“But there must have been legatees—executors—lawyers interested, at the very least?”
“They never put in a claim, then. The fellow was here, and gone, and narry a sign. ’Twas a queer business.”
“Well, heaven rest his bones at the last!”
“I’ll give you Amen to that. You are its deputy for one of them by all account.”
“Eh! What d’ye say?”
“’Tis a tale hereabouts that Whimple’s mad sister has the creature’s skull in keepin’—that for months she hovered like a crow under the gallows, and picked it up at last when it fell.”
“Good God! She has—or had. I’ve seen it.”
“Ah! A pretty plaything for a maid. Well, that’s Mr. Turk’s story, as I know it.”
The listener sat for some moments in a profound and bewildered silence. Vaguely, through his brain, like faint harmonics, ran the words of the lawyer Creel and his own question to which they had been an answer: “When did it come to him?” “That I may answer you. It was in the year ’79.”
So his father had himself slipped into possession of this mysterious estate at the very time that ghastly scarecrow was tossing in the wind. How then was it, that he had not caused inquiry to be made as to the fate of his predecessor—had not set bloodhounds on the track of the assassins—had not even allotted the poor remains some decent burial?