"Here! Basing, he pulled out a big bottle of champagne and a cigar-box, and said we'd wet the bargain. We'd a glass apiece, Wilkinson and me, then we left 'em to finish the bottle: we were in a hurry. But—is anything wrong?"
"What is wrong, my lad, is that the man you know as Andrews is lying dead upstairs!" replied Robmore. "Poisoned, most likely, by his partner. But, as I said just now, I don't suppose there's anything wrong about your buying the property, providing you can show a title to it; you say you've got the necessary papers?"
Marshall clapped a hand on the pocket of his coat.
"Got 'em all here, now," he said. "But—did you say Andrews was dead—poisoned? Why, he was as alive as I am when we left the two of 'em together. They were finishing the bottle——"
"Look here," interrupted Robmore. "Wait awhile until we come back—we've some important work close by. There are people of ours upstairs—tell them I said you were to wait a bit. Now, Mr. Hetherwick."
Outside the yard and in the crowded street, Robmore turned to his companion with a cynical laugh.
"Champagne—to wet the bargain!" he said. "Left them to finish it, eh? And no doubt what finished Ambrose was in that champagne—slipped in by Baseverie when his back was turned. I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Hetherwick, that chap's a thorough-paced 'un—he goes the whole hog! I only hope he won't be too deep for Matherfield at Southampton! I shall be anxious till I hear."
"Is it possible for him to escape Matherfield?" exclaimed Hetherwick. "How can he? I look on him as being as good as in custody already! He's bound to call at the post office for that box."
"Is he, though?" interrupted the detective, with another incredulous laugh. "I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Hetherwick. Baseverie is evidently an accomplished scoundrel, and full of all sorts of tricks! I'll tell ye what I'm wondering—will that parcel ever get to Southampton post office, where it's to be called for?"
"Whatever do you mean?" demanded Hetherwick. "It's in the post! Posted this morning."