“Quite so,” Hewitt replied; “but there are a thousand such matters at this moment pending of which you and I know nothing, and there are also two or three more of which you know nothing, but on which I am at work. So that it becomes a question of practicability. If you will tell me your business I can judge whether or not I may be able to accept your commission concurrently with those I have in hand. Some operations take months of constant attention; some can be conducted intermittently; others still are a mere matter of a few days—many of hours simply.”
“I will tell you then,” Mr. Bowyer replied. “In the first place, will you have the kindness to read that? It is a cutting from the Standard’s column of news from the provinces of two days ago.”
Hewitt took the cutting and read as follows:—
“The epidemic of small-pox in County Mayo, Ireland, shows few signs of abating. The spread of the disease has been very remarkable considering the widely-scattered nature of the population, though there can be no doubt that the market-towns are the centres of infection, and that it is from these that the germs of contagion are carried into the country by people from all parts who resort thither on market days. In many cases the disease has assumed a particularly malignant form, and deaths have been very rapid and numerous. The comparatively few medical men available are sadly overworked, owing largely to the distances separating their different patients. Among those who have succumbed within the last few days is Mr. Algernon Rewse, a young English gentleman who has been staying with a friend at a cottage a few miles from Cullanin, on a fishing excursion.”
ALGERNON REWSE.
Hewitt placed the cutting on the table at his side. “Yes?” he said inquiringly. “It is to Mr. Algernon Rewse’s death you wish to draw my attention?”
“It is,” Mr. Bowyer answered; “and the reason I come to you is that I very much suspect—more than suspect, indeed—that Mr. Algernon Rewse has not died by small-pox, but has been murdered—murdered cold-bloodedly, and for the most sordid motives, by the friend who has been sharing his holiday.”
“In what way do you suppose him to have been murdered?”
“That I cannot say—that, indeed, I want you to find out, among other things—chiefly, perhaps, the murderer himself, who has made off.”