CHAPTER XII
for ten per cent
Mr. Frank Burchill welcomed his visitor with easy familiarity—this might have been a mere dropping-in of one friend to another, for the very ordinary purpose of spending a quiet social hour before retiring for the night. There was a bright fire on the hearth, a small smoking-jacket on Burchill’s graceful shoulders and fancy slippers on his feet; decanters and glasses were set out on the table in company with cigars and cigarettes. And by the side of Burchill’s easy chair was a pile of newspapers, to which he pointed one of his slim white hands as the two men settled themselves to talk.
“I’ve been reading all the newspapers I could get hold of,” he observed. “Brought all the latest editions in with me after dinner. There’s little more known, I think, than when you were here this afternoon.”
“There’s nothing more known,” replied Barthorpe. “That is—as far as I’m aware.”
Burchill took a sip at his glass and regarded Barthorpe thoughtfully over its rim.
“In strict confidence,” he said, “have you got any idea whatever on the subject?”
“None!” answered Barthorpe. “None whatever! I’ve no more idea of who it was that killed my uncle than I have of the name of the horse that’ll win the Derby of year after next! That’s a fact. There isn’t a clue.”
“The police are at work, of course,” suggested Burchill.
“Of course!” replied Barthorpe, with an unconcealed sneer. “And a lot of good they are. Whoever knew the police to find out anything, except by a lucky accident?”