laughed sarcastically.
“That’s very likely, when I have no money. But, look here, what do you want with me?”
“To impart some news.”
“News!” exclaimed Trethowen, suddenly interested. “Good or bad?”
“Both.”
“What is it? Tell me quickly,” he demanded, with an impatient gesture.
“Simply this. I wish to congratulate you upon your inheritance.”
“What inheritance?”
“Well, the information it is my pleasure to communicate will undoubtedly cause you mingled pain and satisfaction. Briefly, your brother, Douglas Trethowen, is dead, and – ”
“What!” cried Hugh, starting to his feet in amazement. “You’re humbugging me!”
“I repeat, your brother is dead,” resumed the old solicitor calmly, looking intently into the face of the man before him. “In consequence of that event you inherit the whole of the estate.”
“Good heavens, is this true, Graham?” he asked breathlessly.
“It is. Therefore I don’t think you need trouble yourself over creditors any longer. You can now pay, and wipe them out.”
The old man laughed at the effect his words had produced, for Hugh Trethowen was standing in mute astonishment.
“But how do you know Douglas is dead?” he asked.
“There is little doubt of it,” answered Mr Graham coolly. “Read this,” and he handed him a newspaper cutting.
Hugh scanned it eagerly, with an expression of abject amazement. The statement was to the effect that it had just transpired that the man found murdered in an omnibus at Charing Cross had been identified as Mr Douglas Trethowen, of Coombe Hall, Cornwall. Upon the body some cards and letters had been found, which, for some unaccountable reason, had at first been kept secret by the police.
“I can scarcely believe it,” Hugh ejaculated at length. “Besides, after all, it is not absolutely certain that it is he.”
“Not at all,” admitted Graham, with a puzzled look. “Of course, you, as his brother, must identify him.”
“Yes,” said the other, very thoughtfully; for it had suddenly occurred to him that he had not recognised the features when he saw the body taken from the omnibus.
“No time must be lost,” observed the solicitor. “The identity must be established at once. The inquest will, I believe, be held to-morrow.”
Hugh hesitated, and for some moments remained silent.
“You see, I’ve not met my brother for six years, therefore I might be unable to recognise him. He has been abroad during the greater part of that period, and his appearance may have altered considerably.”
“Nonsense, my dear sir, – nonsense. You would surely know your own brother, even if a dozen years had elapsed,” he answered decisively.
“And suppose he really is Douglas?”
“The will is explicit enough,” the elder man said, pointing to an open document before him. “This is a copy of it, and no codicil has been added. In the same manner as your late respected father, Mr Douglas left the whole of his affairs in my hands. Fortunately for you, he never married, and the property is yours.”
He felt bewildered. Such agreeable news was sufficient to animate with immoderate joy a ruined man who, a few hours previously, had contemplated suicide.
“Now, speaking candidly, Graham, have you any doubt that it is Douglas?”
“None.”
“Why?”
“Well – for the simple reason that I believe he is dead.”
“That’s an evasive answer. Tell me the reason.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot divulge secrets entrusted to me, Mr Hugh. You may, however, at once rest assured that I am absolutely ignorant both of the motive of the terrible crime and the existence of any one likely to commit it. If I possessed any such knowledge, of course, I should communicate with the police without delay,” the old gentleman said calmly.
“Then you refuse to state your reasons?” exclaimed Trethowen, a trifle annoyed.
“I do, most decidedly. All I can tell you is that I knew your brother had returned from abroad; and, as a matter of fact, he wrote making an appointment to meet me yesterday, but did not keep it.”
“From that you conclude he is dead?”
“Combined with various other circumstances.”
“Well, Graham, it’s hardly satisfactory, you’ll admit,” observed Hugh. And then he added: “Of course, if you refuse to tell me anything else, I can do nothing.”
“Excuse me, Mr Hugh,” answered the solicitor blandly. “You can go to the mortuary at once and identify the body.”
“If I fail, what then?”
“I don’t think you will fail,” replied Graham, with a meaning smile.
“You’ll come and assist me?”
“I shall be very pleased to accompany you, but must claim your indulgence for a few moments while I put away these papers;” and he commenced gathering up the scattered documents and replacing them in the box.
When he had finished he locked it carefully, and then, struggling into his overcoat, and putting on his hat, he followed Hugh Trethowen out.
An hour later they returned and reseated themselves. “The whole affair is so enshrouded in mystery that I doubt very much whether the murderer will ever be discovered,” Graham remarked, taking up some letters that had been placed upon his table during his absence.
“I agree with you. It’s a most remarkable crime.”
“But, after all, what’s the use of puzzling one’s brain?” the solicitor asked. “You inherit the estate, with an income that should keep you in luxury for the remainder of your days, therefore why trouble about it?”
“That is so; but supposing Douglas is still alive – I only say supposing – now what would be the result?” Graham shrugged his shoulders, and his visage elongated.
“It’s no use apprehending such a dénouement. You are absolutely certain that the body is his, are you not?” he asked.
“I’m positive of it. The curious deformity of the ear I remember quite distinctly.”
“Then you will swear before the coroner to-morrow that he is your brother?” he observed, regarding the young man keenly.
“I shall.”
“In that case no more need be said. We shall immediately proceed to prove the will, and you will be master of Coombe.”
“Indeed,”
