the note in the prayer-book

Selwood hurried out of that restaurant as soon as he had paid his bill, but it was with small hopes of finding the man whose face had appeared at the glass panel for the fraction of a second. As well look for one snowflake in a drift as for one man in those crowded streets!—all the same, he spent half an hour in wandering round the neighbourhood, looking eagerly at every tall figure he met or passed. And at the end of that time he went off to Endsleigh Gardens and reported progress to Professor Cox-Raythwaite.

The Professor heard both items of news without betraying any great surprise.

“You’re sure it was Burchill?” he asked.

“As sure,” answered Selwood, “as that you’re you! His is not a face easy to mistake.”

“He’s a daring fellow,” observed the Professor, musingly. “A very bold fellow! There’s a very good portrait of him on those bills that the police have put out and posted so freely, and he must know that every constable and detective in London is on the look-out for him, to say nothing of folk who would be glad of the reward. If that was Burchill—and I’ve no doubt of it, since you’re so certain—it suggests a good deal to me.”

“What?” asked Selwood.

“That he’s not afraid of being recaptured as you’d think he would be,” replied the Professor. “It suggests that he’s got some card up his sleeve—which is what I’ve always thought. He probably knows something—you may be certain, in any case, that he’s playing a deep and bold game, for his own purpose, of course. Now, I wonder if Burchill went to that restaurant on the same errand as yourself?”

“What!—to look for Dimambro?” exclaimed Selwood.

“Why not? Remember that Burchill was Jacob Herapath’s secretary before you were,” answered the Professor. “He was with Jacob some time, wasn’t he? Well, he knew a good deal about Jacob’s doings. Jacob may have had dealings with this Dimambro person in Burchill’s days. You don’t remember that Jacob had any such dealings in your time?”

“Never!” replied Selwood. “Never heard the man’s name until yesterday—never saw any letters from him, never heard Mr. Herapath mention him. But then, as Mr. Halfpenny said, yesterday, Mr. Herapath had all sorts of queer dealings with queer people. It’s a fact that he used to buy and sell all sorts of things—curios, pictures, precious stones—he’d all sorts of irons in the fire. It’s a fact, too, that he was accustomed to carrying not only considerable sums of money, but valuables on him.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Professor. He rose out of his chair, put his hands behind his broad back, and began to march up and down his study. “I’ll tell you what, young man!” he said earnestly. “I’m more than ever convinced that Jacob Herapath was robbed as well as murdered, and that robbery and murder—or, rather, murder and robbery, for the murder would go first—took place just before Barthorpe entered the offices to keep that appointment. Selwood!—we must find this Dimambro man!”

“Who’s most likely left the country,” remarked Selwood.

“That’s probable—it may be certain,” said the Professor. “Nevertheless, he may be here. And Burchill may be looking for him, too. Now, if Dimambro stopped two days at that Hotel Ravenna, from November 11th to 13th, there must be somebody who knows something of him. We must—you must—make more inquiry—there at the hotel. Talk quietly to that manager or the servants. Get a description of him. Do that at once—first thing tomorrow morning.”

“You don’t want to tell the police all this?” asked Selwood.

“No! Not at present, at any rate,” answered the Professor. “The police have their own methods, and they don’t thank anybody for putting them off their beaten tracks. And—for the present—we won’t tell them anything about your seeing Burchill. If we did, they’d be incredulous. Police-like, they’ll have watched the various seaports much more closely than they’ll have watched London streets for Burchill. And Burchill’s a clever devil—he’ll know that he’s much safer under the very nose of the people who want him than he would be fifty miles away from their toes! No, it’s my opinion that Master Burchill will reveal himself, when the time comes.”

“Give himself up, do you mean?” exclaimed Selwood.

“Likely—but if he does, it’ll be done with a purpose,” answered the Professor. “Well—keep all quiet at present, and tomorrow morning, go and see if you can find out more about Dimambro at that hotel.”

Selwood repaired to the polite manager again next day and found no difficulty in getting whatever information the hotel staff—represented by a manageress, a general man-servant, and a maid or two—could give. It was meagre, and not too exact in particulars. Mr. Dimambro, who had never been there before, had stopped two days. He had occupied Room 5—the gentleman could see it if he wished. Mr. Dimambro had been in and out most of the time. On the 13th he had gone out early in the morning; by ten o’clock he had returned, paid his bill, and gone away with his luggage—one suit-case. No—he had had no callers at the hotel. But a waiter in the restaurant was discovered who remembered him as Number 5, and that on the 12th he had entertained a gentleman to dinner at seven o’clock—a tall, thin, dark-faced gentleman, who looked like—yes, like an actor: a nicely dressed gentleman. That was all the waiter could remember of the guest; he remembered just about as much of Number 5, which was that Dimambro was a shortish, stoutish gentleman, with a slight black beard and moustache. There was a good reason why the waiter remembered this occurrence—the two gentlemen had a bottle of the best champagne, a rare occurrence at the Hotel Ravenna—a whole bottle, for which the surprising sum of twelve shillings and sixpence was charged! In proof of that startling episode in the restaurant routine, he produced the desk book for that day—behold it, the entry: Number 5—1 Moet & Chandon, 12s. 6d.

“It is of a rare thing our customers call for wine so expensive,” said the polite manager. “Light wines, you understand, sir, we mostly sell. Champagne at twelve and six—an event!”

Selwood carried this further news to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, who roused himself from his microscope to consider it.

“Could that tall, dark, nicely-dressed gentleman have been Burchill?” he muttered. “Sounds like him. But you’ve got a description of Dimambro, at any rate. Now we know of one man who saw the caller at the House of Commons—Mountain, the coachman. Come along—I’ll go with you to see Mountain.”

Mountain, discovered at the mews wherein the Herapath stable was kept, said at once that he remembered the gentleman who had come out of the House of Commons with his late master. But when he came to be taxed with a requirement of details, Mountain’s memory proved to be of no real value. The gentleman—well, he was a well-dressed gentleman, and he wore a top hat. But whether the gentleman was dark or fair, elderly or middle-aged, short or medium-heighted, he did not know—exactly. Nevertheless——

“I should know him again, sir, if I was to set eyes on him!” said Mountain, with such belief in his powers. “Pick him out of a thousand, I could!”

“Queer how deficient most of our people are in the faculty of observation!” remarked the Professor as he and Selwood left the mews. “It really is most extraordinary that a man like that, with plenty of intelligence, and is no doubt a good man in his own line, can look at another man for a full minute and yet be utterly unable to tell you anything definite about him a month later! No help there, Selwood.”

It seemed to Selwood that they were face to face with an impossible situation, and he began to feel inclined to share Mr. Halfpenny’s pessimistic opinions as to the usefulness of these researches. But Professor Cox-Raythwaite was not to be easily daunted, and he was no sooner baulked in one direction than he hastened to try another.

“Now, let’s see where we are,” he said, as they went round to Portman Square. “We do know for a certainty that Jacob Herapath had a transaction of some sort with one Luigi Dimambro, on November 12th, and that it resulted in his handing, or sending, the said Luigi a cheque for three thousand guineas. Let’s see if we can’t find some trace of it, or some mention of it, or of previous dealings with Dimambro, amongst Jacob’s papers. I suppose we can get access to everything here at the house, and down at the office, too, can’t we? The probability is that the transaction with Dimambro was not the first. There must be something, Selwood—memoranda, letters, receipts—must be!”

But Selwood shook his head and uttered a dismal groan.

“Another of my late employer’s peculiarities,” he answered, “was that he never gave or took receipts in what one may call word-of-mouth transactions! He had a rooted—almost savage—objection to anybody asking him for a receipt for cash; he absolutely refused to take one if he paid cash. I’ve seen him pay several thousand pounds for a purchase and fling the proffered receipt in the fire in the purchaser’s presence. He used to ask—vehemently!—if you wanted receipts for a loaf of bread or a pound of beef-steak. I’m afraid we shan’t find much of that sort. As to letters and memoranda, Mr. Herapath had a curious habit which gave me considerable trouble of mind when I first went to him, though I admit it was a simple one. He destroyed every letter he ever got as soon as he’d answered it. And as he insisted on everything being answered there and then, there’s no great accumulation of paper in that way!”

“We’ll see what there is, anyhow,” said the Professor. “If we could find something, anything—a mere business card, a letter-heading—that would give us Dimambro’s permanent address, it would be of use. For I’m more and more convinced that Dimambro was the man who called at the House of Commons that night, and if it was Burchill who dined with him that same evening, why, then—but come along, let’s have a look at Jacob’s desk in the house here, and after that we’ll go down to the estate offices and see if we can find anything there.”

This was a Saturday morning—during the whole of that afternoon and evening the Professor and Selwood examined every drawer and receptacle in which Jacob Herapath’s papers lay, both at Portman Square and at Kensington. And, exactly as Selwood had said, there was next to nothing of a private nature. Papers relating to Parliamentary matters, to building schemes, to business affairs, there were in plenty, duly filed, docketed, and arranged, but there was nothing of the sort that Cox-Raythwaite hoped to find, and when they parted, late at night, they were no wiser than when they began their investigations.

“Go home to bed,” counselled the Professor. “Put the whole thing out of your head until Monday morning. Don’t even think about it. Come and see me on Monday, first thing, and we’ll start again. For by the Lord Harry! I’ll find out yet what the real nature of Jacob Herapath’s transaction with Dimambro was, if I have to track Dimambro all through Italy!”

Selwood was glad enough to put everything out of his mind; it seemed to him a hopeless task to search for a man to whose identity they only had the very faintest clue. But before noon of the next day—Sunday—he was face to face with a new phase of the problem. Since her uncle’s death, Peggie had begun to show a quiet reliance on Selwood. It had come to be tacitly understood between them that he was to be in constant attendance on her for the present, at any rate. He spent all his time at the house in Portman Square; he saved its young mistress all the trouble he could; he accompanied her in her goings and comings. And of late he had taken to attending her to a certain neighbouring church, whereto Peggie, like a well-regulated young lady, was constant in her Sunday visits. There in the Herapath family pew, he and Peggie sat together on this particular Sunday morning, neither with any thought that the Herapath mystery had penetrated to their sacred surroundings. Selwood had been glad to take Cox-Raythwaite’s advice and to put the thing out of his mind for thirty-six hours: Peggie had nothing in her mind but what was proper to the occasion.

Jacob Herapath had been an old-fashioned man in many respects; one of his fads was an insistence upon having a family pew in the church which he attended, and in furnishing it with his own cushions, mats, and books. Consequently Peggie left her own prayer-book in that pew from Sunday to Sunday. She picked it up now, and opened it at the usual familiar place. And from that place immediately dropped a folded note.

Had this communication been a billet-doux, Peggie could hardly have betrayed more alarm and confusion. For a moment she let the thing rest in the palm of her hand, holding the hand out towards Selwood at her side; then with trembling fingers she unfolded it in such a fashion that she and Selwood read it together. With astonished eyes and beating hearts they found themselves looking at a half-sheet of thin, foreign-looking notepaper, on which were two or three lines of typewriting:

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