism and objections—and got nothing but a general statement of the policy of the reforming party from Epplewhite, as its leader: that party, said Epplewhite, objected to the old constitution as being outworn and wished for a more modern arrangement. Finally, the inspector, referring to the articles in the Monitor which had led to the holding of the inquiry, expressed a wish to see and question their writer.
Brent stood up, in the midst of a crowded court, and confessed himself sole author of the articles in question.
"Why did you write them?" inquired the inspector.
"From a sense of public duty," replied Brent.
"But I understand that you are a stranger, or a comparative stranger, to the town?" suggested the inspector.
"I am a burgess, a resident, and a property-owner in the town. I took up this work—which I mean to see right through!—in succession to my cousin, John Wallingford, late Mayor of this borough, who was murdered in this very hall," said Brent. "There are men here who know that he was working day and night to bring about the financial reforms which I advocate."
The inspector moved uneasily in his seat at the sound of the word which Brent emphasized in his reference to his cousin.
"I am sure I sympathize with you, Mr. Brent," he said. "I have been much grieved to hear of the late Mayor's sad fate. But you say you have voluntarily taken up his work? Did he leave you any facts, figures, statistics, particulars, to work on?"
"If he had known that I was going to take up his work he would doubtless have left me plenty," replied Brent. "But he was murdered! He had such things—a certain note-book, filled with his discoveries."
"Where is that book?" inquired the inspector. "Can it be produced?"
"It cannot," said Brent. "It was stolen when my cousin was killed."
The inspector hesitated, shuffling his papers.
"Then you have no figures, facts, anything, Mr. Brent?" he said presently. "Nothing to support your newspaper articles?"
"Nothing of that sort," answered Brent. "My articles refer wholly to the general principle of the thing."
The inspector smiled.
"I'm afraid governments—national or municipal—aren't run on general principles, Mr. Brent," he remarked.
"No!" said Brent. "They seem to be run on the lack of them."
The official inquiry came to an end on that—amidst good-humoured laughter at Brent's apparently ingenuous retort. The inspector announced that he would issue his report in due course, and everybody knew what it would be. The good old ways, the time-honoured customs would have another lease of life. Once more, Simon Crood had come out on top.
But as he was leaving the Moot Hall, Brent felt his arm touched and turned to see Hawthwaite. The superintendent gave him a knowing look.
"To-morrow!" he whispered. "Be prepared! All's done; all's ready!"
CHAPTER XX
THE FELL HAND
Brent heard what the superintendent said, nodded a silent reply, and five minutes later had put that particular thing clean out of his mind. During the progress of the Local Government Board inquiry he had learned something: that men like Tansley and Epplewhite knew a lot more about Hathelsborough and Hathelsborough folk than he did, or than Wallingford had known, despite the murdered man's longer experience of town and people. Reform was not going to be carried out in a day in that time-worn borough, nor were its ancient customs, rotten and corrupt as they were, to be uprooted by newspaper articles. So far, Simon Crood and his gang had won all along the line, and Brent realized that most men in his position would have given up the contest and retired from the field in weariness and disgust. But he was not going to give up, nor to retire. He had a feeling, amounting to something near akin to a superstition, that it was his sacred duty to carry on his dead cousin's work, especially as Wallingford, by leaving him all his money, had provided him with the means of doing it. There in Hathelsborough he was, and in Hathelsborough he would stick, holding on like a bulldog to the enemy.
"I'm not counted out!" he said that evening, talking the proceedings of the day over with Queenie. "I'm up again and ready for the next round. Here I am, and here I stop! But new tactics! Permeation! that's the ticket. Reckon I'll nitrate and percolate the waters of pure truth into these people in such a fashion that they'll come to see that what that old uncle of yours and his precious satellites have been giving 'em was nothing but a very muddy mixture. Permeation! that's the game in future."
Queenie scarcely knew what he meant. But she gathered a sense of it from the set of his square jaw and the flash of his grey eyes; being increasingly in love with him, it was incomprehensible to her that anybody could beat Brent at any game he took a hand in.
"The inquiry was all cut-and-dried business," remarked Queenie. "Arranged! Of course the accounts and things would be cooked. Uncle Simon and Mallett and Coppinger would see to that. They'll have an extra bottle to-night over this victory. And if they could only hear to-morrow that you're going to clear out their joy would be full."
"Well, I'm not!" declared Brent. "Instead of clearing out, I'm going to dig in. I guess they'll find me entrenched harder than ever before long. We'll get on at that to-morrow, now that this all-hollow inquiry's over."
Queenie understood him perfectly that time. He and she were furnishing the house which Brent had purchased in order to get a properly legal footing in Hathelsborough. It was serious and occasionally deeply fascinating work, necessitating much searching of the shops wherein antique furniture was stored, much consultation with upholsterers and decorators, much consideration of style and effect. Brent quickly discovered that Queenie was a young woman of artistic taste with a natural knowledge and appreciation of colour schemes and values; Queenie found out that Brent had a positive horror of the merely modern. Consequently, this furnishing and decorating business took up all their spare time: Queenie eventually spent all hers at the house, superintending and arranging; Brent was there when he was not writing his Monitor articles or interviewing Hawthwaite. The unproductive inquiry had broken into this domestic adventure; Brent now proposed to go ahead with it until it was finished; then he and Queenie would quietly get married and settle down. Hathelsborough, he remarked, might not want him, but there in Hathelsborough he had set up his tent, and the pegs were firmly driven in.
On the day succeeding the Local Government Board inquiry Brent and Queenie had spent morning, afternoon, and the first part of the evening at the house, at the head of a small gang of workmen, and had reduced at least half of the chaos to order. As dusk grew near Brent put on his coat and gave Queenie one of his looks which signified that there was no answer needed to what he was about to say.
"That's enough!" said Brent. "Dog tired! Now we'll go round to the Chancellor and get the best dinner they can give us. Put on your hat!"
Queenie obeyed, readily enough: she was in that stage whereat a young woman finds obedience the most delightful thing in the world. Brent locked up the house, and they went away together towards the hotel. In the old market square the lamps were just being lighted; as usual there were groups of townsfolk gathered about High Cross and Low Cross, and the pavements were thronged with strolling pedestrians. Something suggested to Brent that all these folk were discussing some news of moment; he heard excited voices; once or twice men glanced inquisitively at Queenie and himself as they walked towards the Chancellor; on the steps outside the hotel a knot of men, amongst them the landlord, were plainly in deep debate. They became silent as Queenie and Brent passed in, and Brent, ushering Queenie into the inner hall, turned back to them.
"Something going?" he asked laconically.
The men looked at each other; the landlord, with a glance in Queenie's direction, replied, lowering his voice:
"Then you haven't heard, Mr. Brent?" he said. "I thought you'd have known. Hawthwaite's arrested Krevin Crood for the murder."
In spite of his usual self-possession, Brent started.
"What!" he exclaimed. "Krevin!"
"Krevin," answered the landlord. "And Simon! Both of 'em. Got 'em at seven o'clock. They're in the police station—cells of course. Nice business—Mayor of a town arrested for the murder of his predecessor!"
"As far as I can make out, Simon's charged with being accessory," remarked one of the other men. "Krevin's the culprit-in-chief."
"Well, there they both are anyway," said the landlord. "And, if I know anything about the law, it's as serious a thing to be accessory to a murder as to be the principal in one. What do you say, Mr. Brent?"
Brent made no reply. He was thinking. So this was what Hawthwaite had meant when he said, the day before, that all was ready? He wished that Hawthwaite had given him a hint, or been perfectly explicit with him. For there was Queenie to consider.
And now, without further remark to the group of gossipers, he turned on his heel and went back to her and took her into the coffee-room and to the table which was always specially reserved for him. Not until Queenie had eaten her dinner did he tell her of what he had learned.
"So now there's going to be hell for a time, girlie," he said in conclusion. "No end of unpleasantness for me—and for you, considering that these men are your folk. And so all the more reason why you and I stick together like leeches—not all the Simons and the Krevins in the world are going to make any difference between you and me, and we'll just go forward as if they didn't exist, whatever comes out. And now, come along and I'll see you home to Mother Appleyard's, and then I'll drop in on Hawthwaite and learn all about it."
"Do—do you think they did it?" asked Queenie in a fearful whisper. "Actually?"
"God knows!" muttered Brent. "Damned if I do, or if I know what to think. But Hawthwaite must have good grounds for this!"
He saw Queenie safely home to Mrs. Appleyard's and hurried off to the police station, where he found the superintendent alone in his office.
"You've heard?" said Hawthwaite.
"I've heard," replied Brent. "I wish you'd given me an idea—a hint."
Hawthwaite shook his head. There was something peculiarly emphatic in the gesture.
"Mr. Brent," he said solemnly. "I wouldn't have given the King himself a hint! I'd reasons—good reasons—for keeping the thing a profound secret until I could strike. As it is, I've been foiled. I've got Krevin Crood, and I've got Simon Crood—safely under lock and key. But I haven't got the other two!"
"What other two?" exclaimed Brent.
Hawthwaite smiled sourly.
"What other two?" he repeated. "Why, Mallett and Coppinger! They're off, though how the devil they got wind of what was going on I can't think. Leaked out, somehow."
"You suspect them too?" asked Brent.
"Suspect!" sneered Hawthwaite. "Lord! You wait till Simon and Krevin are brought up before the magistrates to-morrow morning! We've got the whole evidence so absolutely full and clear that we can go right full steam ahead with the case to-morrow. Meeking'll prosecute, and I hope to get 'em committed before the afternoon's over."
"Look here," said Brent, "tell me—what's the line? How does the thing stand?"
"Thus," replied Hawthwaite. "We shall charge Krevin with the murder of your cousin, and Simon with being accessory to the fact."
"Before or after?" asked Brent.
"Before!"
"And those other two—Mallett and Coppinger?"
"Same charge as Simon."
Brent took a turn or two about the room.
"That," he remarked, pausing at last in front of Hawthwaite's desk, "means that there was a conspiracy?"
"To be sure!" assented Hawthwaite. "Got proof of it!"
"Then I wish you'd laid hands on Mallett and Coppinger," said Brent. "You've no idea of their whereabouts, I suppose?"
"None, so far," replied Hawthwaite. "Nor can I make out how or precisely when they slipped off. But they are off. Oddly enough, Mrs. Mallett's back in the town—I saw and spoke to her an hour ago. Of course she knows nothing about Mallett. She didn't come back to him. I don't know what she came back for. She's staying with friends, down Waterdale."
"What time will these men be brought up to-morrow morning?" asked Brent.
"Ten o'clock sharp," answered Hawthwaite. "And I hope that before the end of the afternoon they'll have been fully committed to take their trial! As I said just now, we can go straight on. Careful preparation makes speedy achievement, Mr. Brent! And by the Lord Harry, we've done some preparing!"
"If only the whole thing is cleared … at last," said Brent quietly. "You think … now … it will be?"
Hawthwaite smacked his hand on his blotting-pad.
"Haven't the shadow of a doubt, Mr. Brent, that Krevin Crood murdered your cousin!" he asserted. "But you'll hear for yourself to-morrow. Come early. And a word of advice–"
"Yes?" Brent inquired.
"Leave your young lady at home," said Hawthwaite. "No need for her feelings to be upset. They're her uncles, these two, after all, you know. Don't bring her."
"No; of course," assented Brent. "Never intended to."
He went away to his hotel, sorely puzzled. Hawthwaite seemed positively confident that he had solved the problem at last; but was Hawthwaite right? Somehow, Brent could scarcely think of Krevin Crood as a cold-blooded murderer, nor did it seem probable to him that calculating, scheming men like Simon Crood, Mallett, and Coppinger would calmly plot assassination and thereby endanger their own safety. One thing, anyway, seemed certain—if Wallingford's knowledge of the financial iniquities of the Town Trustees was so deep as to lead them to commit murder as the only way of compelling his silence, then those iniquities must have been formidable indeed and the great and extraordinary wonder was that they had just been able to cloak them so thoroughly and successfully.