“He’ll get well soon enough,” said the lawyer roughly. “Go on, Mr Blank. Let’s have the rest of your theory.”
“My theory is, sir, that during one or other of the drinking bouts they had together the pseudo George Harrington let his tongue run rather fast, and Saul Harrington was too clever for him; he nailed him at once.”
“He would have denounced him.”
“He either would had I not come forward, or he has some reason for keeping it back.”
“Not plausible, Mr Blank,” said the lawyer shortly. “You are spoiling your own case.”
“Perhaps so, sir, but I shall work it out my own way. What I feel sure of is this: my impersonator has gone never to return. Saul knew of his departure—of that I feel sure; and he was satisfied that he was all right as successor to the estate, when, to his dismay, he found me in the field.”
“Humph?” ejaculated Doctor Lawrence, patting the young man on the arm. “I don’t think we shall want a detective.”
“Don’t flatter him, Lawrence,” said the lawyer tartly. “It’s all moonshine. I don’t like Saul Harrington; never did. But he would not have acted as our young frien— as young Mr Blank suggests.”
“Perhaps not, sir. But I can say no more. My ideas are in a state of chaos at present. Still I am sure the case is somewhere in his tangle, and I mean to find it out.”
“When do you begin?” said the doctor.