“The only suggestion I can make,” he said, “is that Cartwright, in a hurry to get away and knowing the position of my room, hid the money there for fear he should be caught with the goods. At any rate, if I were the criminal I would not hide a bloodstained envelope under my pillow. I should at least have the intelligence to burn the envelope and put the money where the servants of this house could not find it. Why, don’t you see,” he said vigorously, “that any of the servants at this boarding-house would have found the envelope if I hadn’t?”
The detective scratched his head.
“There’s something in that,” he said. “It is a very queer case.”
“And it is being investigated by very queer people,” said Timothy irritably.
A little further investigation, however, relieved Timothy of all suspicion. He had not returned to the house until ten o’clock that morning. The maid, who had taken him a cup of tea at eight, noticing that he had been out all night, thought it was an excellent opportunity to straighten the room to “get it off her mind,” as she said. She did not remake the bed, but had tidied it. Whilst sweeping she had seen the envelope lying on the floor near the open window and had picked it up and, for want of a better place, thinking “it was private” had slipped it under Timothy’s pillow.
As Timothy had not been out of sight of the police since the tragedy until his return to his lodgings, there could be no suggestion that he had any part in hiding the envelope. Whatever irritation he felt was dispelled by his large and generous satisfaction when the poverty which threatened Mary was averted. But why should Cartwright hide the money there? Why should he stop in his headlong flight to come to the window, as evidently he did, and throw the package into the room? There were a hundred places where he might have left it.
“That cousin stuff doesn’t work,” thought Timothy, “and if you think he’s going to rely upon his relationship with me and can use me to look after his money, he’s made one large mistake.”
He saw the girl again at the official inquiry, and met her on the day after. She was going to Bath where she had some distant relations, and they had met to say good-bye.
It was a gloomy occasion—less gloomy for Timothy than for the girl, because he was already planning a move to the town in which she was taking up her quarters. This cheerful view was banished, however, when she explained that her stay in Bath was merely a temporary expedient.
“Mrs. Renfrew has wired asking me to come—and it seems as good a place as any for a few months. I don’t think I shall stay here any longer,” she said. “I want a change of air and a change of scene. Timothy, I feel that I shall never get over Sir John’s death.”