“I said slowly,” he remarked as they moved gently away, “because I wanted a word with you before we see this young man. Tertius—what’s the meaning of all this?”
Mr. Tertius groaned dolefully and shook his head.
“There is so much, Halfpenny,” he answered, “that I don’t quite know what you specifically mean by this. Do you mean——”
“I mean, first of all, Herapath’s murder,” said Mr. Halfpenny. “You think it is a case of murder?”
“I’m sure it’s a case of murder—cold, calculated murder,” replied Mr. Tertius, with energy. “Vile murder, Halfpenny.”
“And, as far as you know, is there no clue?” asked the old lawyer. “There’s nothing said or suggested in the newspapers. Haven’t you any notion—hasn’t Barthorpe any notion?”
Mr. Tertius remained silent for a while. The coupé brougham turned into Upper Seymour Street.
“I think,” he said at last, “yes, I think that when we’ve made this call, I shall ask you to accompany me to my friend Cox-Raythwaite’s, in Endsleigh Gardens—you know him, I believe. I’ve already seen him this morning and told him—something. When we get there, I’ll tell it to you, and he shall show you—something. After that, we’ll hear what your legal instinct suggests. It is my opinion, Halfpenny—I offer it with all deference, as a layman—that great, excessive caution is necessary. This case is extraordinary—very extraordinary. That is—in my opinion.”
“It’s an extraordinary thing that Jacob Herapath should have made that will,” murmured Mr. Halfpenny reflectively. “Why Barthorpe should be entirely ignored is—to me—marvellous. And—it may be—significant. You never heard of any difference, quarrel, anything of that sort, between him and his uncle?”