"Any day the will might be found," she suggested, rather timidly.
"It won't be found. Search has been made in every hole and corner. There isn't a doubt but the blackguard who murdered the old man carried it off. And he daren't produce it again, you see, even as a means of blackmail, without risk of putting his head in a noose."
"Oh, George, you don't think the man is at large—you don't think he's about here, do you?"
"How the devil do I know where he is. There's not much doubt about his being at large I should say, seeing it's now three weeks since the funeral, and the police haven't progressed an inch. Prince told me they had a clue, and traced it to Liverpool, but there it ended. The man's got away safe enough."
"Perhaps it wasn't a man, George!"
"Of course it was. You don't suppose a woman would have had the strength to strangle Barton, do you? The thing was done deliberately, I tell you—by his friend, most likely."
Mrs. Marsh squeaked again.
"His friend, George?"
The doctor nodded.
"I was talking over the matter with Prince," he said, "and he agrees with me that the assassin was known to Barton. If you remember the window was open. Well, Barton must have opened it to admit his visitor, whoever he was. They talked about the will, no doubt, and Barton probably produced it. While he was reading it, or some clause from it, his good friend must have slipped a scarf or a rope or something of the kind round his neck, and the thing was done. I don't suppose he uttered as much as a cry."