"W'y, 'e 'adn't more than got inside the 'ouse, sir, w'en a lidy called on 'im—a lidy as I 'ad never set eyes on before, sime as in your caise, sir; although I wouldn't 'ave you think I mean she was of your clawss, sir. 'Ardly. Properly speakin', she wasn't a lidy at all—but a woman. I mean to s'y, a bit flash."
"I understand you. Go on."
"Well, sir, I didn't 'ave a chance to over'ear w'at 'er business were, but it seemed to work on Mr. Brian there somethin' 'orrid. They was closeted in the library upstairs not more than twenty minutes, and then she went, and 'e rung for me and to bring 'im brandy and not delay about it. 'E nearly emptied the decanter, too, before Mr. Bayard got 'ere. And the minute they come together, it was 'ammer-and-tongs. 'Ot and 'eavy they 'ad it for upwards of an hour, be'ind closed doors, sime as like with the lidy. But w'en Mr. Bayard, 'e come to go, sir, the old gent follows 'im to the landin'—just where 'e was when he spoke to you, sir, before 'e 'ad the stroke—and 'e says to 'im, says 'e: 'Remember, I cawst you off. Don't come to me for nothin' after this. Don't ever you darken my doorstep ag'in,' 'e says. And Mr. Bayard, sir, 'e ups and laughs fiendish in 'is own father's fice. 'You've got another guess comin',' he mocks 'im open': 'you're in this business as deep as me,' 'e says, 'and if you cross me, I'll double-cross you, s'elp me Gawd, and in the newspapers, too.' And with that, out 'e went in a rige."
"So that was the way of it!" P. Sybarite commented dully.
So Mrs. Inche had sought the father to revenge herself upon the son; and with this outcome—Bayard unharmed, his father dead!...
"That was hexactly 'ow it 'appened, sir," affirmed the butler, rubbing his fat old hands.
"You 're wasting time. Go telephone the doctor," said P. Sybarite suddenly.
"Right you are, sir. But there's no real 'urry. He's dead as Guy Fawkes, and no doctor livin'—"
"Nevertheless, telephone—if you don't want to get into trouble."
"Quite right, sir. I'll do so at once."