“It is written on notepaper stamped with your address,” Wolfenden remarked. “It is also, I suppose, a fair imitation of your handwriting, for Lady Deringham accepted it as such?”
The doctor nodded.
“I will tell you,” he said, “all that I know of the affair. I started out to pay some calls this evening about six o’clock. As I turned into the main road I met a strange brougham and pair of horses being driven very slowly. There was a man who looked like a gentleman’s servant sitting by the side of the coachman, and as I passed them the latter asked a question, and I am almost certain that I heard my name mentioned. I was naturally a little curious, and I kept looking back all along the road to see which way they turned after passing my house. As a matter of fact, although I pulled up and waited in the middle of the road, I saw no more of the carriage. When at last I drove on, I knew that one of two things must have happened. Either the carriage must have come to a standstill and remained stationary in the road, or it must have turned in at my gate. The hedge was down a little higher up the road, and I could see distinctly that they had not commenced to climb the hill. It seemed very odd to me, but I had an important call to make, so I drove on and got through as quickly as I could. On my way home I passed your north entrance, and, looking up the avenue, I saw the same brougham on its way up to the house. I had half a mind to run in then—I wish now that I had—but instead of doing so I drove quickly home. There I found that a gentleman had called a few minutes after I had left home, and finding me out had asked permission to leave a note. The girl had shown him into the study, and he had remained there about ten minutes. Afterwards he had let himself out and driven away. When I looked for the note for me there was none, but the writing materials had been used, and a sheet of notepaper was gone. I happened to remember that there was only one out. The whole thing seemed to me so singular that I ordered the dogcart out again and drove straight over here.”
“For which,” Wolfenden remarked, “we ought to feel remarkably grateful. So far the thing is plain enough! But what on earth did that man, whoever he was, expect to find in my father’s study that he should make an elaborate attempt like this to enter it? He was no common thief!”
Dr. Whitlett shook his head. He had no elucidation to offer. The thing was absolutely mysterious.
“Your father himself,” he said slowly, “sets a very high value upon the result of his researches!”
“And on the other hand,” Wolfenden retorted promptly, “you, and my mother, Mr. Blatherwick, and even the girl who has been copying for him, have each assured me that his work is rubbish! You four comprise all who have seen any part of it, and I understand that you have come to the conclusion that, if not insane, he is at least suffering from some sort of mania. Now, how are we to reconcile this with the fact of an attempted robbery this evening, and the further fact that a heavy bribe has been secretly offered to Blatherwick to copy only a few pages of his later manuscripts?”
Dr. Whitlett started.
“Indeed!” he exclaimed. “When did you hear of this?”
“Only this afternoon,” Wolfenden answered. “Blatherwick brought me the letter himself. What I cannot understand is, how these documents could ever become a marketable commodity. Yet we may look upon it now as an absolute fact, that there are persons—and no ordinary thieves either!—conspiring to obtain possession of them.”