"Yes," I agreed; "I suppose the income-tax people, or whoever the fiends are that assess heirs for death duties, would not have accepted any old estimates. But that would mean that the pictures were all right ten months ago."
We looked at each other. "There's been some queer hocus-pocus going on," mumbled Jim.
"It sounds like black magic!" I breathed.
"Black fraud," he amended. "Ought we to speak to Murray—just drop him a hint, and suggest his getting an expert to have a look round?"
"It would worry him, and he oughtn't to be worried now," I said.
"Still, he wants everything to be all right for his wife when he goes west."
"I know," said I; "but I don't feel that these happy days of his—his last days, perhaps—ought to be disturbed. If—if Rosemary loves him as much as we believe she does, she'd rather have a fuss after he's gone than before. We might be breaking open a wasp's nest if we spoke. And it isn't our business, is it?"
"Unless we could find out something on the quiet," thoughtfully suggested Jim. "For instance, is there anybody in this neighbourhood who's a pretty good artist and a smart copyist—anybody, I mean, who could have had the run of the Manor while the house was unoccupied except by a caretaker?"
"Yes, we might set ourselves to find out that," I assented. "And, by the way—apropos of nothing, of course!—I think we might call on the Jenningses, don't you?—as the doctor intimated that they didn't 'feel grand enough' to call on us."
"I think we might," echoed Jim. "And why not to-day, while we're close to Merriton?"