“Only too pleased, Bathurst,” came his reply. “Let me know when you want me—will in here do?”
“Excellently!”
As Anthony spoke the word, the noise of a car was heard humming up the gravel approach to Assynton Lodge. The door opened to admit a stout, clean-shaven man—dressed in a fashionable lounge-suit of light-grey—double-breasted. Holding his grey Homburg to his chest he bowed to Charles Stewart, at the same time making his own introduction.
“My dear Mr. Stewart,” he said in a pleasantly modulated voice, with just a touch of American accent, “I am Andrew Ferguson, of Crake and Ferguson, of New York. I am grieved beyond measure that our first meeting should be taking place under such heart-breaking circumstances. My very sincerest sympathy—Mr. Stewart.” He clasped the young man’s hand warmly in his own. “These gentlemen”—he inquired, raising his eyebrows.
“Mr. Peter Daventry, representing a London firm, similar to your own—Mr. Anthony Bathurst, whom I’ve called in to watch my interests, and Detective-Inspector Goodall, of Scotland Yard.” Stewart motioned towards the three in turn. Ferguson bowed again. “Come to the library, Mr. Ferguson, will you?” said Stewart, “and no doubt, you will stay for lunch.”
“As a matter of fact,” said the lawyer, “my presence here to-day is rather remarkable. When you cabled last Thursday to our New York offices—I had already sailed for London. We have some very important business to transact over here in connection with one of our most esteemed clients, and Mr. Crake and I decided that I had better run over myself. So I sailed on the Mauretania. I was, naturally, most distressed and shocked to get a wireless message from my partner, Crake, late last Friday, informing me of the sad news of Mr. Laurence Stewart’s death—and asking me if I would call down here to see you immediately upon my landing. My dear Mr. Stewart—I have lost no time!” He beamed on the assembled company. “By the way, Inspector, has the inquest been held yet?” He turned towards Goodall.
“Not yet—it is to be held this afternoon.”
“H’m—pardon any—er—possible—er—laceration of your feelings, Mr. Stewart—I am sure—in the circumstances you will understand thoroughly my motive in asking—but I presume that there is no possible doubt that my unfortunate client was murdered?” He removed his glasses and wiped them nervously.
Charles Stewart looked across at the Inspector. The latter took it as his cue to reply to Andrew Ferguson’s question. “Unfortunately—no—Mr. Ferguson—as far as I can see at the moment—there is not the vestige of a doubt.” Ferguson replaced his glasses on his nose and blinked at Goodall. “Have the police any——”
Goodall cut him short, breaking in abruptly. “As far as the inquest this afternoon is concerned—the police will content themselves with offering merely formal evidence of identification and then asking for an adjournment.”