'Suppose, Douglas, you enlighten our ignorance. We are acting in accordance with our lights. If we are moving in darkness, surely the fault is rather yours than ours.'

Somehow I felt that, in his turn, Mr. Howarth didn't like the young gentleman's tone. It was quite a time before he spoke again. It seemed as if he was trying to get the better of his temper.

'Reggie, can I speak to you in private?'

'Certainly. But--aren't we in private here?'

'This isn't the sort of privacy I mean.'

The young gentleman seemed to hesitate.

'What is it you wish to say to me?'

'When we're alone I'll tell you.'

'I'll see you alone directly. But before I do so there are one or two things which I should like you to explain, in the presence of this lady.'

'As, for instance?'

'How the late Marquis of Twickenham came to die from heart disease.'

The answer came from the door. There, sure enough, with a gentleman at his side, was Mr. FitzHoward. Never had I seen him when he'd seemed more at his ease. I hadn't thought that it was in him. I know that I'd felt a coward ever since I'd put my foot across the doorstep. He came right forward into the room, without waiting for any one to invite him, as bold and confident as you please. As for Mr. Howarth's black looks--and he gave him some, and somehow there they seemed more hard to meet than they'd been in my home--they never frightened him one little bit.

'That is one thing which we should like you to explain, Mr. Howarth, if you don't mind;--how did the late Marquis of Twickenham come to die of heart disease?'

I believe there'd have been trouble if Mr. Howarth had had Mr. FitzHoward alone in a room with him. If ever I saw a man look like meaning mischief, it was him then. He seemed to draw his body together like a cat does before it jumps. And his hands quivered, as if they itched to beat him. But the fact that he wasn't alone made all the difference, though I fancy he only remembered it just in time. He glanced about him with a kind of start, and drew a long breath. When he spoke there was passion in his voice, which he couldn't disguise.

'What--what's the meaning of this--gentleman's presence here?'

Mr. FitzHoward's manner was as unlike his as it very well could have been. As I've said, I never saw him when he was more himself.

'It means that I want a little explanation, Mr. Howarth--that's all. Quite a simple little point. There's a gentleman here whom I should like to introduce to the ladies and gentlemen present;--Dr. Clinton, M.D. My lord, this is Dr. Philip Clinton--of whom you may have heard.'

The young gentleman held out his hand, which the other took.

'Have I the pleasure of speaking to the Dr. Clinton who is the great authority on the functions of the heart?'

'I am Dr. Clinton, and I have made the heart my special study.'

I liked him, as I had done the young gentleman, directly he opened his mouth. He had a quiet, pleasant way of speaking. He wasn't over young, nor yet he wasn't over old; but he had as nice a face as I could care to meet, with hair on it; brown, comfortable-looking eyes; and about the corners of his mouth what you felt to be a friendly smile.

'Dr. Clinton,' said Mr. FitzHoward, and he waved the hat which he held in his hand as if he owned the house, 'might I ask you what was the character of the late Marquis of Twickenham's heart?'

Dr. Clinton shook his head.

'I'm afraid that I'm hardly in a position to answer that question in the form in which you put it.'

'Then we'll put it in another way. I will ask you what was the character--of course, I mean the physical character--of the heart of the late Mr. Montagu Babbacombe?'

'Sound. But since you have been so good as to enlighten me as to the reasons which may make my presence here of service, perhaps you will allow me to make a brief statement in my own way.'

'Certainly, Doctor. That is what we desire--in your own way.'

'I examined Mr. Montagu Babbacombe on three occasions, each time in association with certain colleagues whose names I will mention if desired. The examination was very thorough. And as a result we unanimously agreed that he was emphatically what the insurance people call a "good life." He showed no traces of organic weakness; and as for the heart, in a medical sense, I never met a better one. I may add that I met him on the morning of the day on which, I learn to my surprise, it is stated that he died. I was driving along Stamford Street when he came out of the York Hotel. I stopped and spoke to him--asking him how he felt after his thirty days' sleep. His own words were that he was as "fit as a fiddle and game for anything"; and he looked it. Under anything like normal circumstances it was practically impossible that he could have died on the afternoon of that day of heart disease.'

'In what way,' asked Mr. Howarth, 'is this of interest to us? The connection which certain persons seem desirous of establishing between Mr. Montagu Babbacombe and the late Marquis is one of the purest presumption.'

Mr. FitzHoward handed a photograph which he took out of his pocket to Dr. Clinton.

'Doctor, do you know the original of that?'

'I do; it is Mr. Montagu Babbacombe; he gave me a similar one. A capital likeness it is.'

'My lord, do you know the original of that?'

Mr. FitzHoward handed on the likeness to the young gentleman.

'I do. It's the portrait of my brother.'

'Thank you. You see, Mr. Howarth, the connection between them is not so shadowy as it seems you'd like us to think; it's recognised by every one but you. And we're still waiting for you to explain how the Marquis of Twickenham came to die of heart disease.'

Mr. Howarth looked at Mr. FitzHoward as if he'd have liked to have torn him in pieces. I'm confident that if it hadn't been for all of us being there, there'd have been violence used.

'I'm not a medical man, you--clever fellow.'

'It seems as if you know how to manufacture heart disease to order, anyhow.'

'What the----!'

He moved forward so that I thought he was going to strike him; only at the last moment he stopped short and changed his mind. The young gentleman laid his hand on Mr. FitzHoward's shoulder.

'Come, sir; let us not deal in innuendo, if you please. Here comes some one who may be able to give you the information you require.' An old gentleman came into the room. He wore gold spectacles. With the fingers and thumb of one hand he lifted them in their place on his nose as he advanced. 'Sir Gregory, this is very kind of you. Your arrival is most opportune. A rather curious point has arisen with regard to my brother's death. We require your aid for its solution. I believe that you certified that the cause of his death was heart disease.'

'Certainly; the immediate cause. Heart disease of long standing. Your brother always had a weak heart, my lord.'

'Then in that case Mr. Montagu Babbacombe wasn't the Marquis of Twickenham.'

This was Dr. Clinton. When he spoke, the old gentleman looked at him and knew him.

'Is that you, Clinton? I didn't catch what it was you said.'

Mr. FitzHoward put himself forward before Dr. Clinton had a chance of answering. He handed the old gentleman the photograph.

'May I ask, sir, if you know who is the original of that?'

'Certainly; very well. It's the late Marquis--as I used to know him.'

'That's a portrait of Mr. Montagu Babbacombe, as he appeared on the morning of the day on which the late Marquis is stated to have died.'

'Of whom?'

'Of Mr. Montagu Babbacombe.'

'Mr. Montagu Babbacombe? Then in that case--but I don't understand.' He turned to the young gentleman. 'Surely this is a portrait of your lordship's brother?'

'Undoubtedly.'

Dr. Clinton spoke.

'The point, Sir Gregory, is this. The idea is that Montagu Babbacombe was only another name for the Marquis of Twickenham; but before that can be admitted there's a difficulty to be got over. I knew Montagu Babbacombe, and I'm ready to testify that he never had anything the matter with his heart in the whole of his life, and that on the morning of the day on which the Marquis died he was in excellent health.'

'Then your Babbacombe wasn't my Marquis. The Marquis of Twickenham inherited a weak heart from his father; and as for being in excellent health on the morning of his death, he'd been dying for months.'

The young gentleman appealed to Mr. Howarth.

'Douglas, I really do believe that the solution of the puzzle is in your hands. Did Leonard masquerade as Montagu Babbacombe?'

'My dear Reggie, I don't propose to furnish any information.'

'But that's an impossible position, one for which I can't conceive your justification. Can't you answer Yes or No?'

'Your brother's dead. That's enough for me. It ought to be enough for you.'

'But don't you see the difficulties which must inevitably arise if you refuse to answer?'

'I confess I don't.'

'Then you must be more short-sighted than I supposed. If my brother called himself Babbacombe, then this lady is his wife; and here's her son. Everything is theirs, and I have nothing.'

'I assure you that this lady is not your brother's wife, and that the young gentleman is no relation of yours.'

'Then do you say that Leonard wasn't Babbacombe?'

'I don't see how it matters if he was or wasn't.'

'Not if this lady was his wife?' Mr. Howarth shrugged his shoulders. 'The attitude of your mind is altogether beyond my comprehension. I thought I knew you; but it seems I don't. During the last few days you have been a different man.'

'Don't talk such nonsense.'

'You have--and you know it. I've felt that there was something at the back, and now I begin to have a glimmer of an idea of what it is. You have persistently refused to tell me what were the circumstances under which you first saw Leonard. I'm sorry to say that I'm beginning to believe that it was because, for reasons of your own, you wished to conceal your knowledge of the fact that he was Babbacombe.'

'Reggie, if you take my serious advice, you will restrain yourself from making any further remarks until we are alone. You are not behaving wisely.'

'Wisely? Thank you; there's a sort of wisdom which I would rather be without. Let me tell you this. I do not intend to allow this doubt to confront me a moment longer than I can help. There is one step which I can take towards its solution, and that step I'll take at once. I'll have the coffin opened, and I'll see who is inside.'

'What?'

'I say I'll have the coffin opened and see who is inside.'

'You--you'll do nothing of the kind.'

Dr. Clinton asked a question.

'Can you do that at once? Won't the legal forms which you have to go through before you can obtain permission involve considerable delay?'

'I'll do it first and obtain permission afterwards. The coffin is on a shelf in our mausoleum at Cressland. I only have to remove the lid and put it back again. The whole thing needn't occupy half an hour.'

'Reggie, you--you shan't do it.'

'I shall; and will.'

'I say you shall not. Come, don't--don't let us quarrel. This sort of thing in public isn't--isn't edifying. And--all about nothing. When you have heard what I have to say to you in private, you will see the matter in a different light.'

'Say what you have to say to me here.'

'I will not. You must wait till we're alone. Wait, I say--wait!'

'Very good. I will. I'll have the coffin opened to-morrow, and wait till afterwards to hear what it is you have to say.'

'Reggie! You won't! I know you won't. You won't be such a fool.'

'What are you afraid of?'

'Afraid? I'm afraid of nothing. Of what should I be afraid?'

'Then why should you object?'

'Because--it's a dreadful thing to think of, after he's been dead so long.'

'Is that the only reason?'

'What other reason should I have?'

I went and held the young gentleman by his arm with both my hands.

'Open the coffin!'

'I intend to.'

'My husband is not inside.'

'How do you know?'

'If he were inside, why should I hear him calling?'

'Calling? What do you mean?'

'I keep hearing him calling to me all the time.'

Mr. Howarth flung himself at me, seeming half beside himself with rage.

'It's a lie! You don't!'

'I do. You hear him too.'

I never saw a man behave so wildly. He seemed to have all at once gone mad.

'I don't! I don't! How can you tell if I do or do not? The idea's nonsense. It's a figment of the brain. I'm--I'm run down, and I fancy things--that's all. Besides, how could he call so that I could hear him--all the way--from Cressland? He must be dead--long since! long since! You're a fool, woman, to suppose he isn't dead--a fool! a fool!' He seemed to suddenly realise how he was talking, and to see our startled faces. 'Why are you all looking at me like that? What's the matter? There's nothing wrong. Reggie, I've not--been very well--lately. You're quite right, I'm a different man. All this--has been too much for me. I want--I want--Who's that calling?'

'It's James.'

'James? It's Babbacombe! It's Babbacombe! What's the use of his calling? They've fastened him down. They did it before I came. What shall I do? What shall I do?'

He stood there before us all, sobbing like a child. The old gentleman they spoke of as Sir Gregory went up to him.

'Come, my dear sir, you must control yourself. The excitement has been too much for you. If you're not careful, you'll be ill.'

But I heard Dr. Clinton whisper to the young gentleman who'd brought us there--

'If I were you, I'd see what's inside that coffin.'

'I intend to.'

Suddenly Pollie and Jimmy, overtaken by sudden alarm, came running to me. And they began to cry.

'Where's Daddy?' wailed Jimmy. 'Oh, mother, where is Daddy?'

'Hush!' I said. I drew them quite close to me. 'You'll see him before very long.'