know.”
“Your brother was,” Mr. Bentham said, “a very remarkable man. Has it never occurred to you, Mr. Barnes, that this two thousand a year might have been money received in payment of services rendered—might have been, in short, in the nature of a salary?”
“Not likely,” Barnes answered, contemptuously. “Morris did no work at all. He did nothing but just enjoy himself and spend money.”
“Nothing but enjoy himself and spend money,” Mr. Bentham repeated. “Ah! Did you see a great deal of your brother during the last few years?”
“I saw nothing of him at all. I was out in South Africa. I have only just got back. Not but that I’d been here long ago,” the young man added, with a note of exasperation in his tone, “if I’d had any idea of the luck he was in. Why, I lent him a bit to come back with, though I was only earning thirty bob a week, and the brute only sent it me back in bits, and not a farthing over.”
“That was not considerate of him,” Mr. Bentham agreed—“not at all considerate. Your brother had the command of considerable sums of money. In fact, Mr. Barnes, I may tell you, without any breach of confidence, I think that if he had kept his appointment with me on the night when he was murdered, I was prepared, on behalf of my client, to hand him a cheque for ten thousand pounds!”
Barnes struck the table before him with his clenched fist.
“For what?” he cried, hysterically. “Ten thousand pounds for what?”
“Your brother,” Mr. Bentham said calmly, “was possessed of securities which were worth that much or even more to my client.”
“And where are they now?” Barnes gasped.
“I do not know,” Mr. Bentham answered. “If you can find them, I think it very likely that my client might make you a similar offer.”
It was the first ray of hope. Barnes moistened his dry lips with his tongue, and drew a long breath.
“Securities!” he muttered. “What sort of securities?”
“There, unfortunately,” Mr. Bentham said, “I am unable to help you. I am an agent only in the matter. They were securities which my client was anxious to buy, and your brother was not unwilling to sell for cash, notwithstanding the income which they were bringing him in.”
“But how can I look for them, if I don’t know what they are?” Barnes protested.
“There are difficulties, certainly,” the lawyer admitted, carefully polishing his spectacles with the corner of a silk handkerchief; “but, then, as you have doubtless surmised, the whole situation is a difficult one.”
“You can get to know,” Barnes exclaimed. “Your client would tell you.”
Mr. Bentham sighed gently.
“Of course,” he said, “I am only quoting my own opinion, but I do not think that my client would do anything of the sort. These securities happen to be of a somewhat secret nature. Your brother was in a position to make an exceedingly clever use of them. It appears incidentally to have cost him his life, but there are risks, of course, in every profession.”
Barnes stared at him with wide-open eyes. He seemed, for the moment, struck dumb. Wrayson, who had been silent during the greater part of the conversation, turned towards the lawyer.
“You believe, then,” he asked, “that Morris Barnes was murdered for the sake of these securities?”
“I believe—nothing,” the lawyer answered. “It is not my business to believe. Mr. Morris Barnes was in the receipt of an income of two thousand a year, which we might call dividend upon these securities. My client, through me, made Mr. Barnes a cash offer to buy them outright, and although I must admit that Mr. Barnes had not closed with us, yet I believe that he was on the point of doing so. He had doubtless had it brought home to him that there was a certain amount of danger associated with his position generally. The night on which my client arrived in England was the night upon which Mr. Morris Barnes was murdered. The inference to be drawn from this circumstance I can leave, I am sure, to the common sense of you two gentlemen.”
“First, then,” Wrayson said, “it would appear that he was murdered by the people who were paying him two thousand a year, and who were acting in opposition to your client!”
Mr. Bentham shrugged his shoulder gently.
“It does not sound unreasonable,” he admitted.
“And secondly,” Wrayson continued, “if that was so, he was probably robbed of these securities at the same time.”
“Now that, also,” Mr. Bentham said smoothly, “sounds reasonable. But, as a matter of fact,” he continued, looking down upon the table, “there are certain indications which go to disprove it. My personal opinion is that the assassin—granted that there was an assassin, and granted that he was acting on behalf of the parties we have referred to—met with a disappointment.”
“In plain words,” Wrayson interrupted, “you mean that the other side have not possessed themselves of the securities?”
“They certainly have not,” Mr. Bentham declared. “They still remain—the property by inheritance of this young gentleman here—Mr. Sydney Barnes, I believe.”
His tone was so even, so expressionless, that its slightest changes were noticeable. It seemed to Wrayson that a faint note of sarcasm had crept into these last few words. Mr. Barnes himself, however, was quite oblivious of it. His yellow-stained fingers were spread out upon the table. He leaned over towards the lawyer. His under lip protruded, his deep-set eyes seemed closer than ever together. He was grimly, tragically in earnest.
“Look here,” he said. “What can I do to get hold of ‘em? I don’t care what it is. I’m game! I’ll deal with your man—the cash client. I’ll give you a commission, see! Five per cent on all I get. How’s that? I’ll play fair. Now chuck away all this mystery. What were these securities? Where shall I start looking for them?”
Mr. Bentham regarded him with stony face. “There are certain points,” he said, “upon which I cannot enlighten you. My duty to my client forbids it. I cannot describe to you the nature of those securities. I cannot suggest where you should look for them. All that I can say is that they are still to be found, and that my client is still a buyer.”
The young man turned to Wrayson. His face was twitching with some emotion, probably anger.
“Did you ever hear such bally rot!” he exclaimed. “He knows all about these securities all right. They belong to me. He ought to be made to tell.”
Wrayson shrugged his shoulders.
“It does seem rather a wild-goose chase, doesn’t it?” he remarked. “Can’t you tell him a little more, Mr. Bentham?”
Mr. Bentham sighed, as though his impotence were a matter of sincere regret to him.
“The only advice I can offer Mr. Barnes,” he said, “is that he induce you to aid him in his search. Between you, I should never be surprised to hear of your success.”
“And why,” Wrayson asked, “should you consider me such a useful
