Mr. Fransemmery brought his story to an end with a force and emphasis worthy of a judicial utterance, and Blick, who was now busily occupied with suggestions of a surprising sort, nodded assent to his concluding remarks. But Mrs. Braxfield, in spite of her obvious agitation, showed a dogged disinclination to accept Mr. Fransemmery’s premise.

“That’s all very well, Mr. Fransemmery,” she said after a pause. “You’re a lawyer, and ought to know! But it’s all ifs and buts! If, as you say, Guy Markenmore married Myra Halliwell, and if they had a child, a son, and if that son’s alive—well, then, of course, he succeeds his father—or his grandfather, for as far as I’m aware, there’s nobody knows which died first, Sir Anthony or his elder son—in the title and estates. But—it’s all if!—if—if—if! I don’t believe Guy Markenmore ever married that girl—not I! He may have taken her away with him, and they may have lived together in London, and there may be a child—but all that doesn’t prove any marriage, Mr. Fransemmery!”

“What about the inscription on the tombstone, Mrs. Braxfield?” suggested Mr. Fransemmery. “My informant saw it!—and I take Margaret Hilson to be a truthful woman.”

“I’m not saying anything against Margaret Hilson,” retorted Mrs. Braxfield. “A decent enough woman! And I don’t deny that she may have seen such an inscription. But that proves nothing. Anybody could so describe anybody else—especially in a London cemetery, and who’d be the wiser! There’ll have to be more evidence than that forthcoming, Mr. Fransemmery, before it’s proved that all you’ve told is true—marriage lines, and birth certificate, and so on.”

“All that will doubtless be brought forward, ma’am,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “We shall hear more, I’m convinced—much more! Somebody must know.”

“And you say you advised Margaret Hilson to go and tell this tale to Lawyer Chilford?” asked Mrs. Braxfield. “At once?”

“At once!” answered Mr. Fransemmery. “Matters of that sort can’t be allowed to wait. I think Margaret Hilson will already have seen Mr. Chilford—she spoke of going down to his house early this evening.”

“Then they’ll know at the Court,” observed Mrs. Braxfield with a frown. “Chilford would be sure to go there and tell them as soon as he got to know.”

“They may know—by now,” asserted Mr. Fransemmery. “But whether they know tonight or tomorrow, Mrs. Braxfield, what is certain is that this matter will have to be fully investigated. And if I may give you a little advice, ma’am, in the capacity of a neighbour who wishes you well, I should counsel you to wait a little before you send your daughter to Markenmore Court as Lady Markenmore. She may, you know, be only Mrs. Harry Markenmore. Count twenty, ma’am!”

With this Mr. Fransemmery, nodding at Mrs. Braxfield with the warning expression of a sage counsellor, rose to take his leave; his Airedale terrier, hitherto sleeping with one eye open under the table, rose too; accompanied by Blick they sallied out into the night; dark, save for the light of stars, for the moon had not yet risen. In silence they threaded the garden paths of Woodland Cottage and emerged upon the open hill-side.

“Queer revelations!” muttered Blick at last as they paced slowly across the close-cropped turf. “I gather that you believe this story about Guy Markenmore’s marriage?”

“I do!” replied Mr. Fransemmery firmly. “Putting everything together—I do! The woman from whom I got my information today, Margaret Hilson, is the sort of person that makes an ideal witness—you know what I mean. The sort that tells just what she knows, doesn’t want to add or subtract, embellish or disfigure, gives a plain affirmation or an equally plain negative; the sort, in fact, that hasn’t the imagination necessary to a deviation from truth. I have no doubt whatever that she gave me a plain, unvarnished account of what happened during her two visits to London, nor any that she saw the grave and the inscription she describes. And as to the probabilities of the marriage—well, Mr. Blick, I am, perhaps, a bit of an old gossip!—anyway, I like to talk to the country people about their affairs, though I hope I am not a Paul Pry. I like to hear of their little comedies and tragedies—I take a sympathetic interest in them. Now, long before I heard this story from Mrs. Hilson, I had heard of Myra Halliwell and her disappearance, and I had had a hint from one or two old people in the village that it might not be unconnected with Guy Markenmore. So—I was not unduly surprised at what Mrs. Hilson told me.”

“I wonder if Myra’s sister—the woman at the Dower House—knows anything about it?” said Blick.

“Daffy, as they call her—I wonder, too,” answered Mr. Fransemmery. “I think not, though. Daffy—whose correct name is Daphne—has been away in India for three years with Mrs. Tretheroe, and has only recently returned. Of course she may. But if she does, you may be certain she’ll soon let it be known!”

“She looks,” remarked Blick thoughtfully, “like a woman who’s got a good many secrets. Secretive!—very much so. Well, it’s an odd business, sir! And as you unfolded your story to Mrs. Braxfield I began to speculate on its possible relation to my particular business—naturally!”

“In what way, now?” asked Mr. Fransemmery.

“Well, first of all,” replied Blick. “An obvious question: Has this anything to do with Guy Markenmore’s murder?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Has it, indeed. A very big question, my good sir, and a remarkably difficult one to answer.”

“Another,” continued Blick. “Mrs. Tretheroe told us at the inquest that she and Guy Markenmore had renewed their old love-affairs when they met last Monday night, and had agreed to get married at once. Now, I’d like to know this: Did Guy Markenmore tell her that he’d been married before, lost his wife, and had a son living?”

“Did he, indeed?” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I wonder? But—who knows?”

“If he did,” Blick went on, “why didn’t she divulge that fact at the inquest? If she knew it, why did she conceal it?”

“Aye—why?” muttered Mr. Fransemmery. “Why?”

“And if Guy Markenmore didn’t tell her—the woman he was going to marry!—why didn’t he?” said Blick. “Did he or didn’t he? It strikes me, sir, that there’s a good deal that’s of high importance in that!”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” agreed Mr. Fransemmery. “But then, between you and me, there’s a good deal else that I’ve wondered about ever since I heard Mrs. Tretheroe’s evidence!”

“What, for instance?” asked Blick.

“Nothing, in any particular instance,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “I have wondered, generally, if Mrs. Tretheroe told all she might have told; if she was candid, open, ingenuous, truthful. Between ourselves, I think she’s a vain, selfish, silly woman—and as stupid as such a woman always is!”

“Stupidity of that sort is very often allied with a good deal of cunning, isn’t it, though?” suggested Blick. “She’s struck me—what bit I’ve seen of her—as the sort of woman who could play a game.”

“I shouldn’t wonder!” agreed Mr. Fransemmery.

“Then, the question for me is—is she playing any game now, and if so, what is it?” said Blick. “And has von Eckhardstein anything to do with it?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “That’s still another question!”

“Nice mystery altogether!” muttered Blick.

“Black as this lane, my friend,” said Mr. Fransemmery, as they descended into the deep and narrow cutting which, high-banked and tortuous, wound its way upward to the summit of the downs between The Warren and Woodland Cottage. “And you’ll want something more than starlight by which to find your way in it! Up to now, I believe, you’ve scarcely got hold of the ghost of a clue?”

“Got no more than a very slender thread, which mayn’t be a thread at all,” answered Blick, thinking of the information that Lansbury had given him. “No!—so far, Mr. Fransemmery, I’ve very little, indeed, to work on. I—what’s your dog up to?”

The Airedale terrier, who had preceded the two men into the darkness of the lane, had run on before them to the spot whereat he had shown inordinate signs of restlessness and curiosity when Mr. Fransemmery was on his way to Mrs. Braxfield. He was now whimpering again, and as they came near the bushes, they heard him tearing and scratching at the soil; the whimpering presently changed to growling.

“Now I shouldn’t wonder if that is a badger!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “I have had an idea that there were badgers, or a badger, in this lane, and hereabouts, for some time; I fancied that I detected footprints in the loose, sandy soil. If only I had a lantern, I could soon tell, for a badger’s burrow is easily distinguishable from a fox’s hole.”

Blick put a hand in his coat pocket and produced something which, under pressure of his fingers, gave a sharp metallic click, followed by a steady glare of light.

“There you are!” he said. “Electric torches are better than lanterns. Where is he?”

Mr. Fransemmery forced aside the bushes behind which the Airedale was busy, and revealed him at work, digging furiously at a cavity in the bank. The terrier turned his head, blinked at the light, and went on with his task more eagerly. Mr. Fransemmery sniffed.

“Pho!” he exclaimed. “A badger, certainly! No mistaking the rank odour—quite different to that of a fox. But he won’t be there now, my boy! Badgers go abroad soon after it’s dark, on the search for roots, and insects, and frogs, and the larvae of wasps and bees. Come away, Tinker!”

But the Airedale went on digging, and Blick watched him with interest, keeping the glare of his electric torch on the mouth of the burrow.

“Good hand at excavation!” he said. “He’s thrown some stuff out already. He’d soon be deep into the bank at that rate if—hello!”

He suddenly stooped forward, pushed the dog aside and from the gravelly soil and loose sand that he had thrown up dragged forth an object which shone bright in the glare of the torch. With a sharp exclamation he held it up to Mr. Fransemmery.

“Look at that!” said Blick.

Mr. Fransemmery looked—and recoiled.

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed. “A revolver!”

Blick straightened himself, and holding his find in his left hand, turned the full light of the electric torch on it.

“A Webley-Fosbery automatic pistol,” he said. “And—new! And thrown in there not so long ago! Mr. Fransemmery!—what if we’ve found the thing that caused Guy Markenmore’s death? I shouldn’t wonder!”

Mr. Fransemmery backed away into the lane.

“Is—is that loaded?” he asked nervously. “I beg you to be careful, my dear sir! I have the greatest horror——”

“You hold the torch,” interrupted Blick. “I’ll be careful: I know all about firearms.” He handed the electric torch to his companion, and with both hands free began to examine the mechanism of the automatic pistol. “Nothing in it,” he announced presently. “Not a single cartridge! But look you here, sir—this has not been in there long! Not a speck of rust—all bright, clean, fresh——”

“The sand is very dry,” said Mr. Fransemmery, glancing at the mouth of the burrow. “And the gravel, too. Perhaps——”

“No!” said Blick. “If that had been there long, there’d have been at any rate some show of rust, at least a speck or two on the metal. Talk about luck! I feel inclined to give your dog a silver collar!”

“You attach great importance to this?” suggested Mr. Fransemmery.

“The greatest!” exclaimed Blick. “I should just think so! Why!—we’re within half a mile of the place where Guy Markenmore was shot dead with a pistol of some sort, and here is a pistol, an automatic pistol, which has obviously been thrown—quite recently—into a hole in the bank, behind bushes, in a lonely lane! Important? My dear sir!—it’s a clue!”

“We are close to my house,” observed Mr. Fransemmery. “Let us go there and consider the matter more fully. Bless me!—what a very remarkable discovery! It does, indeed, need deep and precise attention.”

“It’ll get it!” said Blick grimly. “First material clue I’ve struck.”

Mr. Fransemmery led the way to his house. At his door they were met by the trim parlourmaid.

“Mr. Chilford is waiting for you in the library, sir,” she said. “I told him I didn’t know how long you’d be out, but he said he must wait.”

Blick pulled Mr. Fransemmery’s sleeve as they entered the hall.

“Not a word about the automatic pistol!” he whispered. “Don’t want that to get out at all, yet. Look here—Chilford mightn’t want my presence; shall I go?”

“No; come in,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I want you to come in. I’ll tell him that you know all about this Hilson business. Ah, Chilford!” he went on, as they entered the library, where the solicitor, evidently full of thought, sat staring at the fire. “I know what’s brought you here—I expected it! You’ve had Margaret Hilson to see you—she’d tell you she’d seen me already. Well, Mr. Blick is fully conversant with her story, so——”

Chilford looked from one to the other.

“Something more than Margaret Hilson’s story brought me here, Fransemmery,” he answered. “I’ve seen her, of course—she called on me late this afternoon. I didn’t know what to think of her story, exactly, as long as it was just hers, unsupported. But since seven o’clock, this evening, I’ve known it to be true—in every detail!”

“You have?” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “How now?”

Chilford waved a hand towards the window from which, had it not been night and the blinds drawn, they would have looked across the park to Markenmore Court.

“The successor to the title and estates is down there!” he said. “A boy of six!—quite unaware of what he’s come into!”

Mr. Fransemmery glanced at Blick, and saw that what he himself was thinking about was also in the detective’s thoughts—the question raised by Mrs. Braxfield as to marriage or no marriage.

“You’re sure, then, of his right?” he said, turning to Chilford. “But—how has he turned up? This is something unexpected, isn’t it?”

“Hadn’t the ghost of a notion that any such development would occur,” answered Chilford. “Nobody ever suggested to me that Guy Markenmore had been married—I always understood that he never had! And when that woman, Margaret Hilson, came to me this evening, just after I’d returned from my office, with the story she’d already told you, I was more than a little amazed. But I know her for a decent, respectable woman, not at all likely to invent fairy-tales, nor, for that matter, to tell what she didn’t believe to be true, and when I’d heard her, I began to think there might be, well, something in it. And do you know, Fransemmery, she hadn’t left my house half an hour when there drove up from Selcaster railway station a well-known London solicitor, Quillamane, of Bedford Row, who brought with him a lady and a small boy, and a story agreeing entirely with that which I’d just listened to. What’s more,” concluded Chilford, with a dry laugh and a wink at Mr. Fransemmery, “he brought full documentary proofs of all that he had to tell. Pooh!—the thing’s quite clear. There’s a Sir Guy Markenmore in Markenmore Court tonight!—and he’s six years old!”

“Then Guy Markenmore did marry Myra Halliwell?” said Mr. Fransemmery.

“He did!—when they both left here,” answered Chilford. “And they lived very quietly, Clapham or Tooting or Wandsworth way, at first. Later, she lived there alone—he was a good deal away from her, and had a West End flat. She died—but there’s the boy. Quillamane knows the whole thing—has all the papers, marriage certificates, birth certificates, everything: he has been in Guy’s confidence all along. When the child’s mother died, the child was placed in the hands of Quillamane’s sister, who’s now with him at the Court—they’re all there: I took them up, myself.”

“And Harry Markenmore and his sister—how did they take it?” asked Mr. Fransemmery.

“To tell you the truth, they took it like bricks!” replied Chilford. “They didn’t turn a hair, either of ’em, and to do them justice, they immediately began to make much of the youngster. But I say!—I reckon I know who’ll be furious about it! Why, I heard that Harry Markenmore has secretly married Poppy Wrenne, with her mother’s knowledge!”

“That’s so!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “The marriage took place in London, three months ago, in the mother’s presence.”

“Then Madam Braxfield will be the angriest woman in Christendom when she hears of this!” exclaimed Chilford. “Of course, she was hoping that Guy was dead long since, and nobody’d ever heard of him for seven years, and that Harry would get the title, and Poppy be my Lady Markenmore! Well—that’s knocked on the head! Queer business! and Quillamane tells me there may be more. It turns out that Guy, who’d made a regular pot of money in his business doings, all left, of course, to the youngster by a recent will, wanted to give Markenmore Court absolutely to his brother and sister, and was going to take steps to hand it over as soon as he succeeded. But the estates are entailed! This child gets everything! Interesting, isn’t it, Fransemmery, from a lawyer’s point of view?”

“From that point—very,” agreed Mr. Fransemmery. “Complicated, too.”

He was wondering if Chilford wanted to expatiate on the intricacies of the situation, and hoping he didn’t, for he himself felt in no humour for discussing legal questions. But Chilford presently went away and Blick, after a whispered word with Mr. Fransemmery, went with him. Together, they walked towards the village, on the outskirts of which Chilford lived.

“Any luck in your line yet, young man?” asked Chilford, before they parted.

“Precious little!” replied Blick.

“As mysterious a case as ever I heard of!” exclaimed Chilford. “Not a ray of light on it!”

Blick left him at the cross-roads and turned into the Sceptre. Remembering Crawley, and not averse to a friendly chat before retiring, he looked into the bar-parlour and asked for him. Grimsdale, reading a paper behind his bar, shook his head.

“Never been back, Mr. Blick,” he answered. “He ordered his dinner for seven o’clock, but he didn’t come in for it. Ain’t set eyes on him since he went out just after breakfast; I suppose he’s altered his mind and gone elsewhere. Don’t signify, neither—he paid his bill!”

CHAPTER XIX