“Nothing concerning any lady?”
“Nothing—I assure you.”
“Then what do you surmise regarding ‘the trap,’ about which my father left me this inexplicable message?”
“Edgson may be romancing,” the lawyer suggested. “In every case of a sudden and tragic death, the servant, male or female, always has some curious theory concerning the affair, some gossip or some scandal concerning their employer.”
“Edgson has been in our family ever since he was a lad. He’s not romancing,” replied Raife dryly.
Mr Kellaway was a hard, level-headed, pessimistic person, who judged all men as law-breakers and criminals. He was one of those smug, old-fashioned Bedford Row solicitors, who had a dozen peers as clients, who transacted only family business, and whose firm was an eminently respectable one.
“I have always thought Edgson a most reliable servant,” he admitted, crossing to the safe, the key of which Raife had handed to him.
“So he is. And when he tells me that my father possessed a secret, which he has carried to his grave—then I believe him. I have never yet known Edgson to tell a lie. Neither has my father. He was only saying so at dinner one night three months ago.”
“I have no personal knowledge of any secret of the late Sir Henry’s,” responded the elder man, speaking quite openly. “If I knew of any I would tell you frankly.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Kellaway. You know you wouldn’t betray a client’s confidence,” said Raife, with a grim, bitter smile, as he stood by the ancient window gazing across the old Jacobean garden.