“Then you helped him to get away, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir, after I discovered the drugged wine. I’ve kept it, sir; kept the decanters just as they were left that night. I thought they might be wanted, perhaps, especially after the fire, sir.”
This was frankness indeed. Mr. Bradfield changed colour.
“Do you mean to insinuate that I wanted to make away with the fellow?” he asked, abruptly.
“I only mean, sir, that I thought what I could prove about the decanters that night, and what Miss Abercarne could prove about having seen you come out of the east wing just before the fire, and what Mr. Marrable could prove about old Mr. Wryde’s intentions, and what the will itself could prove about the way you carried them out—I thought, I say, sir, that all these things together might form a very good case, and that with a clever lawyer at his back he might hope to recover his property.”
As each fresh charge was mentioned, John Bradfield’s frown grew deeper, and the lines about his mouth grew harder and more unyielding. At the end he turned his head, and sought the man’s eye steadily. And the man at last looked steadily at him.
“And what, if it is not too straightforward a question, what share were you to have in the final distribution?”
“Well, sir,” answered the man straightforwardly, and in exactly the same tone as before, “I may say that I expected not to be forgotten.”
“Ah, ah!” chuckled Mr. Bradfield, triumphantly. “I thought not. Now we’re coming to it. Now I’m going abroad, as you see. I don’t admit the truth of a single one of these accusations, not a single one, mind. But I see you could make out a very plausible tale, for you’re a clever fellow, Stelfox, and I see I could be worried to death and half ruined besides, before the thing was settled. So look here: tell me what you want to keep your d——d mouth shut?”
Stelfox went on quite placidly, as if the manner in which the command was given had been rather flattering than otherwise: