sorry to say he is dead," replied Matherfield. "He died suddenly in the train at Charing Cross. A seizure, no doubt. Was he well when you saw him last?"
The girl turned to the hotel proprietor, who was standing by, evidently amazed.
"Never saw a gentleman look better or seem better in my life than he did when he went out of that door at half-past six o'clock!" he exclaimed. "Best of health and spirits!"
"My grandfather was quite well," said the girl quietly. "I never remember him being anything else but well—he was a very strong, vigorous man. Will you please tell me all about it?"
Matherfield told all about it, turning now and then to Hetherwick for corroboration. In the end he put a question.
"This man that Mr. Hetherwick saw in your grandfather's company?" he suggested. "Do you recognise anyone from that description?"
"No!—no one," answered the girl. "But my grandfather knew people in London whom I don't know. He has been going about a good deal since we came here, three days ago—looking out for a house."
"Well, we shall have to find that man," remarked Matherfield. "Of course, if you'd recognised the description as that of somebody known to you——"
"No," she said again. "I know nobody like that. But now—do you wish me to go with you—to him?"
"It's not necessary—I wouldn't to-night, if I were you," replied Matherfield. "I'll call again in the morning. Meanwhile, leave matters to us and the doctors. You've friends in London, I suppose?"
"Yes, we have friends—relations, in fact," said the girl. "I must let them know at once."
Matherfield nodded and turned to the door. But Hetherwick lingered. He and the girl were looking at each other. He suddenly spoke.
"I saw you this afternoon," he said, "in Fountain Court, with a man whom I know slightly, Mr. Kenthwaite. Is he, by any chance, one of the relations you mentioned just now? Because, if so, he lives close by me. I can tell him, if you wish."
"No," she answered, "not a relative. We know him. You might tell him, if you please, and if it's no trouble."
"No trouble at all," said Hetherwick. "And—if I may—I hope you'll let me call in the morning to hear if there's anything I can do for you?"
The girl gave him a quick, responsive glance.
"That's very kind of you," she said. "Yes."
Hetherwick and the police inspector left the little hotel and walked up the street. Matherfield seemed to be in a brown study. Somewhere up in the Strand and farther away down Fleet Street the clocks began striking.
"Seems to me," exclaimed Matherfield suddenly, "seems to me, Mr. Hetherwick, this is—murder!"
"You mean poison?" said Hetherwick.
"Likely! Why, yes, of course, it would be poison. We must have that man! You can't add to your description of him?"
"You've already got everything that I can tell. Pretty full and accurate, too. I should say you oughtn't to have much difficulty in laying hands on him—from my description."
Matherfield made a sound that was half a laugh and half a groan.
"Lord bless you!" he said. "It's like seeking a needle in a bundle of hay, searching for a given man in London! I mean, of course, sometimes. More often than not, in fact. Here's this chap rushes up the stairs at Charing Cross, vanishes—where? One man amongst seven millions of men and women! However——"
Then they parted, and Hetherwick, full of thought, went home to his chambers and to bed, and lay equally thoughtful for a long time before he went to sleep. He made a poor night of it, but soon after eight o'clock he was in Kenthwaite's chambers. Kenthwaite was dressing and breakfasting at the same time—a ready-packed brief bag and an open time-table suggested that he was in a hurry to catch a train. But he suspended his operations to stare, open-mouthed, wide-eyed at Hetherwick's news.
"Hannaford!—dead!" he exclaimed. "Great Scott!—why, he was as fit as a fiddle at noon yesterday, Hetherwick! He and his grand daughter called on me, and I took 'em to lunch—I come from Sellithwaite, you know, so of course I knew them. Hannaford had to go as soon as we'd lunched—some appointment—so I showed the girl round a bit. Nice girl, that—clever. Name of Rhona. Worth cultivating. And the old man's dead! Bless me!"
"I don't think there's much doubt about foul play," observed Hetherwick.
"Looks uncommonly like it," said Kenthwaite. He went on with his double task. "Well," he added, "sorry, but I can't be of any use to Miss Hannaford to-day—got to go down to a beastly Quarter Sessions case, my boy, and precious little time to catch my train. But to-morrow—perhaps you can give 'm a hand this morning?"
"Yes," answered Hetherwick. "I'm doing nothing. I'll go round there after a while. I'm interested naturally. It's a queer case."
"Queer! Seems so, rather," assented Kenthwaite. "Well—give Miss Hannaford my sympathy and all that, and tell her that if there's anything I can do when I get back—you know what to say."
"She said she'd relations here in London," remarked Hetherwick.
"Cousins—aunts—something or other—over Tooting way, I think," agreed Kenthwaite. "Twenty past eight!—Hetherwick, I'll have to rush for it!"
He swallowed the last of his coffee, seized the bag and darted away; Hetherwick went back to his own chambers and breakfasted leisurely. And all the time he sat there he was pondering over the event of the previous midnight, and especially upon the sudden disappearance of the man with the stained fingers. To Hetherwick that disappearance seemed to argue guilt. He figured it in this way—the man who ran away at Charing Cross had poisoned this other man in some clever and subtle fashion, by means of something which took a certain time to take effect, and, when that time arrived, did its work with amazing swiftness. Hetherwick, in his war service, had seen men die more times than he cared to remember. He had seen some men shot through the brain; he had seen others shot through the heart. But he had never seen any of these men—some of them shot at his very side—die with the extraordinary quickness with which Hannaford had died. And he came to a conclusion: if the man with the stained fingers had poisoned Hannaford, then he was somebody who had a rare and a profound knowledge of poisons.
He went round to Surrey Street at ten o'clock. Miss Hannaford, said the hotel proprietor, had gone with her aunt, a Mrs. Keeley, who had come early that morning, to see her grandfather's dead body—some police official had fetched them. But she had left a message for anyone who called—that she would not be long away. And Hetherwick waited in the little dingy coffee-room; there were certain questions that he wanted to put to Rhona Hannaford, also he wanted to give her certain information.
"Very sad case this, sir," observed the hotel proprietor, hovering about his breakfast-tables. "Cruel end for a fine healthy gentleman like Mr. Hannaford!"
"Very sad," agreed Hetherwick. "You said last night—or, rather, this morning—that Mr. Hannaford was in good health and spirits when he went out early in the evening?"
"The best, sir! He was a cheery, affable gentleman—fond of his joke. Joked and laughed with me as I opened the door for him—never thinking,
