And the old man chuckled to himself at the easy manner in which he had obtained seventy-five thousand francs.
Chapter Twenty Three.
A Caller at the Rectory.
That morning Gordon Gray, dapper and well-dressed as ever, had scanned the papers and read the report of the inquiry into the death of Sir Charles Hornton. The coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of “death through misadventure,” it having been proved that Sir Charles had mistaken a bottle of poison for a prescription for indigestion which the local doctor had sent him on the previous day. In fact, it was a not too rare way of hushing-up the suicide of a well-known man. In many cases where persons of means commit wilful suicide the twelve local tradesmen are lenient, and declare it to be pure accident, or “misadventure”—unless, of course, the suicide leaves a letter, in which case the truth cannot be circumvented. For a suicide to leave a letter is a criminal act towards his family.
Early in the afternoon the telephone-bell rang in the pleasant sitting-room of the cosy West End chambers Gray was occupying, and on taking off the receiver he heard Freda speaking from Paris.
“All O.K.,” she said. “Guinness has got the concession and is bringing it over this afternoon. He’ll be with you to-night.”
“When does the old Moor leave?” asked Gray.
“The day after to-morrow. He goes straight back to Tangier.”