“No evidence, but I find a distinct motive.”
“Anything upon which we could work in order to bring the culprit to justice—if Mr Nicholson did not really die a natural death?”
“I tell you he did not!” I cried angrily. “The village jury were impressed by the medical evidence, as all rustic juries are. Your client, Mr Napier, discovered another man’s secret, and the latter took steps to close his lips.”
“But can you prove this? Can you name the man?”
“Yes,” I said, “I can name the man. And one day I shall prove it.”
“You can! Why not place the matter in the hands of the police, together with what is revealed in that letter?” he suggested. “Allow me to act.”
“I shall act myself. At present it is not a matter for the police. Certain facts have come to my knowledge which, if told at Scotland Yard, would not be believed. Therefore at present I intend to keep my knowledge strictly to myself,” and replacing the dead man’s message in its envelope, I put it safely into my breast-pocket, and, taking leave of the solicitor, was soon in my taxi whirling along Holborn.
Why had Nicholson suspected that Shaw’s affection for his foster-daughter was only feigned? Why did he allege that Shaw hated her? Why was he in such mortal terror lest some evil should befall her?
Perhaps, after all, in watching so closely he had, as is so easy, discovered certain circumstances and misjudged them, for certainly as far as I could see Shaw was entirely devoted to the girl who had been his constant companion ever since her childhood days. Nevertheless, that strange letter, penned by the man whose intention it had been to reveal to me the secret of the weird shadow of the night, had caused me to determine to continue the vigil which had been so abruptly ended.
I, too, would watch closely as soon as I learnt of their hiding-place, as closely as the dead man had done. If Asta were in actual peril, then I would stand as her protector in place of the upright, honest young fellow who, it seemed, had lost his life in the attempt.