you know. And it may be—a case of poisoning. Will that other man come back? If not——"
By that time Hetherwick was beginning to wonder if the other man would come back. He had not come at the end of ten minutes; nor of fifteen; nor of thirty. But other men had come, hurrying into the drab-walled waiting-room and gathering about the table on which the dead man had been laid. They were mostly officials and police, and presently a police surgeon arrived and with him a police inspector, one Matherfield, who knew Hetherwick. While the two doctors made another examination, this man drew Hetherwick aside. Hetherwick retold his story; this time with full details. Matherfield listened and shook his head.
"That second man won't come back!" he said. "Gone half an hour now. Do you think he knew the man was dead before he cleared out?"
"I can't say," replied Hetherwick. "The whole thing was so quick that it was all over before I could realise what was happening. I certainly saw the other man give the dead man a quick, close inspection. Then he literally jumped for the door—he was out of it and running up the stairs before the train had come to a definite stop."
"You can describe him, Mr. Hetherwick?" suggested the inspector.
"Describe him?—yes. And identify him, too," asserted Hetherwick. "He was a man of certain notable features. I should know him again, anywhere."
"Well, we'll have to look for him," said Matherfield. "And now we'll have to take this dead man to the mortuary and have a thorough examination and see what he's got on him. You'd better come, Mr. Hetherwick—in fact, I shall want you."
Hetherwick went—in the tail of a sombre procession, himself and the two medical men walking together. He had to tell his tale again, to the police surgeon; that functionary, like all the rest who had heard the story, shook his head ominously over the disappearance of the sallow-faced man.
"All an excuse, that," he said. "There's no doctor close by. You didn't get any idea—from their conversation, I mean—of the dead man's identity? Any name mentioned?"
"I heard no name mentioned," answered Hetherwick. "They didn't address each other by name. I've no idea who the man is."
That was what he wanted to know. Somewhere, of course, this dead man had friends. He had spoken of his hotel—there, perhaps, somebody was awaiting his coming; somebody to whom the news of his death would come as a great shock, perhaps, and terrible trouble. And he waited with a feeling that was little short of personal anxiety while the police searched the dead man's pockets.
The various articles which were presently laid out on a side-table were many. There was a purse, well stocked with money; there was loose money in the pockets. There was a handsome gold watch and a heavy chain and locket. There was a pocket-book, stuffed with letters and papers. And there were all the things that a well-provided man carries—a cigar-case, a silver matchbox, a silver pencil-case, a pen-knife, and so on; clearly, the dead man had been in comfortable circumstances. But the articles of value were brushed aside by the inspector; his immediate concern was with the contents of the pocket-book, from which he hastened to take out the letters. A second later he turned to Hetherwick and the two doctors, nodding his head sidewise at the still figure on the table.
"This'll be the name and address," he said, pointing to the envelopes in his hand. "Mr. Robert Hannaford, Malter's Private Hotel, Surrey Street, Strand. Several letters, you see, addressed there, and all of recent date. We'll have to go there—there may be his wife and people of his there. Wonder who he was?—somebody from the provinces, most likely. Well——"
He laid down the letters and picked up the watch—a fine gold-cased hunter—and released the back. Within that was an inscription, engraved in delicate lettering. The inspector let out an exclamation.
"Ah!" he said. "I half suspected that from his appearance. One of ourselves! Look at this—'Presented to Superintendent Robert Hannaford, on his retirement, by the Magistrates of Sellithwaite.' Sellithwaite, eh?—where's that, now?"
"Yorkshire," replied one of the men standing close by. "South-West Riding."
Matherfield closed the watch and laid it by.
"Well," he remarked, "that's evidently who he is—ex-Superintendent Hannaford, of Sellithwaite, Yorkshire, stopping at Malter's Hotel. I'll have to go round there. Mr. Hetherwick, as you were the last man to see him alive, I wish you'd go with me—it's on your way to the Temple."
Something closely corresponding to curiosity, not morbid, but compelling, made Hetherwick accede to this request. Presently he and Matherfield walked along the Embankment together, talking of what had just happened and speculating on the cause of Hannaford's sudden death.
"We may know the exact reason by noon," remarked Matherfield. "There'll be a post-mortem, of course. But that other man!—we may get to know something about him here. And I wonder whom we shall find here? Hope it's not his wife. … "
CHAPTER II
WHOSE PORTRAIT IS THIS?
Malter himself opened the door of his small private hotel; a quiet, reserved man who looked like a retired butler. He was the sort of man who is slow of speech, and he had not replied to Matherfield's guarded inquiry about Mr. Robert Hannaford when a door in the little hall opened, and a girl appeared, who, hearing the inspector's question, immediately came forward as if in answer.
Hetherwick recognised this girl. He had seen her only the previous afternoon in Fountain Court, in company with a man whom he knew slightly—Kenthwaite, a fellow-barrister. Kenthwaite, evidently, was doing the honours—showing her round the Temple; Hetherwick, in fact, in passing them, had overheard Kenthwaite telling his companion something of the history of the old houses and courts around them. And the girl had attracted him then. She was a pretty girl, tall, slim, graceful, and in addition to her undoubted charm of face and figure, she looked to have more than an average share of character and intelligence, and was listening to her guide with obvious interest and appreciation. Hetherwick had set her down as being, perhaps, a country cousin of Kenthwaite's, visiting London, maybe, for the first time. Anyhow, in merely passing her and Kenthwaite he had noticed her so closely that he now recognised her at once; he saw, too, that she recognised him. But there was another matter more pressing than that—and she had gone straight to it.
"Are these gentlemen asking for my grandfather?" she inquired, coming still nearer and glancing from the hotel proprietor to the two callers. "He's not come in——"
Hetherwick was glad to hear that the dead man was the girl's grandfather. Certainly it was a close relationship, but, after all, not so close as it might have been. And he was conscious that the inspector was relieved, too.
"We're asking about Mr. Robert Hannaford," he said. "Is he your grandfather—ex-Superintendent Hannaford, of Sellithwaite? Just so—well, I'm very sorry to bring bad news about him——"
He broke off, watching the girl keenly, as if he wanted to make sure that she would take the news quietly. And evidently reassured on that point, he suddenly went on definitely:
"You'll understand?" he said. "It's—well, the worst news. The fact is——"
"Is my grandfather dead?" interrupted the girl. "If that's it, please say so—I
