“I quite apprehend your meaning,” replied Burchill. “You put it very cleverly.”
“Then why don’t you answer my question?” demanded Barthorpe.
Burchill laughed softly.
“Why not answer mine?” he said. “However, I’ll ask it in another and more direct form. Have you seen my signature as witness to a will made by Jacob Herapath?”
“Yes,” replied Barthorpe.
“Are you sure it was my signature?” asked Burchill.
Barthorpe lifted his eyes and looked searchingly at his questioner. But Burchill’s face told him nothing. What was more, he was beginning to feel that he was not going to get anything out of Burchill that Burchill did not want to tell. He remained silent, and again Burchill laughed.
“You see,” he said, “I can suppose all sorts of things. I can suppose, for example, that there’s such a thing as forging a signature—two signatures—three signatures to a will—or, indeed, to any other document. Don’t you think that instead of asking me a direct question like this that you’d better wait until this will comes before the—is it the Probate Court?—and then let some of the legal gentlemen ask me if that—that!—is my signature? I’m only putting it to you, you know. But perhaps you’d like to tell me—all about it?” He paused, looking carefully at Barthorpe, and as Barthorpe made no immediate answer, he went on speaking in a lower, softer tone. “All about it,” he repeated insinuatingly. “Ah!”
Barthorpe suddenly flung his cigarette in the hearth with a gesture that implied decision.
“I will!” he exclaimed. “It may be the shortest way out. Very well—listen, then. I tell you my uncle was murdered at his office about—well, somewhere between twelve and three o’clock this morning. Naturally, after the preliminaries were over, I wanted to find out if he’d made a will—naturally, I say.”