"It certainly is not the name of any English town," retorted Ritson opening the book. "Here you are,--a short letter as you can see."
The little doctor advanced to the desk, and ran his eye over the few blotted lines almost illegible on the tissue paper used for copying.
"Dear Sir," he read aloud, "this is to inform you that my client Sir Simon Tedder has left all he possesses to his nephew Angus Herries, and that he has formally disinherited his daughter Maud Tedder of everything save one thousand a year.--Yours obediently, J. Ritson."
"Well," said Ritson, when Browne closed the book. The doctor shook his head.
"I cannot understand," he said, helplessly.
"Nor I. What is to be done?"
"There is nothing to be done save to wait. My advice to you, Mr. Ritson, is to be silent until the inquest is over. When Herries hears of his good fortune, he may give himself up."
"You advise him to do that?" asked Ritson anxiously.
"I certainly do. Good-day. We will meet at the inquest," and Browne, in a state of great perplexity left the office.
He certainly was perplexed, as he had never before had such mystery to deal with. Browne was a straightforward man, and liked everything to be done openly. But the underhand dealings connected with this death puzzled him sorely. He could not see his way to any solution, and went home to pass a restless night. Again and again did he ask himself whether Maud Tedder had anything to do with the crime, and again and again did he mutter to himself the strange word "Tarabacca." But to neither question did he obtain any answer. When he rose next morning to go to Desleigh he looked very weary and red-eyed.