“Poor old H.P., eh?” mused young Wright; “who’d have thought it?”
“But the idea of suicide is preposterous,” he broke out suddenly. “I knew Parrish probably better than anybody. He would never have done a thing like that. It must have been an accident....”
Robin shook his head.
“That possibility is ruled out by the medical evidence,” he said, and stopped short.
Bruce Wright, who had been pacing up and down the room, halted in front of the barrister.
“I tell you that Parrish was not the man to commit suicide. Nothing would have even forced him to take his own life. You know, I was working with him as his personal secretary every day for more than two years, and I am sure!”
He resumed his pacing up and down the room.
“Has it ever occurred to you, Robin,” he said presently, “that practically nothing is known of H.P.’s antecedents? For instance, do you know where he was born?”
“I understand he was a Canadian,” replied Robin with a shrewd glance at the flushed face of the boy.
“He’s lived in Canada,” said Wright, “but originally he was a Cockney, from the London slums. And I believe I am the only person who knows that....”