‘Mr. Edward Marston, I presume?’
Marston nodded, and motioned his visitor to resume his seat.
‘I come on professional business, sir. I am one of the firm of Doddle and Co., solicitors. The senior partner is from town, or he would have called upon you himself. We ascertained that Miss Ruth Adrian was no longer Miss Ruth Adrian (a professional smile), and—ah—we thought, perhaps, under the peculiar circumstances we had better call ourselves and see you.’
What did the man mean? What could solicitors have to do with Ruth and himself?’
‘You see,’ continued the gentleman, ‘a very large sum of money is concerned.’
‘Pray explain, sir,’ faltered Marston. ‘I really don’t understand you yet.’
‘Well, do you remember a daring burglary some time ago at the residence of Squire Heritage?’
‘Burglary—burglary!’ gasped Marston. ‘No; what should I know about burglaries?’
‘Of course not, my dear sir—of course not; but you might have read about it in the papers. Great sensation!—son suspected!—dreadful affair—dreadful!’
Marston remembered his own share in the subsequent fate of George Heritage. Was this coming home to him too?