for ten per cent

Mr. Frank Burchill welcomed his visitor with easy familiarity—this might have been a mere dropping-in of one friend to another, for the very ordinary purpose of spending a quiet social hour before retiring for the night. There was a bright fire on the hearth, a small smoking-jacket on Burchill’s graceful shoulders and fancy slippers on his feet; decanters and glasses were set out on the table in company with cigars and cigarettes. And by the side of Burchill’s easy chair was a pile of newspapers, to which he pointed one of his slim white hands as the two men settled themselves to talk.

“I’ve been reading all the newspapers I could get hold of,” he observed. “Brought all the latest editions in with me after dinner. There’s little more known, I think, than when you were here this afternoon.”

“There’s nothing more known,” replied Barthorpe. “That is—as far as I’m aware.”

Burchill took a sip at his glass and regarded Barthorpe thoughtfully over its rim.

“In strict confidence,” he said, “have you got any idea whatever on the subject?”

“None!” answered Barthorpe. “None whatever! I’ve no more idea of who it was that killed my uncle than I have of the name of the horse that’ll win the Derby of year after next! That’s a fact. There isn’t a clue.”

“The police are at work, of course,” suggested Burchill.

“Of course!” replied Barthorpe, with an unconcealed sneer. “And a lot of good they are. Whoever knew the police to find out anything, except by a lucky accident?”

“Just so,” agreed Burchill. “But then—accidents, lucky or otherwise, will happen. You can’t think of anybody whose interest it was to get your esteemed relative out of the way?”

“Nobody!” said Barthorpe. “There may have been somebody. We want to know who the man was who came out of the House with him last night—so far we don’t know. It’ll all take a lot of finding out. In the meantime——”

“In the meantime, you’re much more concerned and interested in the will, eh?” said Burchill.

“I’m much more concerned—being a believer in present necessities—in hearing what you’ve got to say to me now that you’ve brought me here,” answered Barthorpe, coolly. “What is it?”

“Oh, I’ve a lot to say,” replied Burchill. “Quite a lot. But you’ll have to let me say it in my own fashion. And to start with, I want to ask you a few questions. About your family history, for instance.”

“I know next to nothing about my family history,” said Barthorpe; “but if my knowledge is helpful to what we—or I—want to talk about, fire ahead!”

“Good!” responded Burchill. “Now, just tell me what you know about Mr. Jacob Herapath, about his brother, your father, and about his sister, who was, of course, Miss Wynne’s mother. Briefly—concisely.”

“Not so much,” answered Barthorpe. “My grandfather was a medical man—pretty well known, I fancy—at Granchester, in Yorkshire; I, of course, never knew or saw him. He had three children. The eldest was Jacob, who came to his end last night. Jacob left Granchester for London, eventually began speculating in real estate, and became—what he was. The second was Richard, my father. He went out to Canada as a lad, and did there pretty much what Jacob did here in London——”

“With the same results?” interjected Burchill.

Barthorpe made a wry face.

“Unfortunately, no!” he replied. “He did remarkably well to a certain point—then he made some most foolish and risky speculations in American railroads, lost pretty nearly everything he’d made, and died a poorish man.”

“Oh—he’s dead, then?” remarked Burchill.

“He’s dead—years ago,” replied Barthorpe. “He died before I came to England. I, of course, was born out there. I——.”

“Never mind you just now,” interrupted Burchill. “Keep to the earlier branches of the family. Your grandfather had one other child?”

“A daughter,” assented Barthorpe. “I never saw her, either. However, I know that her name was Susan. I also know that she married a man named Wynne—my cousin’s father, of course. I don’t know who he was or anything about him.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing—nothing at all: My Uncle Jacob never spoke of him to me—except to mention that such a person had once existed. My cousin doesn’t know anything about him, either. All she knows is that her father and mother died when she was about—I think—two years old, and that Jacob then took charge of her. When she was six years old, he brought her to live with him. That was about the time I myself came to England.”

“All right,” said Burchill. “Now, we’ll come to you. Tell about yourself. It all matters.”

“Well, of course, I don’t know what you’re getting at,” replied Barthorpe. “But I’m sure you do. Myself, eh? Well, I was put to the Law out there in Canada. When my father died—not over well off—I wrote to Uncle Jacob, telling him all about how things were. He suggested that I should come over to this country, finish my legal training here, and qualify. He also promised—if I suited him—to give me his legal work. And, of course, I came.”

“Naturally,” said Burchill. “And that’s—how long ago?”

“Between fifteen and sixteen years,” answered Barthorpe.

“Did Jacob Herapath take you into his house?” asked Burchill, continuing the examination which Barthorpe was beginning to find irksome as well as puzzling. “I’m asking all this for good reasons—it’s necessary, if you’re to understand what I’m going to tell you.”

“Oh, as long as you’re going to tell me something I don’t mind telling you anything you like to ask,” replied Barthorpe. “That’s what I want to be getting at. No—he didn’t take me into the house. But he gave me a very good allowance, paid all my expenses until I got through my remaining examinations and stages, and was very decent all around. No—I fixed up in the rooms which I’ve still got—a flat in the Adelphi.”

“But you went a good deal to Portman Square?”

“Why, yes, a good deal—once or twice a week, as a rule.”

“Had your cousin—Miss Wynne—come there then?”

“Yes, she’d just about come. I remember she had a governess. Of course, Peggie was a mere child then—about five or six. Must have been six, because she’s quite twenty-one now.”

“And—Mr. Tertius?”

Burchill spoke the name with a good deal of subtle meaning, and Barthorpe suddenly looked at him with a rising comprehension.

“Tertius?” he answered. “No—Tertius hadn’t arrived on the scene then. He came—soon after.”

“How soon after?”

“I should say,” replied Barthorpe, after a moment’s consideration, “I should say—from my best recollection—a few months after I came to London. It was certainly within a year of my coming.”

“You remember his coming?”

“Not particularly. I remember that he came—at first, I took it, as a visitor. Then I found he’d had rooms of his own given him, and that he was there as a permanency.”

“Settled down—just as he has been ever since?”

“Just! Never any difference that I’ve known of, all these years.”

“Did Jacob ever tell you who he was?”

“Never! I never remember my uncle speaking of him in any particular fashion—to me. He was simply—there. Sometimes, you saw him; sometimes, you didn’t see him. At times, I mean, you’d meet him at dinner—other times, you didn’t.”

Burchill paused for a while; when he asked his next question he seemed to adopt a more particular and pressing tone.

“Now—have you the least idea who Tertius is?” he asked.

“Not the slightest!” affirmed Barthorpe. “I never have known who he is. I never liked him—I didn’t like his sneaky way of going about the house—I didn’t like anything of him—and he never liked me. I always had a feeling—a sort of intuition—that he resented my presence—in fact, my existence.”

“Very likely,” said Burchill, with a dry laugh. “Well—has it ever struck you that there was a secret between Tertius and Jacob Herapath?”

Barthorpe started. At last they were coming to something definite.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “So—that’s the secret you mentioned in that letter?”

“Never mind,” replied Burchill. “Answer my question.”

“No, then—it never did strike me.”

“Very well,” said Burchill. “There is a secret.”

“There is?”

“There is! And,” whispered Burchill, rising and coming nearer to his visitor, “it’s a secret that will put you in possession of the whole of the Herapath property! And—I know it.”

Barthorpe had by this time realized the situation. And he was thinking things over at a rapid rate. Burchill had asked Jacob Herapath for ten thousand pounds as the price of his silence; therefore——

“And, of course, you want to make something out of your knowledge?” he said presently.

“Of course,” laughed Burchill. He opened a box of cigars, selected one and carefully trimmed the end before lighting it. “Of course!” he repeated. “Who wouldn’t? Besides, you’ll be in a position to afford me something when you come into all that.”

“The will?” suggested Barthorpe.

Burchill threw the burnt-out match into the fire.

“The will,” he said slowly, “will be about as valuable as that—when I’ve fixed things up with you. Valueless!”

“You mean it?” exclaimed Barthorpe incredulously. “Then—your signature?”

“Look here!” said Burchill. “The only thing between us is—terms! Fix up terms with me, and I’ll tell you the whole truth. And then—you’ll see!”

“Well—what terms?” demanded Barthorpe, a little suspiciously. “If you want money down——”

“You couldn’t pay in cash down what I want, nor anything like it,” said Burchill. “I may want an advance that you can pay—but it will only be an advance. What I want is ten per cent. on the total value of Jacob Herapath’s property.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Barthorpe. “Why I believe he’ll cut up for a good million and a half!”

“That’s about the figure—as I’ve reckoned it,” assented Burchill. “But you’ll have a lot left when you’ve paid me ten per cent.”

Barthorpe fidgeted in his chair.

“When did you find out this secret?” he asked.

“Got an idea of it just before I left Jacob, and worked it all out, to the last detail, after I left,” replied Burchill. “I tell you this for a certainty—when I’ve told you all I know, you’ll know for an absolute fact, that the Herapath property is—yours!”

“Well!” said Barthorpe. “What do you want me to do?”

Burchill moved across to a desk and produced some papers.

“I want you to sign certain documents,” he said, “and then I’ll tell you the whole story. If the story’s no good, the documents are no good. How’s that?”

“That’ll do!” answered Barthorpe. “Let’s get to business.”

It was one o’clock in the morning when Barthorpe left Calengrove Mansions. But the eyes that had seen him enter saw him leave, and the shadow followed him through the sleeping town until he, too, sought his own place of slumber.

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