“Tell him to be careful—to be wary of—the trap?”
Those dying words of Sir Henry’s rang ever in his son’s ears.
That afternoon, as Raife stood bowed in silence before the body of his beloved father, his mind was full of strange wonderings.
What was the nature of the dead man’s secret? Who was the woman to whom he had referred a few moments before he expired?
The young fellow gazed upon the grey shrunken face he had loved so well, and his eyes became dimmed by tears. Only a week before they had been in London together, and he had dined with his father at the Carlton Club, and they had afterwards gone to a theatre.
The baronet was then in the best of health and spirits. A keen sportsman, and an ardent golfer, he had been essentially an out-door man. Yet he now lay there still and dead, killed by an assassin’s bullet. Raife’s mother was inconsolable and he had decided that it was best for him to keep apart from her for the present.
To his friend, Mutimer, he had sent a wire announcing the tragic news, and had, by telephone, also informed Mr Kellaway, the family lawyer, whose offices were in Bedford Row, London. On hearing the astounding truth, Mr Kellaway—to whom Raife had spoken personally—had announced his intention of coming at once to Tunbridge Wells.
At six o’clock he arrived in the car which Raife had sent for him—a tall, elderly, clean-shaven man in respectful black.
“Now, Mr Kellaway,” said Raife, when they were alone together in the library, and the young baronet had explained what had occurred. “You have been my father’s very intimate friend, as well as his solicitor for many years. I want to ask you a simple question. Are you aware that my father held a secret—some secret of the past?”
“Not to my knowledge, Mr Raife—or Sir Raife, as I suppose I ought to call you now,” was the sombre, and rather sad, man’s reply.